Sfreahers

[Five Jaduras Earlier]

aa

* What strange fate brought me,

* Fleeing maelstroms of winter,

* Past five galaxies? *

* Only to find refuge,

* On a forlorn planet (nude!)

* In laminar luxury! *

SO HE THOUGHT WHILE PERFORMING SWOOPING
rolls, propelling his sleek gray body with exhilarated tail
strokes, reveling in the caress of water against naked
flesh.

Dappled sunlight threw luminous shafts through crystal
shallows, slanting past mats of floating sea florets. Silvery
native creatures, resembling flat-jawed fish, moved in and

2    0 a v j d   B r i n

out of the bright zones, enticing his eye. Kaa squelched the
instinctive urge to give chase.
Maybe later.

For now, he indulged in the liquid texture of water slid-
ing around him, without the greasiness that used to cling
so, back in the oily seas of Oakka, the green-green world,
where soaplike bubbles would erupt from his blowhole
each time he surfaced to breathe. Not that it was worth the
effort to inhale on Oakka. There wasn't enough good air
on that horrid ball to nourish a comatose otter.

This sea also tasted good, not harsh like Kithrup, where
each excursion outside the ship would give you a toxic
dose of hard metals.

In contrast, the water onJijo world felt clean, with a salty
tang reminding Kaa of the gulf stream flowing past the
Florida Academy, during happier days on far-off Earth.

He tried to squint and pretend he was back home, chas-
ing mullet near Key Biscayne, safe from a harsh universe.
But the attempt at make-believe failed. One paramount dif-
ference reminded him this was an alien world.
Sound.

—a beating of tides rising up the continental shelf—a
complex rhythm tugged by three moons, not one.

—an echo of waves, breaking on a shore whose abrasive
sand had a strange, sharp texture.          •

—an occasional distant groaning that seemed to rise out
of the ocean floor itself.

—the return vibrations of his own sonar clicks, tracing
schools of fishlike creatures, moving their fins in unfamiliar
ways.

—above all, the engine hum just behind him ... a ca-
dence of machinery that had filled Kaa's days and nights
for five long years.

And now, another clicking, groaning sound. The clipped
poetry of duty.

" Relent, Kaa, tell us,

* In exploratory prose,

* Is it safe to come? *

infiniru's Shore 3

The voice chased Kaa like a fluttering, sonic conscience.
Reluctantly, he swerved around to face the submarine
Hikahi, improvised from ancient parts found strewn across
this planet's deep seafloor—a makeshift contraption that
suited a crew of misfit fugitives. Clamshell doors closed
ponderously, like the jaws of a huge carnivore, cycling to
let others emerge in his wake ... if he gave the all clear.

Kaa sent his Trinary reply, amplified by a saser unit
plugged into his skull, behind his left eye.

* If water were all

* We might be in heaven now.

* But wait! I'll check above! *

His lungs were already making demands, so he obeyed
instinct, flicking an upward spiral toward the glistening
surface. Ready or not, Jijo, here I come!

He loved piercing the tense boundary of sky and sea,
flying weightless for an instant, then broaching with a
splash and spume of exhalation. Still, he hesitated before
inhaling. Instruments predicted an Earthlike atmosphere,
yet he felt a nervous tremor drawing breath.

If anything, the air tasted better than the water! Kaa
whirled, thrashing his tail in exuberance, glad Lieutenant
Tsh't had let him volunteer for this—to be the first dolphin,
the first Earthling, ever to swim this sweet, foreign sea.

Then his eye stroked a jagged, gray-brown line, span-
ning one horizon, very close.

The shore.

Mountains.

He stopped his gyre to stare at the nearby continent—
inhabited, they now knew. But by whom?

There was not supposed to be any sapient life on Jijo.

Maybe they're just hiding here, the way we are, from a
hostile cosmos.

That was one theory.

At least they chose a pleasant world, he added, relishing
the air, the water, and gorgeous ranks of cumulus hovering
over a giant mountain. / wonder if the fish are good to eat.

* As we await you,

* Chafing in this cramped airlock,

* Should we play pinochle? *

Kaa winced at the lieutenant's sarcasm. Hurriedly, he sent
back pulsed waves.

* Fortune smiles again,

* On our weary band of knaves.

* Welcome, friends, to Ifni's Shore. *

It might seem presumptuous to invoke the goddess of
chance and destiny, capricious Ifni, who always seemed
ready to plague Streaker's company with one more sur-
prise. Another unexpected calamity, or miraculous escape.
But Kaa had always felt an affinity with the informal patron
deity of spacers. There might be better pilots than himself
in the Terragens Survey Service, but none with a deeper
respect for fortuity. Hadn't his own nickname been
"Lucky"?

Until recently, that is.

From below, he heard the grumble of clamshell doors
reopening. Soon Tsh't and others would join him in this
first examination ofJijo's surface—a world they heretofore
saw only briefly from orbit, then from the deepest, coldest
pit in all its seas. Soon, his companions would arrive, but
for a few moments more he had it to himself—silken wa-
ter, tidal rhythms, fragrant air, the sky and clouds. . . .

His tail swished, lifting him higher as he peered. Those
aren 't normal clouds, he realized, staring at a great moun-
tain dominating the eastern horizon, whose peak wore
shrouds of billowing white. The lens implanted in his right
eye dialed through a spectral scan, sending readings to his
optic nerve—revealing steam, carbon oxides, and a flicker
of molten heat.

A volcano, Kaa realized, and the reminder sent his ebul-
lience down a notch. This was a busy part of the planet,
geologically speaking. The same forces that made it a use-
ful hiding place also kept it dangerous.

That must be where the groaning comes from, he pon-

1 n f i n i r u ' s Shore 5

dered. Seismic activity. An interaction of miniquakes and
crustal gas discharges with the thin overlaying film of sea.

Another flicker caught his notice, in roughly the same
direction, but much closer—a pale swelling that might also
have been a cloud, except for the way it moved, flapping
like a bird's wing, then bulging with eagerness to race the

wind.

A sail, he discerned. Kaa watched it jibe across the stiff-
ening breeze—a two-masted schooner, graceful in motion,
achingly familiar from the Caribbean seas of home.

Its bow split the water, spreading a wake that any dol-
phin might love to ride.

The zoom lens clarified, magnified, until he made out
fuzzy bipedal forms, hauling ropes and bustling around on
deck, like any gang of human sailors.

. . . Only these weren't human beings. Kaa glimpsed
scaly backs, culminating in a backbone of sharp spines.
Swathes of white fur covered the legs, and froglike mem-
branes pulsated below broad chins as the ship's company
sang a low, rumbling work chant that Kaa could dimly
make out, even from here.

He felt a chill of unhappy recognition.

Hoons! What in all Five Galaxies are they doing here?

Kaa heard a rustle of fluke strokes—Tsh't and others ris-
ing to join him. Now he must report that enemies of Earth
dwelled here.

Kaa realized grimly—this news wasn't going to help him
win back his nickname anytime soon.

She came to mind again, the capricious goddess of un-
certain destiny. And Kaa's own Trinary phrase came back
to him, as if reflected and reconverged by the surrounding
alien waters.

* Welcome . . .

* Welcome . . .

* Welcome to Ifni's Shore . . . *

Sooners

TkeSt ranger

EXISTENCE SEEMS LIKE WANDERING THROUGH A
vast chaotic house. One that has been torn by quakes
and fire, and is now filled with bitter, inexplicable fog.
Whenever he manages to pry open a door, exposing some
small corner of the past, each revelation comes at the price
of sharp waves of agony.

In time, he learns not to be swayed by the pain. Rather,
each ache and sting serves as a marker, a signpost, con-
firming that he must be on the right path.

His arrival on this world—plummeting through a scorched
sky—should have ended with merciful blankness. What
luck instead hurled his blazing body from the pyre to
quench in a fetid swamp?

Peculiar luck.

Since then, he has grown intimate with all kinds of suf-
fering, from crass pangs to subtle stings. In cataloging
them, he grows learned in the many ways there are to hurt.

Those earliest agonies, right after the crash, had

In f i n i r u's Shore 7

screeched coarsely from wounds and scalding burns—a
gale of such fierce torment that he barely noticed when a
motley crew of local savages rowed out to him in a make-
shift boat, like sinners dragging a fallen angel out of the
boggy fen. Saving him from drowning, only to face more

damnations.
Beings who insisted that he fight for his broken life,

when it would have been so much easier just to let go.

Later, as his more blatant injuries healed or scarred,
other types of anguish took up the symphony of pain.

Afflictions of the mind.

Holes gape across his life, vast blank zones, lightless and
empty, where missing memories must once have spanned
megaparsecs and life years. Each gap feels chilled beyond
numbness—a raw vacancy more frustrating than an itch

that can't be scratched.

Ever since he began wandering this singular world, he
has probed the darkness within. Optimistically, he clutches
a few small trophies from the struggle.

Jijo is one of them.

He rolls the word in his mind—the name of this planet
where six castaway races band together in feral truce, a
mixed culture unlike any other beneath the myriad stars.

A second word comes more easily with repeated use—
Sara. She who nursed him from near death in her tree
house overlooking a rustic water mill . . . who calmed
the fluxing panic when he first woke to see pincers, claws,
and mucusy ring stacks—the physiques of boons, traekis,
qheuens, and others sharing this rude outcast existence.

He knows more words, such as Kurt and Prity . . .
friends he now trusts almost as much as Sara. It feels good
to think their names, the slick way all words used to come,
in the days before his mangling.

One recent prize he is especially proud of.

Emerson . . .

It is his own name, for so long beyond reach. Violent
shocks had jarred it free, less than a day ago—shortly after
he provoked a band of human rebels to betray their urrish
allies in a slashing knife fight that made a space battle seem

8 David B r i n

antiseptic by comparison. That bloody frenzy ended with
an explosive blast, shattering the grubby caravan tent,
spearing light past Emerson's closed lids, overwhelming
the guardians of reason.

And then, amid the dazzling rays, he had briefly
glimpsed ... his captain!

Creideiki . . .

The blinding glow became a luminous foam, whipped
by thrashing flukes. Out of that froth emerged a long gray
form whose bottle snout bared glittering teeth. The sleek
head grinned, despite bearing an awful wound behind its
left eye . . . much like the hurt that robbed Emerson of
speech.

Utterance shapes formed out of scalloped bubbles, in a
language like none spoken byJijo's natives, or by any great
Galactic clan.

* In the turning
of the cycloid,

* Comes a time

to break for surface.

* Time to resume
breathing,
doing.

* To rejoin the
great sea's
dreaming.                                  !

* Time has come

for you my old friend.

* Time to wake

and see what's churning. ... *

Stunned recognition accompanied waves of stinging mis-
ery, worse than any fleshy woe or galling numbness.

Shame had nearly overwhelmed him then. For no injury
short of death could ever excuse his forgetting

Creideiki ...

Terra . . .     '

The dolphins . . .

Hannes . . .

Infiniru's Shore 9

Gillian . . .

How could they have slipped his mind during the
months he wandered this barbarian world, by boat, barge,
and caravan?

Guilt might have engulfed him during that instant of rec-
ollection . . . except that his new friends urgently needed
him to act, to seize the brief advantage offered by the ex-
plosion, to overcome their captors and take them prisoner.
As dusk fell across the shredded tent and torn bodies, he
had helped Sara and Kurt tie up their surviving foes—both
urrish and human—although Sara seemed to think their
reprieve temporary.

More fanatic reinforcements were expected soon.

Emerson knew what the rebels wanted. They wanted
him. It was no secret that he came from the stars. The
rebels would trade him to sky hunters, hoping to exchange
his battered carcass for guaranteed survival.

As if anything could save Jijo's castaway races, now that
the Five Galaxies had found them.

Huddled round a wan fire, lacking any shelter but tent
rags, Sara and the others watched as terrifying portents
crossed bitter-cold constellations.

First came a mighty titan of space, growling as it plunged
toward nearby mountains, bent on awful vengeance.

Later, following the very same path, there came a second
behemoth, this one so enormous that Jijo's pull seemed to
lighten as it passed overhead, filling everyone with deep
foreboding.

Not long after that, golden lightning flickered amid the
mountain peaks—a bickering of giants. But Emerson did
not care who won. He could tell that neither vessel was his
ship, the home in space he yearned for . . . and prayed
he would never see again.

With luck, Streaker was far away from this doomed
world, bearing in its hold a trove of ancient mysteries—
perhaps the key to a new galactic era.

Had not all his sacrifices been aimed at helping her es-
cape?

After the leviathans passed, there remained only stars
and a chill wind, blowing through the dry steppe grass,
while Emerson went off searching for the caravan's scat-

10

v i d   B r i n

Infiniru's Shore

11

tered pack animals. With donkeys, his friends just might
yet escape before more fanatics arrived. . . .

Then came a rumbling noise, jarring the ground beneath
his feet. A rhythmic cadence that seemed to go—

taranta taranta
taranta taranta

The galloping racket could only be urrish hoofbeats, the I
expected rebel reinforcements, come to make them prison-
ers once again.

Only, miraculously, the darkness instead poured forth
allies—unexpected rescuers, both urrish and human—who
brought with them astonishing beasts.                  ':

Horses.                                                \

Saddled horses, clearly as much a surprise to Sara as they |
were to him. Emerson had thought the creatures were ex- i
tinct on this world, yet here they were, emerging from the "•
night as if from a dream.                              \

So began the next phase of his odyssey. Riding south-1
ward, fleeing the shadow of these vengeful ships, hurrying \
toward the outline of an uneasy volcano.

Now he wonders within his battered brain—is there a
plan? A destination?

Old Kurt apparently has faith in these surprising saviors,
but there must be more to it than that.

Emerson is tired of just running away.

He would much rather be running toward.

In time Emerson recalls how to ease along with the sway
of the saddle. And as sunrise lifts dew off fan-fringed trees
near a riverbank, swarms of bright bugs whir through the
slanted light, dancing as they pollinate a field of purple
blooms. When Sara glances back from her own steed, shar-
ing a rare smile, his pangs seem to matter less. Even fear of
those terrible starships, splitting the sky with their angry
engine arrogance, cannot erase a growing elation as the
fugitive band gallops on to dangers yet unknown.

Emerson cannot help himself. It is his nature to seize any
possible excuse for hope. As the horses pound Jijo's an-
cient turf, their cadence draws him down a thread of famil-
iarity, recalling rhythmic music quite apart from the
persistent dirge of woe.

tarantara, tarantara
tarantara, tarantara

Under insistent stroking by that throbbing sound, some-
thing abruptly clicks inside. His body reacts involuntarily
as unexpected words surge from some dammed-up corner
of his brain, attended by a melody that stirs the heart.
Lyrics pour reflexively, an undivided stream, through lungs
and throat before he even knows 'that he is singing.

"Though in body and in mind,
We are timidly inclined,
And anything but blind,
To the danger that's behind—

{tarantara, tarantara]
{tarantara!]

{tarantara, tarantara]
{tarantara!]"

While his steed bounds ahead, new aches join the back-
ground music of his life—raw, chafed thighs and a bruised
spine that jars with each pounding hoofbeat.

taranta, taranta, taranta-tara
taranta, taranta, taranta-tara

Guilt nags him with a sense of duties unfulfilled, and he
grieves over the likely fate of his new friends on Jijo, now
that their hidden colony has been discovered.
And yet . . .

{tarantara, tarantara]
{tarantara!]

His friends grin—this has happened before.

"Yet, when the danger's near,
We manage to appear,
As insensible to fear,
As anybody here,

As an-y-bo-dy here!"

Sara laughs, joining the refrain, and even the dour urrish
escorts stretch their long necks to lisp along.

12 David B r i n

"Yet, when the danger's near,
We manage to appear,
As insensible to fear,
As anybody here,
As anybody here!"

{tarantara, tarantara)
{tarantara!}"

m ONE

I EACH OF THE SOONER RACES making up
i the Commons ot JiJo tells (ts own unique
; story/ passed down irom generation to gener-
' ation/ explaining why their ancestors surren-
; dered godlike powers and risked terrible
i penalties to reach this lar place——skulking
I in sneakships past Institute patrols/ robot
I guardians/ and ^<ang globules. Jeven waves
i ol sinners/ each coming to plant their outlaw
\ seed on a world that had been declared oll-
; limits to settlement. Y\ world set aside to

rest and recover In peace/ but lor the likes
i 01 us.

rHb g1\ek arrived tirst on this land we call

' the 'Hope/ between misty mountains and the

I sacred sea—hall a million years alter the last
legal tenants——the Duyur——departed Jijo.

;       Why did those gl\ek rounders will-

' ingly give up their lormer lives as star-travel-
ing gods and citizens ol the rive Oalaxies'

. Why choose Instead to dwelt as (alien prim-
itives/ lacking the comforts ot technology/ or

, any moral solace but tor a lew engraved plat-

, inum scrolls'

l_egend has it that our gl\.ek cousins

(led threatened extinction/ a dtre punishment tor devastating
gambling losses. Dut we cannot be sure. Writing was a lost art
until humans came/ so those accounts may be warped by passing
time.

What we do know is that it could not have been a petty
threat that drove them to abandon the spacelartng life they loved/
seeking refuge on heavy Jljo/ where their wheels have such a hard
time on the rocky ground. With tour keen eyes/ peering in all
directions at the end of graceful stalks/ did the gl\.ek ancestors see
a dark destiny painted on galactic winds' Did that hrst genera-
tion see no other choice' lerhaps they only cursed their descen-
dants to this savage lile as a last resort.

NOT long after the gKek/ roughly two thousand years ago/ a
party ol traeki dropped hurriedly Irom the sky/ as li tearing
pursuit by some dreaded foe. wasting no time/ they sank their
sneakshtp in the deepest hollow ot the sea/ then settled down to
be our gentlest tribe.

what nemesis drove them Irom the spiral lanes'

/\ny native Jijoan glancing at those lamiliar stacks ot tatty
toruses/ venting fragrant steam and placid wisdom in each village
or the Slope/ must find it hard to imagine the traeki having
enemies.

In time/ they confided their story. 1 he loe they (led was
not some other race/ nor was there a deadly vendetta among the
star gods ol the Five Oalaxles. Kather/ it was an aspect ot their
own selves. Certain rings——components ot their physical bodies—
had lately been modified in ways that turned their kind into
formidable beings. Into Jopnur, mighty and (eared among the
noble Oalactic clans.

It was a late those traeki founders deemed unbearable. JO
they chose to become lawless refugees——sooners on a taboo
world——in order to shun a horrid destiny.
1 he obligation to be great.

11 is said that giavers came to Jljo not out ol tear/ but seeking
the lath ol Redemption——the kind ol innocent oblivion that wipes
all slates clean. In this goal they have succeeded tar better than
anyone else/ showing the rest of us the way/ if we dare follow
their example.

Whether or not that sacred track will also be ours/ we
must respect their accomplishment——transforming themselves from
cursed (ugitives into a race o( blessed simpletons. /\s startaring
Immortals/ they could be held accountable lor their crimes/ includ-
ing the lelony ol invading Jijo. Dut now they have reached a
reluge/ the purity ol ignorance/ Iree to start again.

Indulgently/ we let giavers root through our kitchen mid-
dens/ poking under logs tor insects. Once mighty intellects/ they
are not counted among the sooner races of Jijo anymore. . 1 hey
are no longer stained with the sins of their forebears.

C-^r7CL/C/v5 were the first to arrive filled with wary ambition.

l_ed by lanatical/ crablike gray matrons/ their first-generation
colonists snapped all five pincers derisively at any thought of
union with Jijos other exile races. Instead/ they sought dominion.

1 hat plan collapsed in time/ when blue and red qheuens
abandoned historic roles of servitude/ drifting off to seek their
own ways/ leaving their Irustrated gray empresses helpless to en-
lorce old leudal loyalties.

UUK tall hoonish brethren inhale deeply/ whenever the question
arises— vVny are you here'  fhey fill their prodigious throat
sacs with low meditation umbles. In rolling tones/ boon elders
relate that their ancestors fled no great danger/ no oppression or
unwanted obligations.

I hen why did they come/ risking frightful punishment if
their descendants are ever caught living illegally on Jijo?

1 he oldest hoons on Jijo merely shrug with frustrating

cheerrulness/ as ii they do not know the reason/ and could not be so that later generations o( castaways dared to study their adopted

bothered to care.

Jome do reler to a legend/ though. /\ccording to that slim
tale/ a L^alactic oracle once ollered a starlaring hoonlsh clan a
unique opportunity/ il they dared take it. /\n opportunity to
claim something that had been robbed irom them/ although they
never knew it was lost. 7\ precious birthright that might be
discovered on a lorbidden world.

But tor the most part/ whenever one ol the tall ones pulls
his throat sac to sing about past times/ he rumbles a deep/ Joylul
ballad about the crude raits/ boats/ and seagoing ships that boons
invented (rom scratch/ soon alter landing on Ji)'o. 1 hings their
humorless star cousins would never have bothered looking up in
the all-knowing Oalactic Library/ let alone have deigned to
build.

LEOENDS told by the rieet-looted urrisli clan imply that their
loremothers were rogues/ coming to JiJ'o in order to breed—
escaping limits Imposed in civilised parts ol the rive Oalaxies.
With their short lives/ hot tempers/ and prolilic sexual style/ the
urs (ounders might have gone on to lill.Jijo with their kind . . .
or else met extinction by now/ like the mythical centaurs they
vaguely resemble.

But they escaped both ot those traps. Instead/ alter many
hard struggles/ at the lorge and on the battlefield/ they assumed
an honored place in the commons ol lix Kaces. With their
thundering herds/ and mastery o( steel/ they live hot and hard/
making up lor their briel seasons in our midst.

f lPN/\l-,l-,y / two centuries ago/ I,,arthlings came/ bringing chim-
panzees and other treasures. But humans greatest gilt was paper.
In creating the printed trove ot Btblos/ they became lore masters to
our piteous commonwealth ol exiles. Irinting and education
changed tile on the dope/ spurring a new tradition ol scholarship/

world/ their hybrid civilisation/ and even their own selves.

/\s tor why humans came all this way—breaking galactic
taws and risking everything/ Just to huddle with other outlaws
under a learsome sky——their tale is among the strangest told by
Jijos exile clans.

(rom y\n L,t[\noyapny ol the Slope/
by Dorti C^hang-Jones and lluph-alcn-tluo

Sooners

AI.

vin

I HAD NO WAY TO MARK THE PASSAGE OF TIME, LY-
ing dazed and half-paralyzed in a metal cell, listening to
the engine hum of a mechanical sea dragon that was
hauling me and my friends to parts unknown.

I guess a couple of days must have passed since the
shattering of our makeshift submarine, our beautiful
Wupbon's Dream, before I roused enough to wonder,
What next?

Dimly, I recall the sea monster's face as we first saw it
through our crude glass viewing port, lit by the Dream's
homemade searchlight. That glimpse lasted but a moment
as the huge metal thing loomed toward us out of black, icy
depths. The four of us—Huck, Pincer, Ur-ronn, and me—
had already resigned ourselves to death . . . doomed to
crushed oblivion at the bottom of the sea. Our expedition a
failure, we didn't feel like daring subsea adventurers any-
more, but like scared kids, voiding our bowels in terror as
we waited for the cruel'abyss to squeeze our hollowed-out
tree trunk into a zillion soggy splinters.

Suddenly this enormous shape erupted toward us,

20 David B r i n

spreading jaws wide enough to snatch Wupbon's Drean

whole.
Well, almost whole. Passing through that maw, we strucl

a glancing blow.

The collision shattered our tiny capsule.
What followed still remains a painful blur.

I guess anything beats death, but there have been mo-
ments since that impact when my back hurt so much that I
just wanted to rumble one last umble through my battered
throat sac and say farewell to young Alvin Hph-wayuo—
junior linguist, humicking writer, uttergloss daredevil, and
neglectful son of Mu-phauwq and Yowg-wayuo of
Wuphon Port, the Slope, Jijo, Galaxy Four, the Universe.

But I stayed alive.

I guess it just didn't seem hoonish to give up, after every
thing my pals and I went through to get here. What if I was
sole survivor? I owed it to Huck and the others to carry on,

My cell—a prison? hospital room?—measures just two
meters, by two, by three. Pretty skimpy for a hoon, event
one not quite fully grown. It gets even more cramped
whenever some six-legged, metal-sheathed demon tries to
squeeze inside to tend my injured spine, poking with what,
I assume (hope!) to be clumsy kindness. Despite their ef-i
forts, misery comes in awful waves, making me wish des-
perately for the pain remedies cooked up by Old Stinky—i
our traeki pharmacist back home.                     '

It occurred to me that I might never walk again . . . or|
see my family, or watch seabirds swoop over the drossi
ships, anchored beneath Wuphon's domelike shelter trees. I

I tried talking to the insecty giants trooping in and out oil
my cell. Though each had a torso longer than my dad is'
tall—with a flared back end, and a tubelike shell as hard as
Buyur steel—I couldn't help picturing them as enormous;

phuvnthus, those six-legged vermin that gnaw the walls of
wooden houses, giving off a sweet-tangy stench.

These things smell like overworked machinery. Despite,
my efforts in a dozen Earthling and Galactic languages,
they seemed even less talkative than the phuvnthus Huck |

I n f i n i r ij ' s Shore 21

and I used to catch when we were little, and train to per-
form in a miniature circus.

I missed Huck during that dark time. I missed her quick
g'Kek mind and sarcastic wit. I even missed the way she'd
snag my leg fur in her wheels to get my attention, if I stared
too long at the horizon in a hoonish sailor's trance. I last
glimpsed those wheels spinning uselessly in the sea
dragon's mouth, just after those giant jaws smashed our
precious Dream and we spilled across the slivers of our
amateur diving craft.

Why didn't I rush to my friend, during those bleak mo-
ments after we crashed? Much as I yearned to, it was hard
to see or hear much while a screaming wind shoved its
way into the chamber, pushing out the bitter sea. At first, I
had to fight just to breathe again. Then, when I tried to
move, my back would not respond.

In those blurry instants, I also recall catching sight of Ur-
ronn, whipping her long neck about and screaming as she
thrashed all four legs and both slim arms, horrified at being
drenched in vile water. Ur-ronn bled where her suede-
colored hide was pierced by jagged shards—remnants of
the glass porthole she had proudly forged in the volcano
workshops of Uriel the Smith.

Pincer-Tip was there, too, best equipped among our
gang to survive underwater. As a red qheuen, Pincer was
used to scampering on five chitin-armored claws across
salty shallows—though our chance tumble into the bot-
tomless void was more than even he had bargained for. In
dim recollection, I think Pincer seemed alive ... or does
wishful thinking deceive me?

My last hazy memories of our "rescue" swarm with vio-
lent images until I blacked out ... to wake in this cell,
delirious and alone.

Sometimes the phuvnthus do something "helpful" to my
spine, and it hurts so much that I'd willingly spill every
secret I know. That is, if the phuvnthus ever asked ques-
tions, which they never do.

So I never allude to the mission we four were given by
Uriel the Smith—to seek a taboo treasure that her ancestors

22 David B r

left on the seafloor, centuries ago. An offshore cache, hid-
den when urrish settlers first jettisoned their ships and
high-tech gadgets to become just one more fallen race.
Only some dire emergency would prompt Uriel to violate
the Covenant by retrieving such contraband.

I guess "emergency" might cover the arrival of alien rob-
bers, plundering the Gathering Festival of the Six Races [
and threatening the entire Commons with genocide,     i

Eventually, the pangs in my spine eased enough for me to
rummage through my rucksack and resume writing in this
tattered journal, bringing my ill-starred adventure up to
date. That raised my spirits a bit. Even if none of us sur-
vives, my diary might yet make it home someday.

Growing up in a little hoonish village, devouring human
adventure stories by Clarke and Rostand, Conrad and Xu
Xiang, I dreamed that people on the Slope would someday
say, "Wow, that Alvin Hph-wayuo was some storyteller, as
good as any old-time Farther."

This could be my one and only chance.
So I spent long miduras with a stubby charcoal crayon
clutched in my big boon fist, scribbling the passages that
lead up to this one—an account of how I came to find
myself in this low, low state.

—How four friends built a makeshift submarine out of
skink skins and a carved-out garu log, fancying a treasure
hunt to the Great Midden.

—How Uriel the Smith, in her mountain forge, threw her
support behind our project, turning it from a half-baked
dream into a real expedition.

—How we four snuck up to Uriel's observatory, and
heard a human sage speak of starsbips in the sky, perhaps
bringing foretold judgment on the Six Races.

—And how Wuphon 's Dream soon dangled from a pole
near Terminus Rock, where the Midden's sacred trench
passes near land. And Uriel told us, hissing through her
cloven upper lip, that a ship had indeed landed up north.
But this cruiser did not carry Galactic magistrates. Instead
another kind of criminal had come, worse even than our
sinner ancestors.

Infinil^u's Shore 23

So we sealed the hatch, and the great winch turned. But
on reaching the mapped site, we found that Uriel's cache
was already missing! Worse—when we went looking for
the damned thing, Wupbon 's Dream got lost and tumbled
off the edge of an undersea cliff.

Flipping back some pages, I can tell my account of the
journey was written by someone perched on a knife-edge
of harrowing pain. Yet, there is a sense of drama I can't
hope to match now. Especially that scene where the bot-
tom vanished beneath our wheels and we felt ourselves fall
toward the real Midden.

Toward certain death.

Until the phuvnthus snatched us up.

So, here I am, swallowed by a metal whale, ruled by cryp-
tic silent beings, ignorant whether my friends still live or if I
am alone. Merely crippled, or dying.

Do my captors have anything to do with starship land-
ings in the mountains?

Are .they a different enigma, rising out of Jijo's ancient
past? Relics of the vanished Buy ur perhaps? Or ghosts even

older still?

Answers seem scarce, and since I've finished recounting
the plummet and demise of Wuphon's Dream, I daren't
waste more precious paper on speculation. I must put my
pencil down, even if it robs my last shield against loneliness.

All my life I've been inspired by human-style books, pic-
turing myself as hero in some uttergloss tale. Now my san-
ity depends on learning to savor patience.

To let time pass without concern.

To live and think, at last, just like a hoon.

A

SX

|OU MAY CALL ME ASX.

' you manicolored rings, piled in a high tapered heap,
venting fragrant stinks, sharing the victual sap that

24 David B f I n

climbs our common core, or partaking in memory wax,
trickling back down from our sensory peak.

you, the rings who take up diverse roles in this shared
body, a pudgy cone nearly as tall as a hoon, as heavy as a
blue qheuen, and slow across the ground like an aged
g'Kek with a cracked axle.

you, the rings who vote each day whether to renew our
coalition.

From you rings i/we now request a ruling. Shall we carry
on this fiction? This "Asx"?

Unitary beings—the humans, urs, and other dear partners
in exile—stubbornly use that term, Asx, to signify this
loosely affiliated pile of fatty toruses, as if we/i truly had a
fixed name, not a mere label of convenience.

Of course unitary beings are all quite mad. We traeki
long ago resigned ourselves to living in a universe filled
with egotism.

What we could not resign ourselves to—and the reason
for our exile here on Jijo—was the prospect of becoming
the most egotistical of all.

Once, our/my stack of bloated tubes played the role of a
modest village pharmacist, serving others with our humble
secretions, near the sea bogs of Far Wet Sanctuary. Then
others began paying us/me homage, calling us "Asx," chief
sage of the Traeki Sept and member of the Guiding Council
of the Six.

Now we stand in a blasted wasteland that was formerly a
pleasant festival glade. Our sensor rings and neural tendrils
recoil from sights and sounds they cannot bear to perceive.
And so we are left virtually blind, our component toruses
buffeted by the harsh fields of two nearby starships, as vast
as mountains.

Even now, awareness of those starships fades
away. ...

We are left in blackness.

In f i n i r u's Shore 25

What has just happened!

Be calm, my rings. This sort of thing has transpired before.
Too great a shock can jar a traeki stack out of alignment,
causing gaps in short-term memory. But there is another,
surer way to find out what has happened. Neural memory
is a flimsy thing. How much better off we are, counting on
the slow/reliable wax.

Ponder the fresh wax that slithers down our common
core, still hot-slick, imprinted with events that took place
recently on this ill-fated glade, where once gay pavilions
stood, and banners flapped in Jijo's happy winds. A typical
festival, the annual gathering of Six Races to celebrate their
hundred-year peace. Until—

7s this the memory we seek?

Behold ... a starship comes to Jijo! Not sneaking by
night, like our ancestors. Not aloofly, like a mysterious
Zang globule. No, this was an arrogant cruiser from the
Five Galaxies, commanded by aloof alien beings called
Rothen.

Trace this memory of our first sight of Rothen lords,
emerging at last from their metal lair, so handsome and
noble in their condescension, projecting a majestic cha-
risma that shadowed even their sky-human servants. How
glorious to be a star god! Even gods who are "criminals" by
Galactic law.

Did they not far outshine us miserable barbarians? As the
sun outglows a tallow candle?

But we sages realized a horrifying truth. After hiring us
for local expertise, to help them raid this world, the Rothen
could not afford to leave witnesses behind.

They would not leave us alive.

No, that is too far back. Try again.

What about these other livid tracks, my rings? A red flam-
ing pillar erupting in the night? An explosion, breaking
apart our sacred pilgrimage? Do you recall the sight of the
Rothen-Danik station, its girders, twisted and smoking? Its

26 David B r i n

cache of biosamples burned? And most dire—one Rothen
and a sky human killed?

By dawn's light, foul accusations hurled back and forth
between Ro-kenn and our own High Sages. Appalling
threats were exchanged.

No, that still took place over a day ago. Stroke wax that is
more recent than that.

Here we find a broad sheet of terror, shining horribly down
our oily core. Its colors/textures blend hot blood with cold
fire, exuding a smoky scent of flaming trees and charred
bodies.

Do you recall how Ro-kenn, the surviving Rothen mas-
ter, swore vengeance on the Six Races, ordering his killer
robots forward?

"Slay everyone in sight! Death to all who saw our secret
revealed!"

But then behold a marvel! Platoons of our own brave
militia. They spill from surrounding forest. Jijoan savages,
armed only with arrows, pellet rifles, and courage. Do you
now recall how they charged the hovering death demons
. . . and prevailed!

The wax does not lie. It happened in mere instants,
while these old traeki rings could only stare blankly at the
battle's awful ruin, astonished that we/i were not ignited
into a stack of flaming tubes.

Though dead and wounded lay piled around us, victory |
was clear. Victory for the Six Races! Ro-kenn and his god-'
like servants were disarmed, wide-eyed in their offended
surprise at this turn of Ifni's ever-tumbling dice.

Yes, my rings, i know this is not the final memory. It took
place many miduras in the past. Obviously something must f
have happened since then. Something dreadful.

Perhaps the Danik scout boat came back from its survey
trip, carrying one of the fierce sky-human warriors who
worship Rothen patron masters. Or else the main Rothen
starship may have returned, expecting a trove of bio-

1 n f i n i r u ' s Shore 27

plunder, only to find their samples destroyed, their station
ruined, and comrades taken hostage.

That might explain the scent of sooty devastation that
now fills our core.

But no later memories are yet available. The wax has not
congealed.

To a traeki, that means none of it has really happened.

Not yet.

Perhaps things are not as bad as they seem.

It is a gift we traeki reacquired when we came to Jijo. A
talent that helps make up for the many things we left be-
hind, when we abandoned the stars.

A gift for wishful thinking.

Rety

THE FIERCE WIND OF FLIGHT TORE DAMPNESS FROM
her streaming eyes, sparing her the shame of tears run-
ning down scarred cheeks. Still, Rety could weep with
rage, thinking of the hopes she'd lost. Lying prone on a
hard metal plate, clutching its edge with hands and feet,
she bore the harsh breeze as whipping tree branches
smacked her face and caught her hair, sometimes drawing
blood.
Mostly, she just held on for dear life.

The alien machine beneath her was supposed to be her
loyal servant! But the cursed thing would not slow its pan-
icky retreat, even long after all danger lay far behind. If
Rety fell off now, at best it would take her days to limp
back to the village of her birth, where less than a midura
ago there had been a brief, violent ambush.

Her brain still roiled. In just a few heartbeats her plans
had been spoiled, and it was all Dwer's fault!

She heard the young hunter moan, held captive by metal
arms below her perch. But as the wounded battle drone
fled recklessly onward, Rety turned away from Dwer's suf-

28 David B r i n

fering, which he had only brought on himself, trekking all
the way to these filthy Gray Hills from his safe home near
the sea—the Slope—where six intelligent races lived at a
much higher level of ignorant poverty than her own birth
clan of wretched savages. Why would slopies hike past'
two thousand leagues of hell to reach this dreary waste-
land?

What did Dwer and his pals hope to accomplish? To
conquer Rety's brutish relatives?

He could have her smelly kinfolk, for all she cared! And
the band of urrish sooners Kunn subdued with fire from his
screeching scout boat. Dwer was welcome to them all.
Only, couldn't he have waited quietly in the woods till after
Rety and Kunn finished their business here and flew off
again? Why did he have to rush things and attack the robot
with her aboard?

/ bet he did it out of spite. Prob'ly can't stand knowing
that I'm the oneJijo native with a chance to get away from
this pit hole of a planet.

Inside, Rety knew better. Dwer's heart didn't work that
way.

But mine does.

When he groaned again, Rety muttered angrily, "I'll
make you even sorrier, Dwer, if I don't make it off this
mudball 'cause of you!"

So much for her glorious homecoming.

At first it had seemed fun to pay a return visit, swooping
from a cloud-decked sky in Kunn's silver dart, emerging
proudly to amazed gasps from the shabby cousins, who
had bullied her for fourteen awful years. What a fitting
climax to her desperate gamble, a few months ago, when
she finally found the nerve to flee all the muck and misery,
setting forth alone to seek the fabled Slope her great-
grandparents had left behind, when they chose the "free"
life as wild sooners.

Free of the sages' prying rules about what beasts you
may kill. Free from irky laws about how many babies you
can have. Free from having to abide neighbors with four
legs, or five, or that rolled on humming wheels.

In f i n i r i| 's Shore 29

Rety snorted contempt for the founders of her tribe.
Free from books and medicine. Free to live like animals!
Fed up, Rety had set out to find something better or die
trying.

The journey had nearly killed her—crossing icy torrents
and parched wastes. Her closest call came traversing a high
pass into the Slope, following a mysterious metal bird into
a mule spider's web. A web that became a terrifying trap
when the spider's tendrils closed around her, oozing
golden drops that horribly preserved. ...

Memory came unbidden—of Dwer charging through that
awful thicket with a gleaming machete, then sheltering her
with his body when the web caught fire.

She recalled the bright bird, glittering in flames, treacher-
ously cut down by an attacking robot just like her "ser-
vant." The one now hauling her off to Ifni-knew-where.

Rety's mind veered as a gut-wrenching swerve nearly
spilled her overboard. She screamed at the robot.

"Idiot! No one's shooting at you anymore! There were
just a few slopies, and they were all afoot. Nothing on Jijo
could catch you now!"

But the frantic contraption plunged ahead, riding a cush-
ion of incredible god force.

Rety wondered, Could it sense her contempt? Dwer and
two or three friends, equipped with crude fire sticks, had
taken just a few duras to disable and drive off the so-called
war bot, though at some cost to themselves.

Ifni, what a snarl. She pondered the sooty hole where
Dwer's surprise attack had ripped out its antenna. How'm I
gonna explain this to Kunn?

Rety's adopted rank as an honorary star god was already
fragile. The angry pilot might simply abandon her in these
hills where she had grown up, among savages she loathed.

I won't go back to the tribe, she vowed. I'd rather join
wild glavers, sucking bugs off dead critters on the Poison
Plain.

It was all Dwer's fault, of course. Rety hated listening to
the young fool moan.

We're heading south, where Kunn flew off to. The robot

30 David B rIn

must be rushin' to report in person, now that it can't far-
speak anymore.

Having witnessed Kunn's skill at torture, Rety found her-
self hoping Dwer's leg wound would reopen. Bleeding to
death would be better by far.

The fleeing machine left the Gray Hills, slanting toward a
tree-dotted prairie. Streams converged, turning the brook
into a river, winding slowly toward the tropics.

The journey grew smoother and Rety risked sitting up
again. But the robot did not take the obvious shortcut over
water. Instead, it followed each oxbow curve, seldom ven-
turing past the reedy shallows.

The land seemed pleasant. Good for herds or farming, if
you knew how, and weren't afraid of being caught.

It brought to mind all the wonders she had seen on the
Slope, after barely escaping the mule spider. Folk there had
all sorts of clever arts Rety's tribe lacked. Yet, despite their
fancy windmills and gardens, their metal tools and paper
books, the slopies had seemed dazed and frightened when
Rety reached the famous Festival Glade.

What had the Six Races so upset was the recent coming
of a starship, ending two thousand years of isolation.

To Rety, the spacers seemed wondrous. A ship owned
by unseen Rothen masters, but crewed by humans so
handsome and knowing that Rety would give anything to
be like them. Not a doomed savage with a scarred face,
eking out a life on a taboo world.

A daring ambition roused . . , and by pluck and guts
she had made it happen! Rety got to know those haughty
men and women—Ling, Besh, Kunn, and Rann—worming
her way into their favor. When asked, she gladly guided
fierce Kunn to her tribe's old camp, retracing her earlier
epic journey in a mere quarter day, munching Galactic
treats while staring through the scout boat's window at
wastelands below.

Years of abuse were repaid by her filthy cousins'
shocked stares,' beholding her transformed from grubby
urchin to Rety, the star god.

If only that triumph could have lasted.

Infinirii's Shore 31
•  •  •

She jerked back when Dwer called her name.

Peering over the edge, Rety saw his windburned face,
the wild black hair plastered with dried sweat. One
buckskin breech leg was stained ocher brown under a
makeshift compress, though Rety saw no sign of new wet-
ness. Trapped by the robot's unyielding tendrils, Dwer
clutched his precious hand-carved bow, as if it were the
last thing he would part with before death. Rety could
scarcely believe she once thought the crude weapon worth
stealing.

"What do you want now?" she demanded.

The young hunter's eyes met hers. His voice came out as
a croak.

"Can I ... have some water?"

"Assumin' I have any," she muttered, "name one reason
I'd share it with you!"

Rustling at her waist. A narrow head and neck snaked
out of her belt pouch. Three dark eyes glared—two with
lids and one pupilless, faceted like a jewel.

"wife be not liar to this one! wife has water bottle! yee
smells its bitterness."

Rety sighed over this unwelcome interruption by her
miniature "husband."

"There's just half left. No one tol' me I was goin' on a
trip!"

The little urrish male hissed disapproval, "wife share
with this one, or bad luck come! no hole safe for grubs or
larvae!"

Rety almost retorted that her marriage to yee was not
real. They would never have "grubs" together. Anyway,
yee seemed bent on being her portable conscience, even
when it was clearly every creature for herself.

/ never sbould've told him how Dwer saved me from the
mule spider. They say male urs are dumb. Ain't it my luck
to marry a genius one?

"Oh ... all right!"

The bottle, an alien-made wonder, weighed little more
than the liquid it contained. "Don't drop it," she warned
Dwer, lowering the red cord. He grabbed it eagerly.

"No, fool! The top don't pull off like a stopper. Turn

32   D a v i d B r i n

it till it comes off. That's right. Jeekee know-nothin'
slopie."

She didn't add how the concept of a screw cap had mys-
tified her, -too, when Kunn and the others first adopted her
as a provisional Danik. Of course that was before she be-
came sophisticated.

Rety watched nervously as he drank.

"Don't spill it. An' don't you dare drink it all! You hear
me? That's enough, Dwer. Stop now. Dwer!"

But he ignored her protests, guzzling while she cursed.
When the canteen was drained, Dwer smiled at her
through cracked lips.

Too stunned to react, Rety knew—she would have done
exactly the same.

Yeah, an inner voice answered. But I didn't expect it of
him.

Her anger spun off when Dwer squirmed, tilting his
body toward the robot's headlong rush. Squinting against
the wind, he held the loop cord in one hand and the bottle
in the other, as if waiting for something to happen. The
flying machine crested a low hill, hopping over some
thorny thickets, then plunged down the other side, barely
avoiding several tree branches. Rety held tight, keeping
yee secure in his pouch. When the worst jouncing ended
she peered down again . . . and rocked back from a pair
of black, beady eyes!

It was the damned noor again. The one Dwer called
Mudfoot. Several times the dark, lithe creature had tried to
clamber up from his niche, between Dwer's torso and a
cleft in the robot's frame. But Rety didn't like the way he
salivated at yee, past needle-sharp teeth. Now Mudfoot
stood on Dwer's rib cage, using his forepaws to probe for
another effort.

"Get lost!" She swatted at the narrow, grinning face. "I
want to see what Dwer's doin'."

Sighing, the noor returned to his nest under the robot's
flank.

A flash of b\u& came into view just as Dwer threw the
bottle. It struck watery shallows with a splash, pressing a
furrowed wake. The young man had to make several at-

Infinirii's Shore 33

tempts to get the cord twisted so the canteen dragged with
its opening forward. The container sloshed when Dwer
reeled it back in.

I'd've thought of that, too. If I was close enough to
try it.

Dwer had lost blood, so it was only fair to let him
drink and refill a few more times before passing it back
up.

Yeah. Only fair. And he'll do it, too. He'll give it back
full.

Rety faced an uncomfortable thought.

You trust him.

He's the enemy. He caused you and the Daniks heaps of
trouble. But you 'd trust Dwer with your life.

She had no similar confidence in Kunn, when it came
time to face the Rothen-loving stellar warrior.

Dwer refilled the bottle one last time and held it up
toward her. "Thanks, Rety ... I owe you." ,

Her cheeks flushed, a sensation she disliked. "Forget it.
Just toss the cord."

He tried. Rety felt it brush her fingertips, but after half a
dozen efforts she could never quite hook the loop. What
happens if I don't get it back!

The noor beast emerged from his narrow niche and took
the cord in his teeth. Clambering over Dwer's chest, then
using the robot's shattered laser tube as a support, Mudfoot
slithered closer to Rety's hand. Well, she thought. If it's
gonna be helpful ...

As she reached for the loop, the noor sprang, using his
claws as if her arm were a handy climbing vine. Rety
howled, but before she could react, Mudfoot was already
up on top, grinning smugly.

Little yee let out a yelp. The urrish male pulled his head
inside her pouch and drew the zipper shut.

Rety saw blood spots well along her sleeve and lashed in
anger, trying to kick the crazy noor off. But Mudfoot
dodged easily, inching close, grinning appealingly and
rumbling a low sound, presenting the water bottle with
two agile forepaws.

34 David B r i n

Sighing heavily, Rety accepted it and let the noor settle
down nearby—on the opposite side from yee.

"I can't seem to shake myself loose of any of you guys,
can I?" she asked aloud.

Mudfoot chittered. And from below, Dwer uttered a
short laugh—ironic and tired.

IT WAS A LONELY TIME, CONFINED IN GNAWING PAIN
to a cramped metal cell. The distant, humming engine
reminded me of umble lullabies my father used to sing,
when I came down with toe pox or itchysac. Sometimes
the noise changed pitch and made my scales frickle,
sounding like the moan of a doomed wooden ship when it
runs aground.

Finally I slept . . .

. . . then wakened in terror to find that a pair of metal-
clad, six-legged monsters were tying me into a contraption
of steel tubes and straps! At first, it looked like a pre-con-
tact tenure device I once saw in the Dore-illustrated edi-
tion of Don Quixote. Thrashing and resisting accomplished j
nothing, but hurt like bloody blue blazes.

Finally, with some embarrassment, I realized. It was no
instrument of torment but a makeshift back brace, shaped
to fit my form and take weight off my injured spine. I
fought to suppress panic at the tight metal touch, as they
set me on my feet. Swaying with surprise and relief, I
found I could walk a little, though wincing with each step.

"Well thanks, you big ugly bugs," I told the nearest of
the giant phuvnthus. "But you might've warned me first."

I expected no answer, but one of them turned its ar-
mored torso—with a humped back and wide flare at the
rear—and tilted toward me. I took the gesture as a polite
bow, though perhaps it meant something different to them.

They left the door open when they exited this time.
Slowly, cringing at the effort, I stepped out for the first time |

I n f i n i r i) ' s Shore 35

from my steel coffin, following as the massive creatures
stomped down a narrow corridor.

I already figured I was aboard a submarine of some sort,
big enough to carry in its hold the greatest hoonish craft
sailing Jijo's seas.

Despite that, it was a hodgepodge. I thought of Franken-
stein's monster, pieced together from the parts of many
corpses. So seemed the monstrous vessel hauling me to
who-knows-where. Each time we crossed a hatch, it
seemed as if we'd pass into a distinct ship, made by differ-
ent artisans ... by a whole different civilization. In one
section, the decks and bulkheads were made of riveted
steel sheets. Another zone was fashioned from some fi-
brous substance—flexible but strong. The corridors
changed proportions—from wide to painfully narrow. Half
the time I had to stoop under low ceilings . . . not a lot of
fun in the state my back was in.

Finally, a sliding door hissed open. A phuvnthu mo-
tioned me ahead with a crooked mandible and Lentered a
dim chamber much larger than my former cell.

My hearts surged With joy. Before me stood my friends!
All of them—alive!

They were gathered round a circular viewing port, star-
ing at inky ocean depths. I might've tried sneaking in to
surprise them, but qheuens and g'Keks literally have "eyes
in the back of their heads," making it a challenge to startle
Huck and Pincer.

(I have managed it, a couple of times.)

When they shouted my name, Ur-ronn whirled her long
neck and outraced them on four clattering hooves. We
plunged into a multispecies embrace.

Huck was first to bring things back to normal, snapping
at Pincer.

"Watch the claws, Crab Face! You'll snap a spoke! Back
off, all of you. Can't you see Alvin's hurt? Give him room!"

"Look who talks," Ur-ronn replied. "Your left wheel just
squished his toes, Octofus Head!"

I hadn't noticed till she pointed it out, so happy was I to
hear their testy, adolescent whining once more.

"Hr-rm. Let me look at you all. Ur-ronn, you seem so
much . . . drier than I saw you last."

36 David B r i n

Our urrish buddy blew a rueful laugh through her nostril
fringe. Her pelt showed large bare patches where fur had
sloughed after her dousing. "It took our hosts a while to
adjust the hunidity of ny guest suite, vut they finally got it
right," she said. Her torso showed tracks of hasty needle-
work—the phuvnthus' rough stitching to close Ur-ronn's
gashes after she smashed through the glass port of
Wuphon's Dream. Fortunately, her folk don't play the
same mating games as some races. To urs, what matters is
not appearance, but status. A visible dent or two will help
Ur-ronn show the other smiths she's been around.

"Yeah. And now we know what an urs smells like after
actually taking a bath," Huck added. "They oughta try it
more often."

" You should talk? With that green eyeball sweat—"

"All right, all right!" I laughed. "Just stopper it long
enough for me to look at you, eh?"

Ur-ronn was right. Huck's eyestalks needed grooming
and she had good reason to worry about her spokes. Many
were broken, with new-spun fibers just starting to lace the
rims. She would have to move cautiously for some time.

As for Pincer, he looked happier than ever.

"I guess you were right about there being monsters in
the deep," I told our red-shelled friend. "Even if they
hardly look like the ones you descr—"

I yelped when sharp needles seemed to lance into my
back, clambering up my neck ridge. I quickly recognized
the rolling growl of Huphu, our little noor-beast mascot,
expressing gladness by demanding a rumble umble from
me right away.

Before I could find out if my sore throat sac was up to it,
Ur-ronn whistled from the pane of dark glass. "They
turned on the searchlight again," she fluted, with hushed
awe in her voice. "Alvin, hurry. You've got to look!"

Awkwardly on crutches, I moved to the place they made
for me. Huck stroked my arm. "You always wanted to see
this, pal," she said. "So gaze out there in wonder.

"Welcome to the Great Midden,"

A

sx

HERE IS ANOTHER MEMORY, MY RINGS. AN EVENT
that followed the brief Battle of the Glade, so swiftly that
war echoes still abused our battered forest canyons.

Has the wax congealed enough yet? Can you stroke-and-
sense the awesome disquiet, the frightening beauty of that
evening, as we watched a harsh, untwinkling glow pass
overhead?

Trace the fatty memory of that spark crossing the sky,
brightening as it spiraled closer.

No one could doubt its identity.

The Rothen cruiser, returning for its harvest of bi-
opiunder, looted from a fragile world.

Returning for those comrades it had left behind.

Instead of genetic booty, the crew will find their station
smashed, their colleagues killed or taken.

Worse, their true faces are known! We castaways might
testify against them in Galactic courts. Assuming we survive.

It takes no cognition genius to grasp the trouble we
faced. We six fallen races of forlorn Jijo.

As an Earthling writer might put it—we found ourselves
in fetid mulch. Very ripe and very deep.

s,

'ara

THE JOURNEY PASSED FROM AN ANXIOUS BLUR INTO

| something exalting . . . almost transcendent.

I  But not at the beginning.

When they perched her suddenly atop a galloping crea-
ture straight out of mythology, Sara's first reaction was ter-
rified surprise. With snorting nostrils and huge tossing
head, the horse was more daunting than Tarek Town's
stone tribute to a lost species. Its muscular torso flexed
with each forward bound, shaking Sara's teeth as it crossed

38 David B r i n

the foothills of the central Slope by the light of a pale

moon.

After two sleepless days and nights, it still seemed
dreamlike the way a squadron of the legendary beasts
came trotting into the ruined Urunthai campsite, accompa-
nied by armed urrish escorts. Sara and her friends had just
escaped captivity—their former kidnappers lay either dead
or bound with strips of shredded tent cloth—but she ex-
pected reenslavement at any moment. Only then, instead
of fresh foes, the darkness brought forth these bewildering

saviors.

Bewildering to everyone except Kurt the Exploser, who
welcomed the newcomers as expected friends. While
Jomah and the Stranger exclaimed wonder at seeing real-
life horses, Sara barely had time to blink before she was

thrust onto a saddle.

Blade volunteered to stay by the bleak fire and tend the
wounded, though envy filled each forlorn spin of his blue
cupola. Sara would trade places with her qheuen friend,
but his chitin armor was too massive for a horse to carry.
There was barely time to give Blade a wave of encourage-
ment before the troop wheeled back the way they came,
bearing her into the night.

Pounding hoofbeats soon made Sara's skull ache.

I guess it beats captivity by Dedinger's human chauvin-
ists, and those fanatic Urunthai. The coalition of zealots,
volatile as. an exploser's cocktail, had joined forces to
snatch the Stranger and sell him to Rothen invaders. But
they underestimated the enigmatic voyager. Despite his
crippling loss of speech, the starman found a way to incite
urs-human suspicion into bloody riot.

Leaving us masters of our own fate, though it couldn 't

last.

Now here was a different coalition of humans and
centauroid urs! A more cordial group, but just as adamant
about hauling her Ifni-knew-where.

When limnous Torgen rose above the foothills, Sara got
to look over the urrish warriors, whose dun flanks were
daubed with more subtle war paint than the garish
Urunthai. Yet their eyes held the same dark flame that
drenched urs' souls when conflict scents fumed. Cantering

I n f i n I r 11 ' s Shore 39

in skirmish formation, their slim hands cradled arbalests
while long necks coiled, tensely wary. Though much
smaller than horses, the. urrish fighters conveyed formida-
ble craftiness.

The human rescuers were even more striking. Six
women who came north with nine saddled horses, as if
they expected to retrieve just two or three others for a
return trip.

But there's six of us. Kurt and Jomah. Prity and me. The
Stranger and Dedinger.

No matter. The stern riders seemed indifferent about
doubling up, two to a saddle.

Is that why they're all female? To keep the weight down?

While deft astride their great mounts, the women
seemed uneasy with the hilly terrain of gullies and rocky
spires. Sara gathered they disliked rushing about strange
trails at night. She could hardly blame them.

Not one had a familiar face. That might have surprised
Sara a month ago, given Jijo's small human population.
The Slope must be bigger than she thought.

Dwer would tell stories about his travels, scouting for the
sages. He claimed he'd been everywhere within a thousand
leagues.

Her brother never mentioned horse-riding amazons.

Sara briefly wondered if they came from off-Jijo, since
this seemed the year for spaceships. But no. Despite some
odd slang, their terse speech was related to Jijoan dialects
she knew from her research. And while the riders seemed
unfamiliar with this region, they knew to lean away from a
migurv tree when the trail passed near its sticky fronds.
The Stranger, though warned with gestures not to touch its
seed pods, reached for one curiously and learned the hard
way.

She glanced at Kurt. The .exploser's gaunt face showed
satisfaction with each league they sped southward. The
existence of horses was no surprise to him.

We're told our society is open. But clearly there are
secrets known to a few.

Not all explosers shared it. Kurt's nephew chattered
happy amazement while exchanging broad grins with the
Stranger . . .

40 David B r i.n

Sara corrected herself.

With Emerson. . . .

She peered at the dark man who came plummeting from
the sky months ago, dousing his burns in a dismal swamp
near Dolo Village. No longer the near corpse she had
nursed in her tree house, the star voyager was proving a
resourceful adventurer. Though still largely mute, he had
passed a milestone a few miduras ago when he began
thumping his chest, repeating that word—Emerson—over
and over, beaming pride over a feat that undamaged folk
took for granted. Uttering one's own name.

Emerson seemed at home on his mount. Did that mean
horses were still used among the god worlds of the Five
Galaxies? If so, what purpose might they serve, where mi-
raculous machines did your bidding at a nod and wink?

Sara checked on her chimp assistant, in case the jounc-
ing ride reopened Prity's bullet wound. Riding with both
arms clenched round the waist of a horsewoman, Prity
kept her eyes closed the whole time, no doubt immersed
in her beloved universe of abstract shapes and forms—a
better world than this one of sorrow and messy non-
linearity.

That left Dedinger, the rebel leader, riding along with
both hands tied. Sara wasted no pity on the scholar-turned-
prophet. After years preaching militant orthodoxy, urging
his desert followers toward the Path of Redemption, the
ex-sage clearly knew patience. Dedinger's hawklike face
bore an expression Sara found unnerving.

Serene calculation.

The tooth-jarring pace swelled when the hilly track met
open ground. Soon Ulashtu's detachment of urrish warriors
fell behind, unable to keep up.

No wonder some urs clans resented horses, when hu-
mans first settled Jijo. The beasts gave us mobility, the trait
most loved by urrish captains.

Two centuries ago, after trouncing the human newcom-
ers in battle, the 'original Urunthai faction claimed Earth-
lings' beloved mounts as war booty, and slaughtered every

I n f i n i r i| 's Shore 41

They figured we'd be no more trouble, left to walk and
fight on foot. A mistake that proved fatal when Drake the
Elder forged a coalition to hunt the Urunthai, and drowned
the cult's leadership at Soggy Hoof Falls.

Only, it seems horses weren't extinct, after all. How
could a clan of horse-riding folk remain hidden all this
time?

And as puzzling—Why emerge now, risking exposure by
rushing to meet Kurt?

It must be the crisis of the starships, ending Jijo's
blessed/cursed isolation. What point in keeping secrets, if
Judgment Day is at hand?

Sara was exhausted and numb by the time morning
pushed through an overcast sky. An expanse of undulating
hills stretched ahead to a dark green marsh.

The party dismounted at last by a shaded creek. Hands
aimed her toward a blanket, where she collapsed with a
shuddering sigh.

Sleep came laced with images of people she had left be-
hind.

Nelo, her aged father, working in his beloved paper mill,
unaware that some conspired its ruin.

Melina, her mother, dead several years now, who always
seemed an outsider since arriving in Dolo long ago, with a
baby son in her arms.

Frail Joshu, Sara's lover in Biblos, whose touch made her
forget even the overhanging Fist of Stone. A comely rogue
whose death sent her spinning.

Dwer and Lark, her brothers, setting out to attend festival
in the high Rimmer glades . . . where starships were later
seen descending.

Sara's mind roiled as she tossed and turned.

Last of all, she pictured Blade, whose qheuen hive
farmed crayfish behind Dolo Dam. Good old Blade, who
saved Sara and Emerson from disaster at the Urunthai
camp.

"Seems I'm always late catching up," her qheuen friend
whistled from three leg vents. "But don't worry, I'll be
along/Too much is happening to miss."

42 David B r i n

Blade's armor-clad dependability had been like a rock to
Sara. In her dream, she answered.

"I'll stall the universe . . . keep it from doing anything
interesting until you show up."

Imagined or not, the blue qheuen's calliope laughter
warmed Sara, and her troubled slumber fell into gentler
rhythms.

The sun was half-high when someone shook Sara back to
the world—one of the taciturn female riders, using the
archaic word brekkers to announce the morning meal. Sara
got up gingerly as waves of achy soreness coursed her
body.

She gulped down a bowl of grain porridge, spiced with
unfamiliar traeki seasonings, while horsewomen saddled
mounts or watched Emerson play his beloved dulcimer,
filling the pocket valley with a sprightly melody, suited for
travel. Despite her morning irritability, Sara knew the
starman was just making the best of the situation. Bursts of
song were a way to overcome his handicap of muteness.

Sara found Kurt tying up his bedroll.

"Look," she told the elderly exploser, "I'm not ungrateful
to your friends. I appreciate the rescue and all. But you
can't seriously hope to ride horses all the way to ...
Mount Guenn." Her tone made it sound like one of Jijo's
moons.

Kurt's stony face flickered a rare smile. "Any better sug-
gestions? Sure, you planned taking the Stranger to the High
Sages, but that way is blocked by angry Urunthai. And
recall, we saw two starships last night, one after the other,
headed straight for Festival Glade. The Sages must have
their hands and tendrils full by now."

"How could I forget?" she murmured. Those titans,
growling as they crossed the sky, had seared their image in
her mind.

"You could hole up in one of the villages we'll pass
soon, but won't Emerson need a first-rate pharmacist when
he runs out of Pzora's medicine?"

"If we keep heading south we'll reach the Gentt. From
there a riverboat can take us to Ovoom Town."

I n f I n i r if ' s Shore 43

"Assuming boats are running . . . and Ovoom still ex-
ists. Even so, should you hide your alien friend, with great
events taking place? What if he has a role to play? Some
way to help sages and Commons? Might you spoil his one
chance of goin' home?"

Sara saw Kurt's implication—that she was holding Emer-
son back, like a child refusing to release some healed for-
est creature into the wild.

A swarm of sweetbec flies drifted close to the starman,
hovering and throbbing to the tempo of his music, a
strange melody. Where did he learn it? On Earth? Near
some alien star?

"Anyway," Kurt went on, "if you can stand riding these
huge beasts awhile longer, we may reach Mount Guenn
sooner than Ovoom."

"That's crazy! You must pass through Ovoom if you go
by sea. And the other way around is worse—through the
runnel canyons and the Vale."

Kurt's eyes flickered. "I'm told there's a ... more di-
rect route."

"Direct? You mean due south? Past the Gentt lies the
Plain of Sharp Sand, a desperate crossing under good con-
ditions—which these aren't. Have you forgotten that's
where Dedinger has followers?"

"No, I haven't forgotten."

"Then, assuming we get past the sandmen and flame
dunes, there comes the Spectral Flow, making any normal
desert seem like a meadow!"

Kurt only shrugged, but clearly he wanted her to accom-
pany him toward a distant simmering mountain, far from
where Sara had sworn to take Emerson. Away from Lark
and Dwer, and the terrible attraction of those fierce star-
ships. Toward a starkly sacred part of Jijo, renowned for
one thing above all—the way the planet renewed itself
with flaming lava heat.

Atvin

MAYBE IT WAS THE COMPRESSED ATMOSPHERE WE
breathed, or the ceaseless drone of reverberating en-
gines. Or it could have been the perfect darkness out-
side that fostered an impression of incredible depth, even
greater than when our poor little Wupbon's Dream fell into
the maw of this giant metal sea beast. A single beam—
immeasurably brighter than the handmade eik light of our
old minisub—speared out to split the black, scanning terri-
tory beyond my wildest nightmares. Even the vivid im-
agery of Verne or Pukino or Melville offered no
preparation for what was revealed by that roving circle as
we cruised along a subsea canyon strewn with all manner
of ancient dross. In rapid glimpses we saw so many titanic
things, all jumbled together, that—

Here I admit I'm stumped. According to the texts that
teach Anglic literature, there are two basic ways for a writer
to describe unfamiliar objects. First is to catalog sights and
sounds, measurements, proportions, colors—saying this
object is made up of clusters of colossal cubes connected
by translucent rods, or that one resembles a tremendous
sphere caved in along one side, trailing from its crushed
innards a glistening streamer, a liquidlike banner that
somehow defies the tug of time and tide.

Oh, I can put words together and come up with pretty
pictures, but that method ultimately fails because at the
time I couldn't tell how far away anything was\ The eye
sought clues in vain. Some objects—piled across the
muddy panorama—seemed so vast that the huge vessel
around us was dwarfed, like a minnow in a herd of behmo
serpents. As for colors, even in the spotlight beam, the
water drank all shades but deathly blue gray. A good hue
for a shroud in this place of icy-cold death.

Another way to describe the unknown is to compare it to
things you 'already recognize . . . only that method
proved worse! Even Huck, who sees likenesses in things 11
can't begin to fathom, was reduced to staring toward great I

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 45

heaps of ancient debris with all four eyestalks, at an utter
loss.

Oh, some objects leaped at us with sudden familiarity—
like when the searchlight swept over rows of blank-eyed
windows, breached floors, and sundered walls. Pushed in
a tumbled mound, many of the sunken towers lay upside
down or even speared through each other. Together they
composed a city greater than any I ever heard of, even
from readings of olden times. Yet someone once scraped
the entire metropolis from its foundations, picked it up,
and dumped it here, sending all the buildings tumbling
down to be reclaimed the only way such things can be
reclaimed—in Mother Jijo's fiery bowels.

I recalled some books I'd read, dating from Earth's Era of
Resolution, when pre-contact humans were deciding on
their own how to grow up and save their, homeworld after
centuries spent using it as a cesspit. In Alice Hammett's
mystery The Case of a Half-Eaten Clone, the killer escapes
a murder charge, only to get ten years for disposing of the
evidence at sea! In those days, humans made no distinction
between midden trenches and ocean floor in general.
Dumping was dumping.

It felt strange to see the enormous dross-scape from two
viewpoints. By Galactic law, this was a consecrated part of
Jijo's cycle of preservation—a scene of devout caretaking.
But having grown up immersed in human books, I could
shift perspectives and see defilement, a place of terrible
sin.

The "city" fell behind us and we went back to staring at
bizarre shapes, unknown majestic objects, the devices of
star-god civilization, beyond understanding by mere
cursed mortals. On occasion, my eyes glimpsed flickerings
in the blackness outside the roving beam—lightninglike
glimmers amid the ruins, as if old forces lingered here and
there, setting off sparks like fading memories.

We murmured among ourselves, each of us falling back
to what we knew best. Ur-ronn speculated on the nature of
materials, what things were made of, or what functions
they once served. Huck swore she saw writing each time
the light panned over a string of suspicious shadows. Pin-
cer. insisted every other object must be a starship.

46   0 a v i d B r i n

The Midden took our conjectures the same way it ac-
cepts all else, with a patient, deathless silence.

Some enormous objects had already sunk quite far,
showing just their tips above the mire. I thought—This is
where Jijo's ocean plate takes a steep dive under the Slope,
dragging crust, mud, and anything else lying about, down
to magma pools that feed simmering volcanoes. In time, all
these mighty things will become lava, or precious ores to be
used by some future race of tenants on this world.

It made me ponder my father's sailing ship, and the risky
trips he took, hauling crates of sacred refuse, sent by each
tribe of the Six as partial payment for the sin of our ances-
tors. In yearly rituals, each village sifts part of the land,
clearing it of our own pollution and bits the Buyur left

behind.

The Five Galaxies may punish us for living here. Yet we

lived by a code, faithful to the Scrolls.

Hoonish folk moots chant the tale of Phu-uphyawuo, a
dross captain who one day saw a storm coming, and
dumped his load before reaching the deep blue of the Mid-
den. Casks and drums rolled overboard far short of the
trench of reclamation, strewing instead across shallow sea
bottom, marring a site that was changeless, unrenewing. In
punishment, Phu-uphyawuo was bound up and taken to
the Plain of Sharp Sand, to spend the rest of his days be-
neath a hollow dune, drinking enough green dew to live, I
but not sustain his soul. In time, his heart spine was ground
to dust and cast across a desert where no water might wash
the grains, or make them clean again.

But this is the Midden, I thought, trying to grasp the

wonder. We're the first to see it.

Except for the phuvnthus. And whatever else lives down

here.
I found myself tiring. Despite the back brace and

crutches, a weight of agony built steadily. Yet I found it
hard to tear away from the icy-cold pane.

Following a searchlight through suboceanic blackness,
we plunged as if down a mine shaft, aimed toward a heap
of jewels—glittering objects shaped like needles, or squat
globes, or glossy pancakes, or knobby cylinders. Soon

In f i n i f i) 's Shore 47

there loomed a vast shimmering pile, wider than Wuphon
Bay, bulkier than Guenn Volcano.

"Now, those are definitely ships!" Pincer announced,
gesturing with a claw. Pressed against the glass, we stared
at mountainlike piles of tubes, spheres, and cylinders,
many of them studded with hornlike protrusions, like the
quills of an alarmed rock staller.

"Those must be the probability whatchamacallums star-
ships use for going between galaxies," Huck diagnosed
from her avid reading of Tabernacle-era, tales.

"Probability flanges,"Ur-ronn corrected, speaking Ga-
lactic Six. In matters of technology, she was far ahead of
Huck or me. "/ think you may be right."

Our qheuenish friend chuckled happily as the search-
light zeroed in on one tremendous pile of tapered objects.
Soon we all recognized the general outlines from ancient
texts—freighters and courier ships, packets and cruisers—
all abandoned long ago.

The engine noise dropped a notch, plunging us toward
that mass of discarded spacecraft. The smallest of those
derelicts outmassed the makeshift phuvnthu craft the way
a full-grown traeki might tower over a herd-chick turd.

"I wonder if any of the ancestor vessels are in this pile,"
Huck contemplated aloud. "You know, the ones that
brought our founders here? The Laddu 'kek or the Taberna-
cle"

"Unlikely," Ur-ronn answered, this time in lisping An-
glic. "Don't forget, we're in the Rift. This is nothing vut an
offshoot canyon of the Nidden. Our ancestors likely dis-
carded their shifs in the nain trench, where the greatest
share of Vuyur trash went."

I blinked at that thought. This, an offshoot? A minor side
area of the Midden?

Of course she was right! But it presented a boggling im-
age. What staggering amounts of stuff must have been
dumped in the main trench, over the ages! Enough to tax
even the recycling power of Jijo's grinding plates. No won-
der the Noble Galactics set worlds aside for ten million
years or more. It must take that long for a planet to digest
each meal of sapient-made things, melting them back into
the raw stuff of nature.

48

David B r i                                  n f i n i r ij ' s Shore 49

I thought of my father's dross ship, driven by creaking
masts, its hold filled with crates of whatever we exiles can't
recycle. After two thousand years, all the offal we sooners
sent to the Midden would not even show against this single
mound of discarded starships.

How rich the Buyur and their fellow gods must have
been to cast off so much wealth! Some of the abandoned
vessels looked immense enough to swallow every house,
khuta, or hovel built by the Six Races. We glimpsed dark
portals, turrets, and a hundred other details, growing pain-
fully aware of one fact—those shadowy behemoths had
been sent down here to rest in peace. Their sleep was
never meant to be invaded by the likes of us.

Our plummet toward the reef of dead ships grew alarm-
ing. Did any of the others feel we were heading in awful
fasti

"Maybe this is their home," Pincer speculated as we
plunged toward one twisted, oval ruin, half the size of
Wuphon Port.

"Maybe the phuvnthus are made of, like, parts of old
machines that got dumped here," Huck mused. "And they
kind of put themselves together from whatever's lying
around? Like this boat we're on is made of all sorts of
junk—"

"Ferhafs they were servants of the Vuyur—" Ur-ronn in-
terrupted. "Or a race that lived here even vefore. Or a
strain of nutants, like in that story vy—"

I cut in. "Have any of you considered the simplest idea?
That maybe they're just like us?"

When my friends turned to look at me, I shrugged, hu-
man style.

"Maybe the phuvnthus are sooners, too. Ever stop to
think of that?"

Their blank faces answered me. I might as well have
suggested that our hosts were noor beasts, for all the sense
my idea made.

Well, I never claimed to be quick-witted, especially
when racked with agony.

We lacked any sense of perspective, no way to tell how
close we were, or how fast we were going. Huck and Pin-
cer murmured nervously as our vessel plunged toward the

mountain-of-ships at a rapid clip, engines running hard in
reverse.

I think we all jumped a bit when a huge slab of corroded
metal moved aside, just duras before we might have col-
lided. Our vessel slid into a gaping hole in the mountain of
dross, cruising along a corridor composed of spaceship
hulls, piercing a fantastic pile of interstellar junk.

A

SX

READ THE NEWLY CONGEALED WAX, MY RINGS.
See how folk of the Six Races dispersed, tearing down
festival pavilions and bearing away the injured, fleeing
before the Rothen starship's expected arrival.

Our senior sage, Vubben of the g'Kek, recited from the
Scroll of Portents a passage warning against disunity. Truly,
the Six Races must strive harder than ever to look past our
differences of shape and shell. Of flesh, hide, and torg.

"Go home," we sages told the tribes. "See to your lattice
screens. Your blur-cloth webs. Live near the ground in
Jijo's sheltered places. Be ready to fight if you can. To die if
you must."

The zealots,' who originally provoked this crisis, sug-
gested the Rothen starship might have means to track Ro-
kenn and his lackeys, perhaps by sniffing our prisoners'
brain waves or body implants. "For safety, let's sift their
bones into lava pools!"

An opposing faction called Friends of the Rothen de-
manded Ro-kenn's release and obeisance to his godlike
will. These were not only humans, but some qheuens,
g'Keks, hoons, and even a few urs, grateful for cures or
treatments received in the aliens' clinic. Some think re-
demption can be won in this lifetime, without first treading
the long road blazed by glavers.

Finally, others see this chaos as a chance to settle old
grudges. Rumors tell of anarchy elsewhere on the Slope.
Of many fine things toppled or burned.

Such diversity! The same freedom that fosters a vivid

50 DavidBrin

people also makes it hard to maintain a united front.
Would things be better if we had disciplined order, like the
feudal state sought by Gray Queens of old?

It is too late for regrets. Time remains only for improvisa-
tion—an art not well approved in the Five Galaxies, we are

told.
Among poor savages, it may be our only hope.

Yes, my rings. We can now remember all of that.

Stroke this wax, and watch the caravans depart toward
plains, forests, and sea. Our hostages are spirited off to
sites where even a starship's piercing scrutiny might not
find them. The sun flees and stars bridge the vast territory
called the Universe. A realm denied us, that our foes roam
at will.

Some remain behind, awaiting the ship.

We voted, did we not? We rings who make up Asx? We
volunteered to linger. Our cojoined voice would speak to
angry aliens for the Commons. Resting our basal torus on
hard stone, we passed the time listening to complex pat-
terns from the Holy Egg, vibrating our fatty core with
strange shimmering motifs.

Alas, my rings, none of these reclaimed memories explains
our current state, that something terrible must have hap-
pened?

Here, what of this newly congealed waxy trail?
Can you perceive in it the glimmering outlines of a great
vessel of space? Roaring from the same part of the sky
lately abandoned by the sun?

Or is it the sun, come back again to hover angrily above
the valley floor?

The great ship scans our valley with scrutinizing rays,
seeking signs of those they left behind.
Yes, my rings. Follow this waxy memory.
Are we about to rediscover the true cause of terror?

Lark

L^an

SUMMER PRESSED HEAVILY ACROSS THE RIMMER
Range, consuming the unshaded edges of glaciers far
older than six exile races. At intervals, a crackling static
charge would blur the alpine slopes as countless grass
stems wafted skyward, reaching like desperate tendrils. In-
tense sunshine was punctuated by bursts of curtain rain—
water draperies that undulated uphill, drenching the slopes
with continuous liquid sheets, climbing until the mountain-
tops wore rainbow crowns, studded with flashes of com-
pressed lightning.

Compact reverberations rolled down from the heights,
all -the way to the shore of a poison lake, where fungus
swarmed over a forty-hectare thicket of crumbling vines.
Once a mighty outpost of Galactic culture, the place was
now a jumble of stone slabs, rubbed featureless by abrad-
ing ages. The pocket valley sweltered with acrid aromas, as
caustic nectars steamed from the lake, or dripped from
countless eroding pores.

The newest sage of the Commons ofJijo plucked yellow
moss from a decaying cable, one of a myriad of strands that
once made up the body of a half-million-year-old creature,
the mule spider responsible for demolishing this ancient
Buyur site, gradually returning it to nature. Lark had last
seen this place in late winter—searching alone through
snow flurries for the footprints of Dwer and Rety, refugees
from this same spider's death fury. Things had changed
here since that frantic deliverance. Large swathes of mule
cable were simply gone, harvested in some recent effort
that no one had bothered explaining when Lark was as-
signed here. Much of what remained was coated with this
clinging moss.

"Spirolegita cariola." He muttered the species name,
rubbing a sample between two fingers. It was a twisted,
deviant cariola variety. Mutation seemed a specialty of this
weird, astringent site.

52 David B r i n

/ wonder what the place will do to me—to all of us—if
we stay here long.

He had not asked for this chore. To be a jailor. Just
wearing the title made him feel less clean.

A chain of nonsense syllables made him turn back
toward a blur-cloth canopy, spanning the space between
slablike boulders.

"It's a clensionating sievelator for refindulating excess

torg. . . ."

The voice came from deep shade within—a strong femi-
nine alto, though somewhat listless now, tinged with resig-
nation. Soft clinking sounds followed as one object was
tossed onto a pile and another picked up for examination.

"At a guess, I'd say this was once a glannis truncator,
probably used in rituals of a chihanic sect . . . that is, un-
less it's just another Buyur joke-novelty device."

Lark shaded his eyes to regard Ling, the young sky-born
scientist and servant of star-god Rothen, in whose employ
he had worked as a "native guide" for many weeks . . .
until the Battle of the Glade reversed their standing in a
matter of heartbeats. Since that unexpected victory, the
High Sages had assigned her care and custody to him, a
duty he never asked for, even if it meant exalted promo-
tion.

Now I'm quite a high-ranking witch doctor among sav-
ages, he thought with some tartness. Lord High Keeper of
Alien Prisoners.

And maybe executioner. His mind shied from that possi-
bility. Much more likely, Ling would be traded to her
Danik-Rothen comrades in some deal worked out by the
sages. Or else she might be rescued at any moment by
hordes of unstoppable robots, overpowering Lark's small
detachment of sword-bearing escorts like a pack of santi
bears brushing aside the helpless buzzing defenders of a
zil-honey tree.

Either way, she'll go free. Ling may live another three
hundred years on her homeworld, back in the Five Galax-
ies, telling embroidered tales about her adventure among
the feral barbarians of a shabby, illicit colony. Meanwhile,
the best we fallen ones can hope for is bare survival. To
keep scratching a living from poor tired Jijo, calling it

InfiniriJ's Shore 53

lucky if some of the Six eventually join glavers down the
Path of Redemption. The trail to blissful oblivion.

Lark would rather end it all in some noble and heroic
way. Let Jijo's Six go down defending this fragile world, so
she might go back to her interrupted rest.

That was his particular heresy, of course. Orthodox be-
lief held that the Six Races were sinners, but they might
mitigate their offense by living at peace on Jijo. But Lark
saw that as hypocrisy. The settlers should end their crime,
gently and voluntarily, as soon as possible.

He had made no secret of his radicalism . . . which
made it all the more confusing that the High Sages now
trusted him with substantial authority.

The alien woman no longer wore the shimmering garb
of her Danik star clan—the secretive band of humans who
worshiped Rothen lords. Instead she was outfitted in an ill-
fitting blouse and kilt ofJijoan homespun. Still, Lark found
it hard to look away from her angular beauty. It was said
that sky humans could buy a new face with hardly a
thought. Ling claimed not to care about such things, but no
woman on the Slope could match her.

Under the wary gaze of two militia corporals, Ling sat
cross-legged, examining relics left behind by the dead
mule spider—strange metallic shapes embedded in semi-
transparent gold cocoons, like archaic insects trapped in
amber. Remnants of the Buyur, this world's last legal ten-
ants, who departed half a million years ago when Jijo went
fallow. A throng of egglike preservation beads lay scattered
round the ashen lakeshore. Instead of dissolving all signs
of past habitation, the local mule spider had apparently
chosen relics to seal away. Collecting them, if Lark believed
the incredible story told by his half brother, Dwer.

The luminous coatings made him nervous. The same
substance, secreted from the spider's porous conduits, had
nearly smothered Dwer and Rety, the wild sooner girl, the
same night two alien robots quarreled, igniting a living mo-
rass of corrosive vines, ending the spider's long, mad life.
The gold stuff felt queer to touch, as if a strange, slow
liquid sloshed under sheaths of solid crystal.

"Toporgic, " Ling had called the slick material during one
of her civil moments. "It's very rare, but I hear stories. It's

54  D B v i d B r I n

said to be a pseudo-matter substrate made of organically

folded time.".

Whatever that meant. It sounded like the sort of thing
Sara might say, trying to explain her beloved world of
mathematics. As a biologist, he found it bizarre for a living
thing to send "folded time" oozing from its far-flung ten-
drils, as the mule spider apparently had done.

Whenever Ling finished examining a relic, she bent over
a sheaf of Lark's best paper to make careful notes, concen-
trating as if each childlike block letter were a work of art.
As if she never held a pencil before, but had vowed to
master the new skill. As a galactic voyager, she used to
handle floods of information, manipulating multidimen-
sional displays, sieving data on this world's complex
ecosystem, searching on behalf of her Rothen masters for
some biotreasure worth stealing. Toiling over handwritten
notes must seem like shifting from starship speeds to a

traeki's wooden scooter.

It's a steep/all—one moment a demigoddess, the next a

hostage of uncouth sooners.

All this diligent note taking must help take her mind off
recent events—that traumatic day, just two leagues below
the nest of the Holy Egg, when her home base exploded
and Jijo's masses violently rebelled. But Lark sensed some-
thing more than deliberate distraction. In scribing words
on paper. Ling drew the same focused satisfaction he had
seen her take from performing any simple act well. Despite
his persistent seething anger, Lark found this worthy of

respect.

There were folk legends about mule spiders. Some were
said to acquire odd obsessions during their stagnant eons
spent chewing metal and stone monuments of the past.
Lark once dismissed such fables as superstition, but Dwer
had proved right about this one. Evidence for the mule
beast's collecting fetish lay in countless capsules studding
the charred thicket, the biggest hoard of Galactic junk any-
where on the Slope. It made the noxious lakeshore an
ideal site to conceal a captured alien, in case the returning
starship had instruments sifting Jijo for missing crew mates.

In f i n i r u's Shore 55

Though Ling had been thoroughly searched, and all pos-
sessions seized, she might carry in her body some detect-
able trace element—acquired growing up on a far Galactic
world. If so, all the Buyur stuff lying around here might
mask her presence.

There were other ideas.

Ship sensors may not penetrate far underground, one
human techie proposed.

Or else, suggested an urrish smith, a nearby lava flow
may foil alien eyes.

The other hostages—Ro-kenn and Rann—had been
taken to such places, in hopes of holding on to at least one
prisoner. With the lives of every child and grub of the Six at
stake, anything seemed worth trying. The job Lark had
been given was important. Yet he chafed, wishing for more
to do than waiting for the world to end. Rumors told that
others were preparing to fight the star criminals. Lark knew
little about weapons—his expertise was the natural flux of
living species. Still, he envied diem.

A burbling, wheezing sound called him rushing to the
far end of the tent, where his friend Uthen squatted like an
ash-colored chitin mound. Lark took up a makeshift aspira-
tor he had fashioned out of boo stems, a cleft pig's bladder,
and congealed mule sap. He pushed the nozzle into one of
the big qheuen's leg apertures and pumped away, siphon-
ing phlegmy fluid that threatened Uthen's ventilation
tubes. He repeated the process with all five legs, till
his partner and fellow biologist breathed easier. The
qheuen's central cupola lifted and Uthen's seeing stripe
brightened,

"Th-thank you, L-Lark-ark ... I am—I am sorry to be
so—be so—to be a burden-en-en. ..."

Emerging uncoordinated, the separate leg voices
sounded like five miniature qheuens, getting in each
other's way. Or like a traeki whose carelessly stacked ora-
tion rings all had minds of their own. Uthen's fevered
weakness filled Lark's chest with a burning ache. A chok-
ing throat made it hard to respond with cheerful-sounding
lies.

"You just rest up, claw brother. Soon we'll be back in the

56   D a v i d B r i n

field . . . digging fossils and inventing more theories to
turn your mothers blue with embarrassment."

That brought a faint, gurgling laugh. "S-speaking-king of
heresies ... it looks as if you and Haru . . . Haru . . .
Harullen-ullen, will be getting your wish."

Mention of Lark's other gray qheuen friend made him
wince with doubled grief. Uthen didn't know about his
cousin's fate, and Lark wasn't about to tell him.

"How do you mean?"

"It seems-eems the raiders-raiders found a way to ridJijo
of at least one of the S-S-Six P-p-pests. ..."

"Don't say that," Lark urged. But Uthen voiced a com-
mon thought. His sickness baffled the g'Kek medic resting
in the next shelter, all four eyes curled in exhaustion. The
malady frightened the militia guards. All knew that Uthen
had been with Lark in the ruined Danik station, poking
among forbidden things.

"I felt sorrow when-hen zealots-lots blew up the alien
base." Uthen's carapace shuddered as he fought for breath.
"Even when the Rothen tried to misuse our Holy Egg . . .
sending false dreams as wedges-edges ... to drive the
Six Races apart-part. . . . Even that did not justify the
. . . inhospitable-able murder of strangers."

Lark wiped an eye. "You're more charitable than most."

"Let me finish-ish. I was-as going to say that now we
know what the outsiders were up to all along-long . . .
something worse than dreams. Designing-ing bugs to bring
us down-own-own."

So, Uthen must have overheard the rumors—or else
worked it out for himself.

Biological warfare. Genocide.

"Like in War of the Worlds" It was one of Uthen's favor-
ite old novels. "Only with the roles reversed."

Lark's comparison made the gray qheuen laugh—a
raspy, uneven whistle.

"I ... always-ways did identify . . . with those . . .
with those poor Martians-ans-ans. ..."

The ribbon eye went foggy, losing the light of conscious-
ness as the cupola' sank. Lark checked his friend's breath-
ing, and found it no worse. Uthen was simply tired.

So strong, he thought, stroking the rigid shell.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 57

We picture grays as toughest of the tough. But cbitin
won't slow a laser ray.

Harullen found that out. Death came to Uthen's cousin
during the brief Battle of the Glade, when the massed mili-
tia of Six Races barely overcame Ro-kenn's robot assassins.
Only the advantage of surprise had carried that day. The
aliens never realized that savages might have books show-
ing how to make rifled firearms—crude, but potent at short
range.

But victory came late for Harullen. Too dedicated or ob-
stinate to flee, the heretic leader spent his last frenzied
moments whistling ornate pleas for calm and reason, cry-
ing in five directions at once, beseeching everyone to lay
down their arms and talk things over—until Harullen's
massive, crablike body was cleaved in uneven parts by a
killer drone, just before the machine was itself blown from
the sky.

There will be mourning among the gray matrons of
Tarek Town, Lark thought, resting both arms across
Uthen's broad shell, laying his head on the mottled surface,
listening to the strained labor of his friend's phlegmy
breathing, wishing with all his heart that there was more he
could do.

Irony was but one of many bitter tastes in his mouth.
/ always figured, if the end did come, that qheuens
would be the last to go.

E

merson

JIJO'S COUNTRYSIDE FLOWS RAPIDLY PAST THEM
now, as if the mysterious horsewomen fear any delay
might turn faint hope to dust.

Lacking speech, Emerson has no idea where they are
riding in such a hurry, or why.

Sara turns in her saddle now and then, to give an en-
couraging smile. But rewq-painted colors of misgiving sur-
round her face—a nimbus of emotion that he can read the
way he used to find meaning in letters on a data display.

58 David B r i n

Perhaps he should find her qualms unnerving, since he
depends on her guidance in this strange, perilous world.
Yet Emerson cannot bring himself to worry. There are just

too many other things to think about.

Humidity closes in as their caravan veers toward a wind-
ing river valley. Dank aromas stir memories of the swamp
where he first floundered after the crash, a shattered crip-
ple, drenched in agony. But he does not quail. Emerson
welcomes any sensation that might trigger random recall—
a sound, a chance smell, or else a sight around the next

bend.

Some rediscoveries already float across a gulf of time

and loss, as if he has missed them for quite a while. Recov-
ered names connect to faces, and even brief snatches of

isolated events.

Tom Orley ... so strong and clever. Always a sure eye

for trouble. He brought some back to the ship, one day.

Trouble enough for Five Galaxies.

Hikahi . . . sweetest dolphin. Kindest friend. Dashing
off to rescue her lover and captain . . . never to be seen

again.

Toshio ... a boy's ready laughter. A young man's

steady heart. Where is he now?

Creideiki . . . captain. Wise dolphin leader. A cripple

like himself.

Briefly, Emerson wonders at the similarity between

Creideiki's injury and his own. . . . But the thought pro-
vokes a searing bolt of pain so fierce that the fleeting

thought whirls away and is lost.

Tom . . . Hikahi . . . Toshio ... He repeats the
names, each of them once attached to friends he has not

seen for . . . well, a very long time.

Other memories, more recent, seem harder to reach,

more agonizing to access.

Suessi . . . Tsh't . . . Gillian ...

He mouths each sound repeatedly, despite the tooth-
jarring ride and difficulty of coordinating tongue and lips.
He does it to keep in practice—or else how will he ever
recover the old handiness with language, the skill to roll
out words as he used to, back when he was known as such

Infinirii's Shore 59

a clever fellow . . . before horrid holes appeared in both
his head and memory.

Some names come easy, since he learned them after
waking on Jijo, delirious in a treetop hut.

—Prity, the little chimp who teaches him by example.
Though mute, she shows flair for both math and sardonic
hand speech.

—Jomah and Kurt . . . sounds linked to younger and
older versions of the same narrow face. Apprentice and
master at a unique art, meant to erase all the dams, towns,
and houses that unlawful settlers had built on a proscribed
world. Emerson recalls Biblos, an archive of paper books,
where Kurt showed his nephew well-placed explosive
charges that might bring the cave down, smashing the li-
brary to dust. If the order ever came.

—The captive fanatic, Dedinger, rides behind the exp-
losers, deeply tanned with craggy features. Leader of hu-
man rebels with beliefs Emerson can't grasp, except they
preach no love of visitors from the sky. While the party
hurries on, Dedinger's gray eyes rove, calculating his next
move.

Some names and a few places—these utterances have
meaning now. It is progress, but Emerson is no fool. He
figures he must have known hundreds of words before he
fell, broken, to this world. Now and again he makes out
snatches of half meaning from the "wab-wah" gabble as
his companions address each other. Snippets that tantalize,
without satisfying.

Sometimes the torrent grows tiresome, and he won-
ders—might people be less inclined to fight if they talked
less? If they spent more time watching and listening?

Fortunately, words aren't his sole project. There is the
haunting familiarity of music, ?nd during rest stops he
plays math games with Prity and Sara, drawing shapes in
the sand. They are his friends and he takes joy from their
laughter.

He has one more window to the world.

As often as he can stand it, Emerson slips the rewq over
his eyes ... a masklike film that transforms the world

60 David B r i n

into splashes of slanted color. In all his prior travels he
never encountered such a creature—a species used by all
six races to grasp each other's moods. If left on too long, it
gives him headaches. Still he finds fascinating the auras
surrounding Sara, Dedinger, and others. Sometimes it
seems the colors carry more than just emotion . . .
though he cannot pin it down. Not yet.

One truth Emerson recalls. Advice drawn from the
murky well of his past, putting him on guard.

Life can be full of illusions.

PORT M

? LEGENDS TELL OF MANY PRECIOUS TEXTS
^ that were lost one bitter evening/ during an
5 unmatched disaster some call the iNight ol
^ the (ghosts/ when a quarter 01 the Diblos
: ./Archive burned. Among the priceless vol-
' umes that vanished by that cruel winters
i twilight/ one tome reportedly showed pictures
' or Duyur—the mighty race whose lease on
i Jijo expired live thousand centuries ago.

Scant diary accounts survive trom wit-
f nesses to the calamity/ but according to some
! who browsed the Xenoscience Collection be-
, lore It burned/ the buyur were squat beings/
! vaguely resembling the bullfrogs shown on
, page ninety-six 01 C^/earys C-'uiae to lerres-
' trial L,iK-rorms/ though with elephantine legs
i and sharp/ lorward-looking eyes. I hey were
' said to be master shapers or uselul organisms/

and had a reputation tor prodigious wit.
;       But other sooner races already knew
f that much about the Duyur/ both trom oral
>. traditions and the many clever servant organ-
; Isms that nit about JlJos ferests/ perhaps still
, looking lor departed masters. Beyond these
i lew scraps/ we have very little about the race
, whose mighty civilisation thronged this world
' (or more than a million years.

HOW could so much knowledge be lost in a single night'
Today it seems odd. Why werent copies ot such valuable texts
printed by those llrst-wave human colonists/ belore they sent their
sneakship tumbling to ocean depths' Why not place duplicates all
over the Mope/ saleguarding the learning against all peril'

In our ancestors defense/ recall what tense times those were/
belore the Oreat leace or the coming ol the bgg. 1 he live sapient
races already present on JiJ'o (.excluding glavers/ had reached an
edgy balance by the time starship tabernacle slinked past
l^munutts dusty glare to plant Earthllngs illicitly/ the latest wave
01 criminal colonists to plague a troubled world. In those days/
combat was Irequent between urrtsh clans and haughty qheuen
empresses/ while hoonlsh tribes skirmished among themselves in
their ongoing ethical struggle over traeki civil rights. 1 he nigh
Sages had little inlluence beyond reading and interpreting the
Speaking Scrolls/ the only documents existing at the time.

Into this tense climate dropped the latest Invasion ot sooner
relugees/ who found an unused eco-niche awaiting them. But
human colonists were not content simply to take up tree tarming
as another clan 01 illiterates. Instead/ they used the tabernacles
engines one last time before sinking her. With those godlike torces
they carved Diblos fortress/ then toppled a thousand trees/ con-
verting their pulp into ireshly printed books.

1 he act so astonished the Other five/ It nearly cost human
settlers their lives. Outraged/ the queens ol larek lown laid siege
to the vastly outnumbered Carthlings. Others/ equally ottended by
what seemed heresy against the Scrolls/ held back only because the
priest sages rerused sanctioning holy war. 1 hat narrow vote gave
human leaders time to bargain/ to cajole the ditlerent tribes and
septs with practical advice trom books/ bribing them with uselul
things. Spoke cleats (or gKek wheels. Better sails tor hoonish
captains. And/ lor urrish smiths/ the long-sought knack ol brew-
ing clear glass.

Mow things had changed Just a lew generations later/ when
the new breed ol scholar sages gathered to aihrm the Oreat
leace/ scribing their names on Iresh paper and sending copies to
each hamlet on the Slope. Reading became a common habit/ and
even writing is no longer viewed as sin.

/\n orthodox minority still objects to the clatter ol printing
presses, they piously Insist that literacy fosters memory, and thus
attachment to the same conceits that got our spacelaring ancestors
in trouble. Surely/ they claim/ we must cultivate detachment and
forgettulness in order to tread the lath ol Redemption.

lerhaps they are right. Out lew these days seem in a hurry
to lollow glavers down that blessed trail. 1'Jot yet. hirst/ we must
prepare our souls.

/\nd wisdom/ the New Sages declare/ can be nurtured
irom the pages ol a book.

from forging the leace, a Historical /VIeditation-Umble,
by Homer /wph-puthtwaoy

SFreohers

K

aa

STRANDED, BY UNYIELDING FATE, ON IFNI'S SHORE.
Stranded, like a beached whale, barred from ever go-
ing home.

Five ways stranded—

First, cut off from Earth by hostile aliens bearing a death
grudge toward Terrans in general, and the Streaker crew in
particular, though Kaa never quite understood why.

Second, banished from Earth's home galaxy, blown off
course, and off-limits, by a caprice of hyperspace—though
many on the crew still blamed Kaa, calling it "pilot's error."

Third, starship Streaker taking refuge on a taboo world,
one scheduled to have a respite from sapient minds. An
ideal haven, according to some. A trap, said others.

Fourth, when the vessel's weary engines finally ceased
their labors, depositing the Streaker in a realm of ghosts,
deep in this planet's darkest corner, far from air or light.

And now, this, Kaa thought. Abandoned, even by a crew
of castaways!

Of course Lieutenant Tsh't didn't put it that way, when

66 David B r i n

she asked him to stay behind in a tiny outpost with three
other volunteers for company.

"This will be your first important command, Kaa. A
chance to show what you're made of."

Yeah, he thought. Especially if I'm speared by a hoonish
harpoon, dragged onto one of their boats, and slit open.

That almost happened yesterday. He had been tracking
one of the native sailing craft, trying to learn its purpose
and destination, when one of his young assistants, Mopol,
darted ahead and began surfing the wooden vessel's roll-
ing bow wake ... a favorite pastime on Earth, where
dolphins frequently hitched free rides from passing ships.
Only here it was so dumb, Kaa hadn't thought to forbid it

in advance.

Mopol offered that lawyerly excuse later, when they re-
turned to the shelter. "B-besides, I didn't do any harm."

"No harm? You let them see you!" Kaa berated. "Don't
you know they started throwing spears into the water, just
as I got you out of there?"

Mopol's sleek torso and bottle beak held a rebellious
stance. "They never saw a dolphin before. Prob'ly thought
we were some local kind of fish."

"And it's gonna stay that way, do you hear?"

Mopol grunted ambiguous assent, but the episode un-
nerved Kaa.

A while later, dwelling on his own shortcomings, he
worked amid clouds of swirling bottom mud, splicing opti-
cal fiber to a cable the submarine Hikahi had laid, on its
return trip to Streaker's hiding place. Kaa's newly em-
placed camera should let him spy more easily on the hoon
colony whose sheltered docks and camouflaged houses lay
perched along the nearby bay. Already he could report that
hoonish efforts at concealment were aimed upward, at
shrouding their settlement against the sky, not the sea. That
might prove important information, Kaa hoped.

Still, he had never trained to be a spy. He was a pilot,

dammit!

Not that he ever used to get much practice during the
early days of Streamer's mission, languishing in the shadow
of Chief Pilot Keepiru, who always got the tough, glamor-
ous jobs. When Keepiru vanished on Kithrup, along with

infinifiJ's Shore 67

the captain and several others, Kaa finally got a chance to
practice his skill—for better and worse.

But now Streaker's going nowhere. A beached ship needs
no pilot, so I guess I'm expendable.

Kaa finished splicing and was retracting the work arms
of his harness when a flash of silver-gray shot by at high
speed, undulating madly. Sonar strafed him as waves of
liquid recoil shoved his body. Clickety dolphin laughter
filled the shallows.

* Admit it, star seeker!

* You did not bear or see me,
* Sprinting from the gloom! *

In fact, Kaa had known the youth was approaching for
some time, but he did not want to discourage Zhaki from
practicing the arts of stealth.

"Use Anglic," he commanded tersely.

Small conical teeth gleamed in a beam of slanted sun-
shine as the young Tursiops swung around to face Kaa.
"But it's much easier to speak Trinary! Sometimes Anglic
makes my head hurt."

Few humans, listening to this exchange between two
neo-dolphins, would have understood the sounds. Like
Trinary, this underwater dialect consisted mostly of clipped
groans and ratchetings. But the grammar was close to
standard Anglic. And grammar guides the way a person
thinks—or so Creideiki used to teach, when that master of
Keeneenk arts lived among the Streaker crew, guiding
them with his wisdom.

Creideiki has been gone for two years, abandoned with
Mr. Orley and others when we fled the battle fleets at
Kithrup. Yet every day we miss him—the best our kind
produced.

When Creideiki spoke, you could forget for a while that
neo-dolphins were crude, unfinished beings, the newest
and shakiest sapient race in the Five Galaxies.

Kaa tried answering Zhaki as he imagined the captain
would.

"The pain you feel is called concentration. It's not easy,

68 David B r i n

but it enabled our human patrons to reach the stars, all by

themselves."
"Yeah. And look what good it did them," Zhaki retorted.

-Before Kaa could answer, the youth emitted the need-air
signal and shot toward the surface, without even perform-
ing a wariness spiral to look out for danger. It violated
security, but tight discipline seemed less essential as each
Jijoan day passed. This sea was too mellow and friendly to

encourage diligence.

Kaa let it pass, following Zhaki to the surface. They ex-
haled and drew in sweet air, faintly charged with distant
hints of rain. Speaking Anglic with their gene-modified
blowholes out of the water called for a different dialect,
one that hissed and sputtered, but sounded more like hu-
man speech.

"All right-t," Kaa said. "Now report."

The other dolphin tossed his head. "The red crabs sus-
pect nothing. They f-fixate on their crayfish pensss. Only
rarely does one look up when we c-come near."

"They aren't crabs. They're qheuens. And I gave strict
orders. You weren't to go near enough to be seen!"

Hoons were considered more dangerous, so Kaa had
kept that part of the spy mission for himself. Still, he
counted on Zhaki and Mopol to be discreet while explor-
ing the qheuen settlement at the reef fringe. / guess I was

wrong.

"Mopol wanted to try some of the reds' delicaciesss, so

we p-pulled a diversion. I rounded up a school of those
green-finned fishies—the ones that taste like Sargasso
eel—and chased 'em right through the q-qheuen colony!
And guess what? It turns out the crabs have pop-up nets
they use for jussst that kind of: luck! As soon as the school
was inside their boundary, they whipped those things up-p

and snatched the whole swarm!"

"You're lucky they didn't snag you, too. What was Mo-
pol doing, all this time?"

"While the reds were busy, Mopol raided the crayfish
pens." Zhaki chortled with delight. "I saved you one, by
the way. They're delisssh."

Zhaki wore a miniharness fastened to his flank, bearing
a single manipulator arm that folded back during swim-

Inflnirii's Shore 69

ming. At a neural signal, the mechanical hand went to his
seamed pouch and drew out a wriggling creature, proffer-
ing it to Kaa.

What should I do? Kaa stared at the squirmy thing.
Would accepting it only encourage Zhaki's lapse of disci-
pline? Or would rejection make Kaa look stodgy and un-
reasonable?

"I'll wait and see if it makes you sick," he told the youth.
They weren't supposed to experiment on native fauna with
their own bodies. Unlike Earth, most planetary ecosystems
were mixtures of species from all across the Five Galaxies,
introduced by tenant races whose occupancy might last ten
million years. So far, many of the local fishoids turned out
to be wholesome and tasty, but the very next prey beast
might have its revenge by poisoning you.

"Where is Mopol now?"

"Back doing what we were told," Zhaki said. "Watching
how the red crabs interact with hoonsss. So far we've seen
'em pulling two sledge loads toward the port, filled with
harvested ssseaweed. They came back with cargoes of
wood. You know . . . ch-chopped tree trunks."

Kaa nodded. "So they do trade, as we suspected. Hoons
and qheuens, living together on a forbidden world. I won-
der what it means?"

"Who knows? If they weren't mysterious, they wouldn't
be eateesss. C-can I go back to Mopol now?"

Kaa had few illusions about what was going on between
the two young spacers. It probably interfered in their work,
but if he raised the issue, Zhaki would accuse him of being
a prude, or worse, "jealous."

If only I were a real leader, Kaa thought. The lieutenant
should never have left me in charge.

"Yes, go back now," he said. "But only to fetch Mopol
and return to the shelter. It's getting late."

Zhaki lifted his body high, perched on a thrashing tail.

* Yes, oh exalted!

f Your command shall be obeyed,
* As all tides heed moons. *

70 David B r I n

With that, the young dolphin did a flip and dived back
into the sea. Soon his dorsal fin was all Kaa saw, glinting as
it sliced through choppy swell.

Kaa pondered the ambiguous insolence of Zhaki's last
Trinary burst.

In human terms—by the cause-and-effect logic the pa-
tron race taught its dolphin clients—the ocean bulged and
shifted in response to the gravitational pull of sun and
moon. But there were more ancient ways of thinking, used
by cetacean ancestors long before humans meddled in
their genes. In those days, there had never been any ques-
tion that tides were the most powerful of forces. In the old,
primal religion, tides controlled the moon, not vice versa.

In other words, Zhaki's Trinary statement was sassy,
verging on insubordination.

Tsh't made a mistake, Kaa mused bitterly, as he swam
toward the shelter. We should never have been left here by
ourselves.

Along the way, he experienced the chief threat to his
mission. Not hoonish spears or qheuen claws, or even
alien battlecruisers, but Jijo itself.

One could/all in love with this place.

The ocean's flavor called to him, as did the velvety tex-
ture of the water. It beckoned in the way fishlike creatures
paid him respect by fleeing, but not too quick to catch, if
he cared to.

Most seductive of all, at night throbbing echoes pene-
trated their outpost walls—distant rhythms, almost too low
to hear. Eerie, yet reminiscent of the whale songs of home.

Unlike Oakka, the green-green world—or terrible
Kithrup—this planet appeared to have a reverent sea. One
where a dolphin might swim at peace.

And possibly forget.

Infiniru's Shore 71

derly dolphin whose frailty had grown as Streaker fled ever
farther from home.

Brookida's samples had been taken when the Hikahi
followed a hoonish sailboat beyond the continental shelf,
to a plunging abyssal trench, where the ship had pro-
ceeded to dump its cargo overboard! As casks, barrels, and
chests fell into the murk, a few were snagged by the sub-
marine's gaping maw, then left here for analysis as the
Hikahi returned to base.

Brookida had already found what he called "anomalies,"
but something else now had the aged scientist excited.

"We got a message while you were out. Tsh't picked up
something amazing on her way to Streaker\"

'Kaa. nodded. "I was here when she reported, remember?
They found an ancient cache, left by illegal settlers
when—"

"That's nothing." The old dolphin was more animated
than Kaa had seen Brookida in a long time.

"Tsh't called again later to say they rescued a bunch of
kids who were about to drown."

Kaa blinked.

"Kids? You don't mean—"

"Not human or fin. But wait till you hear who they are
. . . and how they came to be d-down there, under the
sea."

Brookida was waiting when Kaa cycled through the tiny
airlock, barely large enough for one dolphin at a time to
pass into the shelter—an inflated bubble, half-filled with
water and anchored to the ocean floor. Against one wall, a
lab had been set up for the metallurgist geologist, an el-

Sooners

Alvin

BFEW SCANT DURAS BEFORE IMPACT, PART OF THE
wall of debris ahead of us began to move. A craggy slab,
consisting of pitted starship hulls, magically slipped
aside, offering the phuvnthu craft a long, narrow cavity.

Into it we plummeted, jagged walls looming near the
glass, passing in a blur, cutting off the searchlight beam
and leaving us in shadows. The motors picked up their
frantic backward roar . . . then fell away to silence.

A series of metallic clangs jarred the hull. Moments later
the door to our chamber opened. A clawed arm motioned
us outside.

Several phuvnthus waited—insectoid-looking creatures
with long, metal-cased torsos and huge, glassy-black eyes.
Our mysterious saviors, benefactors, captors.

My friends tried to help me, but I begged them off.

"Come on, guys. It's hard enough managing these
crutches without YOU all crowding around. Go on. I'll be
right behind."

At the intersection leading back to my old cell, I moved

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 73

to turn left but our six-legged guides motioned right in-
stead. "I need my stuff," I told the nearest phuvnthu-thing.
But it gestured no with a wave of machinelike claws, bar-
ring my path.

Damn, I thought, recalling the notebook and backpack I
had left behind. I figured I'd be coming back.

A twisty, confused journey took us through all sorts of
hatches and down long corridors of metal plating. Ur-ronn
commented that some of the weld joins looked "hasty." I
admired the way she held on to her professionalism when
faced with awesome technology.

I can't say exactly when we left the sea dragon and en-
tered the larger base/camp/city/hive, but there came a time
when the big phuvnthus seemed more relaxed in their
clanking movements. I even caught a snatch or two of that
queer, ratcheting sound that I once took for speech. But
there wasn't time for listening closely. Just moving forward
meant battling waves of pain, taking one step at a time.

At last we spilled into a corridor that had a feel of perma-
nence, with pale, off-white walls and soft lighting that
seemed to pour from the whole ceiling. The peculiar pas-
sage curved gently upward in both directions, till it
climbed out of sight a quarter of an arrowflight to either
side. It seemed we were in a huge circle, though what use
such a strange hallway might serve, I could not then imag-
ine.

Even more surprising was the reception committee! At
once we faced a pair of creatures who could not look more
different from the phuvnthus—except for the quality of
having six limbs. They stood upright on their hind pair,
dressed in tunics of silvery cloth, spreading four scaly
webbed hands in a gesture I hopefully took to mean wel-
come. They were small, rising just above my upper knees,
or the level of Pincer's red chitin shell. A frothy crown of
moist, curly fibers topped their bulb-eyed heads. Squeak-
ing rapidly, they motioned for us to follow, while the big
phuvnthus retreated with evident eagerness.

We four Wuphonites consulted with a shared glance
... then a rocking, qheuen-style shrug. We turned to
troop silently behind our new guides. I could sense Huphu

74 David B r I n

purring on my shoulder, staring at the little beings, and I
vowed to drop my crutches and grab the noor, if she tried
to jump one of our hosts. I doubted they were as helpless
as they looked.

All the doorways lining the hall were closed. Next to
each portal, something like a paper strip was pasted to the
wall, always at the same height. One of Huck's eyestalks
gestured toward the makeshift coverings, then winked at
me in Morse semaphore.

SECRETS UNDERNEATH!

I grokked her meaning. So our hosts did not want us to
read their door signs. That implied they used one of the
alphabets known to the Six. I felt the same curiosity that
emanated from Huck. At the same time, though, I readied
myself to stop her, if she made a move to tear off one of
the coverings. There are times for impulsiveness. This was
not one of them.

A door hatch slid open with a soft hiss and our little
guides motioned for us to enter.

Curtains divided a large chamber into parallel cubicles. I
also glimpsed a dizzying array of shiny machines, but did
not note much about them, because of what then ap-
peared, right in front of us.

We all stopped in our tracks, facing a quartet of familiar-
looking entities—an urs, a hoon, a red qheuen, and a
young g'Kek!

Images of ourselves, I realized, though clearly not reflec-
tions in a mirror. For one thing, we could see right through
the likenesses. And as we stared, each figure made beck-
oning motions toward a different curtained nook.

After the initial shock, I noticed the images weren't per-
fect portraits. The urrish version had a well groomed pelt,
and my hoonish counterpart stood erect, without a back
brace. Was the difference meaningful? The hoonish carica-
ture smiled at me in the old-fashioned way, with a flut-
tering throat sac, but no added grimace of mouth and lips
that Jijoan hoons had added since humans came.

"Yeah right," Huck muttered, staring at the ersatz g'Kek
in front of her, whose wheels and spokes gleamed, tight
and polished. "I am so sure these are sooners, Alvin."

Inflnitii's Shore 75

I winced. So my earlier guess was wrong. There was no
point rubbing it in.

"Hr-rm . . . shut up, Huck."

"These are holographic Projections," Ur-ronn lisped in
Anglic, the sole Jijoan language suitable for such a diagno-
sis. The words came from human books, inherited since
the Great Printing.

"Whatever you s-say," Pincer added, as each ghost
backed away toward a different curtained cell. "What
d-d-do we do now?"

Huck muttered. "What choice do we have? Each of us
follows our own guy, and see ya on the other side."

With an uneven bumping of her rims, she rolled after the
gleaming g'Kek image. A curtain slid shut after her.

Ur-ronn blew a sigh. "Good water, you two."

"Fire and ash," Pincer and I replied politely, watching
her saunter behind the urrish cartoon figure.

The fake hoon waved happily for me to enter the cubby
on the far right.

"Name, rank, and serial number only," I told Pincer.

His worried—"Huh?"—aspirated from three leg vents in
syncopation. When I glanced back, his cupola eye still
whirled indecisively, staring in all directions except at the
translucent qheuen in front of him.

A hanging divider closed between us.

My silent guide in hoonish form led me to a white obe-
lisk, an upright slab, occupying the center of the small
room. He pantomimed stepping right up to it, standing on
a small metal plate at its base. When I did so, I found the
white surface soft against my face and chest. No sooner
were my feet on the plate than the whole slab began to tilt
. . . rotating down and forward to become a table, with
my own poor self lying prone on top. Huphu scrambled
off my shoulders, muttering guttural complaints, then
yowled as a tube lifted up from below and snaked toward
my face!

I guess I could have struggled, or tried to flee. But to
what point? When colored gas spilled from the tube, the
odor reminded me of childhood visits to our Wuphon infir-
mary. The House of Stinks, we kids called it, though our

76 David B r i n

traeki pharmacist was kindly, and always secreted a lump
of candy from an upper ring, if we were good. ...

As awareness wavered, I recall hoping there would be a
tasty sourball waiting for me this time, as well.

"G'night," I muttered, while Huphu cluttered and
wailed. Then things kind of went black for a while.

/\sx

STROKE THE FRESH-PLOWING WAX, MY RINGS,
.streaming hot with news from real time.
Here, trace this ululation, a blaring cry of dismay,
echoing round frosted peaks, setting stands of mighty
greatboo a-quivering.

Just moments earlier, the Rothen ship hovered majestically
above its ruined station, scanning the Glade for signs of its
lost spore buds, the missing members of its crew.

Angry the throbbing vessel seemed, broody and threat-
ening, ready to avenge.

Yet we/i remained in place, did we not, my rings? Duty
rooted this traeki stack in place, delegated by the Council
of Sages to parley with these Rothen lords.

Others also lingered, milling across the trampled festival
grounds. Curious onlookers, or those who for personal
reasons wished to offer invaders loyalty.

So we/i were not alone to witness what came next.
There were several hundred present, staring in awe as the
Rothen starship probed and palped the valley with rays,
sifting the melted, sooty girders of its ravaged outpost.

Then came that abrupt, awful sound. A cry that still fiz-
zes, uncongealed, down our fatty core. An alarm of an-
guished dread, coming from the ship itself!

n f i n i r i| 's Shore 77

Yes?
You are brave, my rings. . . .

Behold the Rothen ship—suddenly bathed in light!

Actinic radiance pours onto it from above . . . cast by a
new entity, shining like the blazing sun.

It is no sun, but another vesse\ of space! A ship unbeliev-
ably larger than the slim gene raider, looming above it the
way a full-stacked traeki might tower over a single, newly
vienned ring.

Can the wax be believed? Could anything be as huge
and mighty as that luminous mountain-thing, gliding over
the valley as ponderous as a thunderhead?

Trapped, the Rothen craft emits awful, grating noises,
straining to escape the titanic newcomer. But the cascade
of light now presses on it, pushing with force that spills
across the vale, taking on qualities of physical substance.
Like a solid shaft, the beam thrusts the Rothen ship down-
ward against its will, until its belly scours Jijo's wounded
soil.

A deluge of saffron color flows around the smaller
cruiser, covering the Rothen craft in layers—thickening,
like gobs of cooling sap. Soon the Rothen ship lies help-
lessly encased. Leaves and twigs seem caught in midwhirl,
motionless beside the gold-sealed hull.

And above, a new power hovered. Leviathan.

The searing lights dimmed.

Humming a song of overpowering might, the titan de-
scended, like a guest mountain dropping in to take its
place among the Rimmers. A stone from heaven, cracking
bedrock and reshaping the valley with its awful weight.

n f i n i r i) ' s Shore 79

Rety

Rety never believed Kunn's people came across vast
space just to teach some critters how to blab.

Then what was the real reason? And what were they
afraid of?

RETY THOUGHT ABOUT HER BIRD. THE BRIGHT
bird, so lively, so unfairly maimed, so like herself in its
.stubborn struggle to overcome.

All her adventures began one day when Jass and Born
returned from a hunting trip boasting about wounding a
mysterious flying creature. Their trophy—a gorgeous metal
feather—was the trigger she had been waiting for. Rety
took it as an omen, steadying her resolve to break away. A
sign that it was time, at last, to leave her ragged tribe and
seek a better life.

I guess everybody's looking for something, she pondered,
as the robot followed another bend in the dreary river,
meandering toward the last known destination of Kunn's
flying scout craft. Rety had the same goal, but also dreaded
it. The Danik pilot would deal harshly with Dwer. He
might also judge Rety, for her many failings.

She vowed to suppress her temper and grovel if need
be. Just so the starfolk keep their promise and take me with
them when they leave fijo.

They must! I gave 'em the bird. Rann said it was a clue
to help the Daniks and their Rothen lords search . . .
Her thoughts stumbled.
Search for what?

They must need somethin' awful bad to break Galactic
law by sneakin' to far-off Jijo.

Rety never swallowed all the talk about "gene raiding"—
that the Rothen expedition came looking for animals al-
most ready to think. When you grow up close to nature,
scratching for each meal alongside other creatures, you
soon realize everybody thinks. Beasts, fish . . . why, some
of her cousins even prayed to trees and stones!

Rety's answer was—so what? Would a gallaiter be less
smelly if it could read? Or a wallow kleb any less disgusting
if it recited poetry while rolling in dung? By her lights,
nature was vile and dangerous. She had a bellyful and
would gladly give it up to live in some bright Galactic city.

The robot avoided deep water, as if its force fields needed
rock or soil to push against. When the river widened, and
converging tributaries became rivers themselves, further
progress proved impossible. Even a long detour west of-
fered no way around. The drone buzzed in frustration,
hemmed by water on all sides.

"Rety!" Dwer's hoarse voice called from below. "Talk to
it again!"

"I already did, remember? You must've wrecked its ears
in the ambush, when you ripped out its antenna thing!"

"Well ... try again. Tell it I might . . . have a way to
get across a stream."

Rety stared down at him, gripped by snakelike arms.
"You tried to kill it a while back, an' now you're offerin' to
help?"

He grimaced. "It beats dying, wandering in its clutches
till the sun burns out. I figure there's food and medicine on
the flying boat. Anyway, I've heard so much about these
alien humans. Why should you get all the fun?"

She couldn't tell where he stopped being serious, and
turned sarcastic. Not that it mattered. If Dwer's idea proved
useful, it might soften the way Kunn treated him.

And me, she added.

"Oh, all right,"

Rety spoke directly to the machine, as she had been
taught.

"Drone Four! Hear and obey commands! I order you to
let us down so's we can haggle together about how to pass
over this here brook. The prisoner says he's got a way
mebbe to do it."

The robot did not respond at first, but kept cruising be-
tween two high points, surveying for any sign of a cross-
ing. But finally, the humming repulsors changed tone as
metal arms lowered Dwer, letting him roll down a mossy

80 David B r i n

bank. For a time the young man lay groaning. His limbs
twitched feebly, like a stranded fish.

More than a little stiff herself, Rety hoisted her body off
the upper platform, wincing at the singular touch of steady
ground. Both legs tingled painfully, though likely not as
bad as Dwer felt. She got down on her knees and poked
his elbow.

"Hey, you all right? Need help gettin' up?"

Dwer's eyes glittered pain, but he shook his head. She
put an arm around his shoulder anyway as he struggled to
sit. No fresh blood oozed when they checked the crusty
dressing on his thigh wound.

The alien drone waited silently as the young man stood,
unsteadily.

"Maybe I can help you get across water," he told the
machine. "If I do, will you change the way you carry us?
Stop for breaks and help us find food? What d'you say?"

Another long pause—then a chirping note burst forth.
Rety had learned a little Galactic Two during her time as an
apprentice star child. She recognized the upward sliding
scale meaning yes.

Dwer nodded. "I can't guarantee my plan'll work. But
here's what I suggest."

It was actually simple, almost obvious, yet she looked at
Dwer differently after he emerged from the stream, drip-
ping from the armpits down. Before he was halfway out,
the robot edged aside from its perch above Diver's head. It
seemed to glide down the side of the young hunter's body
until reaching a point where its fields could grip solid
ground.

All the way across the river, Dwer looked as if he wore a
huge, eight-sided hat, wafting over his head like a balloon.
His eyes were glazed and his hair stood on end as Rety sat
him down.

"Hey!" She nudged him. "You all right?"

Dwer's gaze seemed fixed far away. After a few duras
though, he answered.

"Um ... I ... guess so."

She shook her head. Even Mudfoot and yee had ceased

In fIn i r u's Shore 81

their campaign of mutual deadly glares in order to stare at
the man from the Slope.

"That was so weird!" Rety commented. She could not
bring herself to say "brave," or "thrilling" or "insane."

He winced, as if messages from his bruised body were
just now reaching a dazed brain. "Yeah ... it was all that.
And more."

The robot chirruped again. Rety guessed that a triple
upsweep with a shrill note at the end meant—That's
enough resting. Let's gof

She helped Dwer onto a makeshift seat the robot made
by folding its arms. This time, when it resumed its south-
ward flight, the two humans rode in front with Mudfoot
and little yee, sharing body heat against the stiff wind.

Rety had heard of this region from those bragging hunt-
ers, Jass and Born. It was a low country, dotted with soggy
marshes and crisscrossed by many more streams ahead.

Alvin

I WOKE FEELING WOOZY, AND HIGH AS A CHIMP
that's been chewing ghigree leaves. But at least the agony
was gone..

The soft slab was still under me, though I could tell the
awkward brace of straps and metal tubes was gone. Turn-
ing my head, I spied a low table nearby. A shallow white
bowl held about a dozen familiar-looking shapes, vital to
hoon rituals of life and death.

Ifni! I thought. The monsters cut out my spine bones!

Then I reconsidered.

Wait. You're a kid. You've got two sets. In fact, isn't it
next year you're supposed to start losing your first . . .

I really was that slow to catch on. Pain and drugs can do
it to you.

Looking in the bowl again, I saw all my baby vertebrae.
Normally, they'd loosen over several months, as the barbed
•adult spines took over. The accident must have jammed
both sets together, pressing the nerves and hurrying nature

82 David B r i n

along. The phuvnthus must have decided to take out my
old verts, whether the new ones were ready or not.

Did they guess? Or were they already familiar with
hoons?

Take things one at a time, I thought. Can you feel your
toe hooks? Can you move them?

I sent signals to retract the claw sheaths, and sensed the
table's fabric resist as my talons dug in. So far so good.

I reached around with my left hand, and found a slick
bulge covering my spine, tough and elastic.

Words cut in. An uncannily smooth voice, in accented
Galactic Seven.

"The new orthopedic brace will actively help bear the
stress of your movements until your next-stage vertebroids
solidify. Nevertheless, you would be well advised not to
move in too sudden or jerky a manner."

The fixture wrapped all the way around my torso, feel-
ing snug and comfortable, unlike the makeshift contraption
the phuvnthus provided earlier.

"Please accept my thanks," I responded in formal Gal-
Seven, gingerly shifting onto one elbow, turning my head
the other way. "And my apologies for any inconvenience
this may have cause—"

I stopped short. Where I had expected to see a
phuvnthu, or one of the small amphibians, there stood a
whirling shape, ghostly, like the holographic projections
we had seen before, but ornately abstract. A spinning mesh
of complex lines floated near the bed.

"There was no inconvenience." The voice seemed to
emerge from the gyrating image. "We were curious about
matters taking place in the world of air and light. Your swift
arrival—plummeting into a sea canyon near our scout ves-
sel—seemed as fortuitous to us as our presence was for

you."

Even in a drugged state, I could savor multilevel irony in
the whirling thing's remarks. While being gracious, it was
also reminding me that the survivors of Wuphon's Dream
owed a debt—our very lives.

"True," I assented. "Though my friends and I might
never have fallen into the abyss if someone had not re-
moved the article we were sent to find in more shallow

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 83

waters. Our search beyond that place led us to stumble
over the cliff."

The pattern of shifting lines took a new slant of bluish,
twinkling light.

"You assert ownership over this thing you sought? As
your property?"

Now it was my turn to ponder, wary of a trap. By the
codes laid down in the Scrolls, the cache Uriel had sent us
after should not exist. It bent the spirit and letter of the law,
which said that sooner colonists on a forbidden world must
ease their crime by abandoning their godlike tools. It made
me glad to be speaking a formal dialect, forcing more care-
ful thought than I might have used in our local patois.

"I assert ... a right to inspect the item . . . and re-
serve an option to make further claims later."

Purple swirls invaded the spinning pattern, and I could
almost swear it seemed amused. Perhaps this strange entity
already had pursued the same line of questioning with my
pals. I may be articulate—Huck says no one can match me
in GalSeven—but I never claimed to be the brightest one in
our gang.

"The matter can be discussed another time," the voice
said. "After you tell us of your life, and recent events in the
upper world."

This triggered something in me ... call it the latent
trading instinct that lurks in any hoon. A keenness for the
fine art of dickering. Carefully, tenderly, I sat up, allowing
the supple back brace to take most of the strain.

"Hr-r-rm. You're asking us to give away the only thing
we have to barter—our story, and that of our ancestors.
What do you offer in exchange?"

The voice made a pretty good approximation of a rueful
hoonish rumble.

"Apologies. It did not occur to us that you would look at
it that way. Alas, you have already told us a great deal. We
will now return your information store. Please accept our
contrition over having accessed it without expressed per-
mission."

A door slid open and one of the little amphibian crea-
tures entered the cubicle, bearing in its four slim arms my
backpack!

84 David B r i n

Better yet, on top lay my precious journal, all battered
and bent, but still the item I most valued in the world. I
snatched up the book, flipping its dog-eared pages.

"Rest assured," the spinning pattern enounced. "Our
study of this document, while enlightening, has only whet-
ted our appetite for information. Your economic interests
are undiminished."

I thought about that. "You read my journal?"

"Again, apologies. It seemed prudent, when seeking to
understand your injuries, and the manner of your arrival in
this realm of heavy wet darkness."

Once again, the words seemed to come at me with lay-
ers of meaning and implications I could only begin to sift.
At the time, I only wanted to end the conversation as soon
as possible, and confer with Huck and the others before
going any further.

"I'd like to see my friends now," I told the whirling im-
age, switching to Anglic.

It seemed to quiver, as if with a nod.

"Very well. They have been informed to expect you.
Please follow the entity standing at the door."

The little amphibian attended while I set foot on the
floor, gingerly testing my weight. There were a few
twinges, just enough to help me settle best within the sup-
port of the flexible body cast. I gripped the journal, but
glanced back at my knapsack and the bowl of baby verte-
brae.

"These items will be safe here," promised the voice.

7 hope so, I thought. Mom and Dad will want them . . .
assuming that I ever see Mu-phauwq, and Yowg-wayuo
again . . . and especially if I don't.

"Thank you."

The speckled pattern whirled.

"It is my pleasure to serve."

Holding my journal tight, I followed the small being out
the door. When I glanced back at the bed, the spinning
projection was gone.

A

sx

HERE IT IS, AT LAST. THE IMAGE WE HAVE SOUGHT,
now cool enough to stroke.

Yes, my rings. It is time for another vote. Shall we
remain catatonic, rather than face what will almost cer-
tainly be a vision of pure horror?

Our first ring of cognition insists that duty must take
precedence, even over the natural traeki tendency to flee
unpleasant subjectivities.

Is it agreed? Shall we be Asx, and meet reality as it
comes? How do you rule, my rings?

stroke the wax. . . .

follow the tracks. . . .

see the mighty starship come. ...

Humming a song of overwhelming power, the monstrous
vessel descends, crushing every remaining tree on the
south side of the valley, shoving a dam across the river,
filling the horizon like a mountain.

Can you feel it, my rings? Premonition. Throbbing our
core with acrid vapors?

Along the starship's vast flank a hatch opens, large
enough to swallow a small village.

Against the lighted interior, silhouettes enter view.

Tapered cones.

Stacks of rings.

Frightful kin we had hoped never again to see.

s.

ara

SARA LOOKED BACK FONDLY AT LAST NIGHT'S WILD
ride, for now the horses sped up to a pace that made her
bottom feel like butter.

86   0 a v i d B r i n

And to think, as a child I wished I could gallop about
like characters in storybooks.

Whenever the pace slackened, she eyed the enigmatic
female riders who seemed so at home atop huge, mytho-
logical beasts. They called themselves Illias, and their lives
had been secret for a long time. But now haste compelled
them to travel openly.

Can it really be just to get Kurt the Exploser where he
wants to go?

Assuming his mission is vital, why does he want my
help? I'm a theoretical mathematician with a sideline in
linguistics. Even in math, I'm centuries out of date by
Earth standards. To Galactics I'd be just a clever shaman.

Losing altitude, the party began passing settlements—at
first urrish camps with buried workshops and sunken cor-
rals hidden from the glowering sky. But as the country
grew more lush, they skirted dams where blue qheuen
hives tended lake-bottom farms. Passing a riverside grove,
they found the "trees" were ingeniously folded masts of
hoonish fishing skiffs and khuta boats. Sara even glimpsed
a g'Kek weaver village where sturdy trunks supported
ramps, bridges, and swaying boardwalks for the clever
wheeled clan.

At first the settlements seemed deserted as the horses
sped by. But the chick coops were full, and the blur cano-
pies freshly patched. Midday isn't a favorite time to be
about, especially with sinister specters in the sky. Anyone
rousing from siesta glimpsed only vague galloping figures,
obscured by dust.

But attention was unavoidable later, when members of
all six races scurried from shelters, shouting as the corps of
beasts and riders rushed by. The grave Illias horsewomen
never answered, but Emerson and young Jomah waved at
astonished villagers, provoking some hesitant cheers. It
made Sara laugh, and she joined their antics, helping turn
the galloping procession into a kind of antic parade.

When the mounts seemed nearly spent, the guides veered
into a patch of forest where two more women waited,
dressed in suede, speaking that accent Sara found tantaliz-

Infinirii's Shore 87

ingly familiar. Hot food awaited the party—along with a
dozen fresh mounts.

Someone is a good organizer, Sara thought. She ate
standing up—a pungent vegetarian gruel. Walking helped
stretch kinked muscles.

The next stage went better. One of the Illias showed Sara
a trick of flexing in her stirrups to damp the jouncing
rhythm. Though grateful, Sara wondered.

Where have these people lived all this time?

Dedinger, the desert prophet, caught Sara's eye, eager to
discuss the mystery, but she turned away. The attraction of
his intellect wasn't worth suffering his character. She pre-
ferred spending her free moments with Emerson. Though
speechless, the wounded starman had a good soul.

Villages grew sparse south of the Great Marsh. But traeki
flourished there, from tall cultured stacks, famed for herbal
industry, all the way down to wild quintets, quartets, and
little trio ring piles, consuming decaying matter the way
their ancestors must have on a forgotten homeworld,
before some patron race set them on the Path of Up-
lift.

Sara daydreamed geometric arcs, distracting her mind
from the heat and tedium, entering a world of parabolas
and rippling wavelike forms, free of time and distance. By
the time she next looked up, dusk was falling and a broad
river flowed to their left, with faint lights glimmering on the
other bank.

"Traybold's Crossing." Dedinger peered at the settle-
ment, nestled under camouflage vines. "I do think the resi-
dents have finally done the right thing . . . even if it
inconveniences wayfarers like us."

The wiry rebel appeared pleased. Sara wondered.

Can he mean the bridge? Have local fanatics torn it
down, without orders from the sages?

Dwer, her well-traveled brother, had described the span
across the Gentt as a marvel of disguise, appearing like an
aimless jam of broken trees. But even that would not sat-
isfy fervent scroll thumpers these days.

Through twilight dimness she spied a forlorn skeleton of
charred logs, trailing from sandbar to sandbar.

88   D a v i d B r i n

Just like at Bing Hamlet, back home. What is it about a
bridge that attracts destroyers?

Anything sapient-made might be a target of zealotry,
these days.

The workshops, dams, and libraries may go. We'll/allow
glavers into blessed obscurity. Dedinger's heresy may prove
right, and Lark's prove wrong.

She sighed. Mine was always the unlikeliest of all.

Despite captivity, Dedinger seemed confident in ultimate
success for his cause.

"Now our young guides must spend days trying, to hire
boats. No more rushing about, postponing Judgment Day.
As if the explosers and their friends could ever have
changed destiny."

"Shut up," Kurt said.

"You know, I always thought your guild would be on
oyrside, when the time came to abandon vanities and take
redemption's path. Isn't it frustrating, preparing all your life
to blow up things, only to hold back at the crucial mo-
ment?"

Kurt looked away.

Sara expected the horsewomen to head to a nearby fish-
ing village. Hoonish coracles might be big enough to ferry
one horse at a time, though that slow process would ex-
pose the Illias to every gawking citizen within a dozen
leagues. Worse, Urunthai reinforcements, or Dedinger's
own die-hard supporters, might have time to catch up.

But to her surprise, the party left the river road, heading
west down a narrow track through dense undergrowth.
Two Illias dropped back, brushing away signs of their pas-
sage.

Could their settlement lie in this thicket?

But hunters and gleaners from several races surely went
browsing through this area. No secret horse clan could re-
main hidden for more than a hundred years!

Disoriented in a labyrinth of trees and jutting knolls, Sara
kept a wary eye on the rider in front of her. She did not
relish wandering' lost and alone in the dark.

Gaining altitude, the track finally crested to overlook a
cluster of evenly spaced hills—steep mounds surrounding

In f i n i r u's Shore 89

a depression filled with dense brush. From their symmetry,
Sara thought of Buyur ruins.

Then she forgot about archaeology when something else
caught her eye. A flicker to the west, beckoning from many
leagues away.

The mountain's wide shoulders cut a broad wedge of
stars.

Near its summit, curved streaks glowed red and orange.

Flowing lava.

Jijo's blood.

A volcano.

Sara blinked. Might they already have traveled to—

"No," she answered herself. "That's not Guenn. It's
Blaze Mountain!'

"If only that were our destination, Sara. Things'd be sim-
pler." Kurt spoke from nearby. "Alas, the smiths of Blaze
Peak are conservative. They want no part of the hobbies
and pastimes that are practiced where we're headin'."

Hobbies? Pastimes? Was Kurt trying to baffle her with
riddles?

"You can't still reckon we're going all the way to—"

"To the other great forge? Aye, Sara. We'll make it, don't
fret."

"But the bridge is out! Then there's desert, and after that,
the Spec . . ."

She trailed off as the troop turned downward, into the
thorn brake between the hills. Three times, riders dis-
mounted to shift clever barriers that looked like boulders
or tree trunks. At last, they reached a small clearing where
the guides met and embraced another group of leather-
clad women. There was a campfire . . . and the welcome
aroma of food.

Despite a hard day, Sara managed to unsaddle her own
mount and brush the tired beast. She ate standing, doubtful
she would ever sit again.

/ should check Emerson. Make sure he takes his medi-
cine. He may need a story or a song to settle down after all
this.

A small figure slipped alongside, chuffing nervously.

No—Go—Hole— Prity motioned with agile hands.
Scary—Hole.

r

90   0 a v i d B r i n

Sara frowned.

"What hole are you talking about?"

The chimp took Sara's hand, pulling her toward several
Illias, who were shifting baggage to a squat, boxy object.

A wagon, Sara realized. A big one, with four wheels,
instead of the usual two. Fresh horses were harnessed, but
to haul it where? Surely not through the surrounding

thicket!

Then Sara saw what "hole" Prity meant—gaping at the
base of a cone hill. An aperture with smooth walls and a
flat floor. A thin glowing stripe ran along the tunnel's cen-
ter, continuing downhill before turning out of sight.

Jomah and Kurt were already aboard the big wagon,
with Dedinger strapped in behind, a stunned expression
on his aristocratic face.

For once Sara agreed with the heretic sage.

Emerson stood at the shaft entrance and whooped, like a
small boy exploring a cave first with his own echoes. The
starman grinned, happier than ever, and reached for her
hand. Sara took his while inhaling deeply.

Well, I bet Dwer and Lark never went anywhere like this.
I may yet be the one with the best story to tell.

I FOUND MY FMENDS IN A DIM CHAMBER WHERE
frigid fog blurred every outline. Even hobbling with
crutches, my awkward footsteps made hardly a sound as I
approached the silhouettes of Huck and Ur-ronn, with little
Huphu curled on Pincer's carapace. All faced the other
way, looking downward into a soft glow.

"Hey, what's going on?" I asked. "Is this any way to

greet—"

One of Huck's eyestalks swerved on me.
"We're-glad-'to-see-you're-all-right-but-now-shut-up-

and-get-over-here."
Few other citizens of the Slope could squeeze all that

InfiniriJ's Shore 91

into a single GalThree word-blat. Not that skill excused her
rudeness.

"Hr-rm. The-same-to-you-I'm-sure, oh-obsessed-being-
too-transfaxed-to-qffer-decent-courtesy," I replied in kind.

Shuffling forward, I noted how my companions were
transformed. Ur-ronn's pelt gleamed, Huck's wheels were
realigned, and Pincer's carapace had been patched
and buffed smooth. Even Huphu seemed sleek and con-
tent.

"What is it?" I began. "What're you all staring . . ."

My voice trailed off when I saw where they stood—on a
balcony without a rail, overlooking the source of both the
pale glow and the chill haze. A cube—two hoon lengths
on a side, colored a pale shade of brownish yellow—lay
swathed in a fog of its own making, unadorned except by
a symbol embossed on one face. A spiral emblem with five
swirling arms and a bulbous center, all crossed by a gleam-
ing vertical bar.

Despite how far the people of the Slope have fallen, or
how long it's been since our ancestors roamed as star gods,
that emblem is known to every grub and child. Inscribed
on each copy of the Sacred Scrolls, it evokes awe when
prophets and sages speak of lost wonders. On this frosted
obelisk it could only mean one thing—that we stood near
more knowledge than anyone on Jijo could tally, or begin
to imagine. If the human crew of sneakship Tabernacle
had kept printing paper books till this very day, they could
have spilled only a small fragment of the trove before us, a
hoard that began before many stars in the sky.

The Great Library of the Civilization of the Five Galax-
ies.

I'm told moments like these can inspire eloquence from
great minds.

"J-j-jeez," commented Pincer.

Ur-ronn was less concise.

"The questions . . . ," she lisped. "The questions we
could ask ..."

I nudged Huck.

92 David B r i n

"Well, you said you wanted to go find something to
read."

For the first time in all the years I've known her, our little
wheeled friend seemed at a loss for words. Her stalks trem-
bled. The only sound she let out was a gentle keening sigh.

y\sx

If only we/i had nimble running feet,

i/we would use them now, to flee.
If we/i had burrowers' claws,

i/we would dig a bole and hide.
If we/i had the wings,

i/we would fly away.

Lacking those useful skills, the member toruses of our
composite stack nearly vote to draw permanently, sealing
out the world, negating the objective universe, waiting for
the intolerable to go away.

It will not go away.

So reminds our second torus of cognition.

Among the greasy trails of wisdom that coat our aged
core, many were laid down after reading learned books, or
holding lengthy discussions with other sages. These tracks
of philosophical wax agree with our second ring. As diffi-
cult as it may be for a traeki to accept, the cosmos does not
vanish when we turn within. Logic and science appear to
prove otherwise.

The universe goes on. Things that matter keep happen-
ing, one after another.

Still, it is hard to swivel our trembling sensor rings to
face toward the mountain dreadnought that recently low-
ered itself down from heaven, whose bulk seems to fill
both valley and sky.

Harder to gaze through a hatchway in the great ship's

Infinifii's Shore 93

flank—an aperture broad as the largest building in Tarek
Town.

Hardest to regard the worst of all possible sights—those
cousins that we traeki fled long ago.

Terrible and strong—the mighty Jophur.

How gorgeous they seem, those glistening sap rings, sway-
ing in their backlit portal, staring without pity at the
wounded glade their vessel alters with its crushing weight.
A glade thronging with half-animal felons, a miscegenous
rabble, the crude descendants of fugitives.

Exiles who futilely thought they might elude the inelud-
able.

Our fellow Commons citizens mutter fearfully, still awed
by the rout of the smaller Rothen ship—that power we had
held in dread for months—now pressed down and en-
cased in deadly light.

Yes, my rings, i/we can sense how some nearby Sixers—
the quick and prudent—take to their heels, retreating even
before the landing tremors fade. Others foolishly mill
toward the giant vessel, driven by curiosity, or awe. Per-
haps they have trouble reconciling the shapes they see
with any sense of danger.

As harmless as a traeki, so the expression goes. After all,
what menace can there be in tapered stacks of fatty rings?

Oh, my/our poor innocent neighbors. You are about to
find out.

i^arl

THAT NIGHT HE DREAMED ABOUT THE LAST TIME HE
saw Ling smile—before her world and his forever
changed.

It seemed long ago, during a moonlit pilgrimage that
crept proudly past volcanic vents and sheer cliffs, bearing
shared hope and reverence toward the Holy Egg. Twelve
twelves of white-clad celebrants made up that proces-

94 David B r i n

sion—qheuens and g'Keks, traekis and urs, humans and
hoons—climbing a hidden trail to their sacred site. And
accompanying them for the first time, guests from outer
space—a Rothen master, two Danik humans, and their
robot guards—attending to witness the unity rites of a

quaint savage tribe.

He dreamed about that pilgrimage in its last peaceful
moment, before the fellowship was splintered by alien
words and fanatical deeds. Especially the smile on her face,
when she told him joyous news.

"Ships are coming, Lark. So many ships!
"It's time to bring you all back home."

Two words still throbbed like sparks in the night. Rhythmi-
cally hotter as he reached for them in his sleep.

. . . ships ...

. . . home ...

. . . ships . . .

. . . home ...

One word vanished at his dream touch—he could not
tell which. The other he clenched hard, its flamelike glow
increasing. Strange light, pushing free of containment. It
streamed past flesh, past bones. A glow that clarified, offer-
ing to show him everything.

Everything except . . .

Except now shewas gone. Taken away by the word that

vanished.

Pain wrenched Lark from the lonely night phantasm, tan-
gled in a sweaty blanket. His trembling right hand
clenched hard against his chest, erupting with waves of

agony.

Lark exhaled a long sigh as he used his left hand to pry
open the fingers of his right, forcing them apart one by
one. Something rolled off his open palm—

It was the stofle fragment of the Holy Egg, the one he
had hammered from it as a rebellious child, and worn ever
since as penance. Even as sleep unraveled, he imagined

n f i n I r i| 's Shore 95

the rocky talisman throbbing with heat, pulsing in time to
the beating of his heart.

Lark stared at the blur-cloth canopy, with moonlight
glimmering beyond.

/ remain in darkness, on Jijo, he thought, yearning to
see once more by the radiance that had filled his dream. A
light that seemed about to reveal distant vistas.

Ling spoke to him later that day, when their lunch trays
were slipped into the tent by a nervous militiaman.

"Look, this is stupid," she said. "Each of us acting like
the other is some kind of devil spawn. We don't have time
for grudges, with your people and mine on a tragic colli-
sion course."

Lark had been thinking much the same thing, though her
sullen funk had seemed too wide to broach. Now Ling met
his eyes frankly, as if anxious to make up for lost time.

"I'd say a collision's already happened," he commented.

Her lips pressed a thin line. She nodded.

"True. But it's wrong to blame your entire Commons for
the deeds of a minority, acting without authority or—"

He barked a bitter laugh. "Even when you're trying to be
sincere, you still condescend, Ling."

She stared for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Your
sages effectively sanctioned the zealots' attack, post facto,
by keeping us prisoner and threatening blackmail. It's fair
to say that we're already—"

"At war. True, dear ex-employer. But you leave out our
own casus belli." Lark knew the grammar must be wrong,
but he liked showing that even a savage could also drop a
Latin phrase. "We're fighting for our lives. And now we
know genocide was the Rothen aim from the start."

Ling glanced past him to where a g'Kek doctor drew
increasing amounts of nauseating fluid from the air vents of
a qheuen, squatting unconscious at the back of the shelter.
She had worked alongside Uthen for months, evaluating
local species for possible uplift. The gray's illness was no
abstraction.

"Believe me, Lark. I know nothing of this disease. Nor

96   0 a v i d B r I n

the trick Ro-kenn allegedly pulled, trying to broadcast psi-
influentials via your Egg."

"Allegedly? You suggest we might have the technology
to pull off something like that, as a frame-up?"

Ling sighed, "I don't dismiss the idea entirely. From the
start you Jijoans played on our preconceptions. Our will-
ingness to see you as ignorant barbarians. It took weeks to
learn that you were still literate! Only lately did we realize
you must have hundreds of books, maybe thousands!"

An ironic smile crossed his face, before Lark realized
how much the expression revealed.

"More than that? A lot more?" Ling stared. "But where?
By Von Daniken's beard—how?"

Lark put aside his meal, mostly uneaten. He reached
over to his backpack and drew forth a thick volume bound
in leather. "I can't count how many times I wanted to show
you this. Now I guess it doesn't matter anymore."

In a gesture Lark appreciated, Ling wiped her hands be-
fore accepting the book, turning the pages with deliberate
care. What seemed reverence at first, Lark soon realized
was inexperience. Ling had little practice holding paper

books.

Probably never saw one before, outside a museum.
Rows of small type were punctuated by lithographed
illustrations. Ling exclaimed over the flat, unmoving im-
ages. Many of the species shown had passed through the
Danik research pavilion during the months she and Lark
worked side by side, seeking animals with the special traits

her Rothen masters desired.

"How old is this text? Did you find it here, among all
these remnants?" Ling motioned toward a stack of artifacts
preserved by the mule spider, relics of the long-departed
Buyur, sealed in amber cocoons.

Lark groaned. "You're still doing it, Ling. For Ifni's sake!
The book is written in Anglic."

She nodded vigorously. "Of course. You're right. But

then who—"

Lark reached over and flipped the volume to its title

page.

Infinifu's Shore 97

fl PHVLOGENEIIC INTERDEPENDENCE PROFILE
OF ECOLOGICRL SYSTEMS ON THE JIJOflN SLOPE

"This is part one. Part two is still mostly notes. I doubt
we'd have lived long enough to finish volume three, so we
left the deserts, seas, and tundras for someone else to take
on."

Ling gaped at the sheet of linen paper, stroking two lines
of smaller print, below the title. She looked at him, then
over toward the dying qheuen.

"That's right," he said. "You're living in the same tent
with both authors. And since I'm presenting you with this
copy, you have a rare opportunity. Care to have both of us
autograph it? I expect you're the last person who'll get the
chance."

His bitter sarcasm was wasted. Clearly she didn't under-
stand the word autograph. Anyway, Ling the biologist had
replaced the patronizing alien invader. Turning pages, she
murmured over each chapter she skimmed.

"This would have been incredibly useful during our sur-
vey!"

"That's why I never showed it to you."

Ling answered with a curt nod. Given their disagreement
over the rightness of gene raiding, his attitude was under-
standable.

Finally, she closed the volume, stroking'the cover. "I am
honored by this gift. This accomplishment. I find I cannot
grasp what it must have taken to create it, under these
conditions, just the two of you. ..."

"With the help of others, and standing on the shoulders
of those who came before. It's how science works. Each
generation's supposed to get better, adding to what earlier
ones knew. . . ."

His voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying.

Progress? But that's Sara's apostasy, not mine!

Anyway, why am I so bitter? So what if alien diseases
wipe out every sapient being onJijo? Weren't you willing to
see that as a blessing, a while ago? Didn't it seem an ideal
way to swiftly end our illegal colony? A harmful invasion
that should never have existed in the first place?

98 David B r i n

Over the course of Uthen's illness, Lark came to realize
something—that death can sometimes seem desirable in
abstract, but look quite different when it's in your path, up
close and personal.

If Harullen the Heretic had lived, that purist might have
helped Lark cling to his belief in Galactic law, which for
good reason forbade settlements on fallow worlds. It was
our goal to atone for our ancestors' egotistical sin. To help
ridJijo of the infestation.

But Harullen was gone, sliced to bits by a Rothen robot,
and now Lark grappled with doubts.

I'd rather Sara were right. If only I could see nobility
here. Something worth enduring. Worth fighting for.

I don't really want to die.

Ling pored through the guidebook again. Better than
most, she could appreciate the work he and Uthen spent
their adult lives creating. Her professional esteem helped
bridge the chasm of their personalities.

"I wish I had something of equal value to give you," she
said, meeting his eyes again.

Lark pondered.

"You really mean that?"

"Of course I do."

"All right then, wait here. I'll be right back."

At the rear of the shelter, the g'Kek physician indicated
with twined eyestalks that Uthen's condition was unvaried.
Good news, since each change till now had been for the
worse. Lark stroked his friend's chitin carapace, wishing he
could impart comfort through the gray's stupor.

"Is it my fault you caught this bug, old friend? I made
you go with me into the station wreckage, rummaging for
alien secrets." He sighed. "I can't make up for that. But
what's in your bag may help others."

He lifted Uthen's private satchel and took it back to Ling.
Reaching inside, he felt several slablike objects, cool to the
touch.

"Earlier, we found something that you might help me
learn to read. If you meant your promise."

He put one of the flat lozenges in her hand—pale brown
and smooth as glass, with a spiral shape etched on each
face.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 99

Ling stared at it for several duras. When she looked up,
there was something new in her countenance. Was it re-
spect for the way he had cornered, her? Trapping her with
the one other trait they shared—a compelling sense of
honor?

For the first time since they met, Ling's eyes seemed to
concede that she was dealing with an equal.

A

sx

CALM DOWN, MY RINGS. NO ONE CAN FORCE YOU
to stroke wax against your will.

As traeki we are each of us sovereign, free not to
recall intolerable memories before we are ready.

Let the wax cool a little longer—a majority of rings de-
mands—before we dare look again.

Let the most recent terror wait.

But our second cognition ring demurs. It insists—we/i
should delay no longer confronting the dread news about
Jophur, our terrible cousins, arriving on Jijo.

Our second ring of cognition reminds us of the Quan-
dary of Solipsism—the riddle that provoked our traeki
founders to flee the Five Galaxies.

Solipsism. The myth of the all-important self.

Most mortal sapient beings hold this conceit, at one level
or another. An individual can perceive others by sight,
touch, and empathy, yet still reckon them as mere figments
or automatons. Caricatures, of little importance.

Under solipsism, the world exists for each solitary indi-
vidualist.

Examined dispassionately, it seems an insane con-
cept. Especially to a traeki, since none of us can thrive or
think alone. Yet egotism can also be useful to ambitious
creatures, driving their single-minded pursuit of suc-
cess.

Madness seems essential in order to be "great."

100 avid B r i n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 101

Terran sages knew this paradox from their long isolation.
Ignorant and lonely, humans wallowed in one bizarre su-
perstition after another, frantically trying concepts that no
uplifted species would consider for even a dura. According
to wolfling tales, humans wrestled endlessly with their own
overpowering egos.

Some tried suppressing selfness, seeking detachment.
Others subsumed personal ambition in favor of a greater
whole—family, religion, or a leader.

Later they passed through a phase in which individual-
ism was extolled as the highest virtue, teaching their young
to inflate the ego beyond all natural limits or restraint.
Works from this mad era of the self are found in the Biblos
Archive, with righteous, preening rage flowing across ev-
ery page.

Finally, just before contact, there emerged another ap-
proach.

Some of their texts use the word maturity.

We traeki—newly uplifted from the pensive swamps of our
homeworld—seemed safe from achieving greatness, no
matter how many skills our patrons, the blessed Poa, in-
serted in our rings. Oh, we found it pleasant to merge in
tall, wise stacks. To gather learned wax and travel the stars.
But to our patrons' frustration, we never found appeal-
ing the fractious rivalries that churn the Five Galaxies.
Frantic aspiration and zeal always seemed pointless to our
kind.

Then the Poa brought in experts. The Oailie.
The Oailie pitied our handicap. With great skill, they
gave us tools for achievement. For greatness.
The Oailie gave us new rings—
Rings of power.
Rings of self-centered glory.
Rings that turned mere traeki into Jophur.
Too late, we and the Poa learned a lesson—that ambi-
tion comes at a cost.

We fled, did we not, my rings?

By a fluke, some traeki managed to shuck these Oailie
"gifts," and escape.

Only a few wax-crystal remembrance cells survive from
those days. Memories laced with dread of what we were
becoming.

At the time, our ancestors saw no choice but flight.

And yet ... a pang of conscience trickles through our
inner core.

Might there have been another way?

Might we have stayed and fought somehow to tame
those awesome new rings? Futile as our forebears' exodus
now seems . . . was it also wrong'

Since joining the High Sages, this traeki Asx has pored
over Terran books, studying their lonely, epochal strug-
gle—a poignant campaign to control their own deeply so-
lipsistic natures. A labor still under way when they
emerged from Earth's cradle to make contact with Galactic
civilization.

The results of that Asx investigation remain inconclusive,
yet i/we found tantalizing clues.

The fundamental ingredient, it seems, is courage.

Yes, my rings?

Very well then. A majority has been persuaded by the
second ring of cognition.

We/i shall once again turn to the hot-new-dreadful
waxy trail of recent memory.

Glistening cones stared down at the confused onlookers
who remained, milling on the despoiled glade. From a bal-
cony high a-flank the mountain ship, polished stacks of
fatty rings dripped luxuriously as they regarded teeming
savages below—we enthralled members of six exile races.

Shifting colors play across their plump toruses—shades
of rapid disputation. Even at a great distance, i/we sense
controversy raging among the mighty Jophur, as they quar-
rel among themselves. Debating our fate.

102 David B r I n

Events interrupt, even as our dribbling thought-streams
converge.

Near.

At last we have come very near the recent. The present.

Can you sense it, my rings? The moment when our
dreadful cousins finished arguing what to do about us?
Amid the flashing rancor of their debate, there suddenly
appeared forceful decisiveness. Those in command—pow-
erful ring stacks whose authority is paramount—made their
decree with stunning confidence.

Such assuredness! Such certainty! It washed over us,
even from six arrowflights away.

Then something else poured from the mighty dread-
nought.

Hatchet blades of infernal light.

merson

HE HAS NEVER BEEN ESPECIALLY FOND OF HOLES.
This one both frightens and intrigues Emerson.
It is a strange journey, riding a wooden wagon behind
a four-horse team, creaking along a conduit with dimpled
walls, like some endless stretched intestine. The only illu-
mination—a faintly glowing stripe—points straight ahead
and behind, toward opposite horizons.

The duality feels like a sermon. After departing the hid-
den forest entrance, time became vague—the past blurry
and the future obscure. Much like his life has been ever
since regaining consciousness on this savage world, with a
cavity in his head and a million dark spaces where memory
should be.

Emerson can feel this place tugging associations deep
within his battered skull. Correlations that scratch and howl
beyond the barriers of his amnesia. Dire recollections lurk
just out of reach. Alarming memories of abject, gibbering
terror, that snap. and sting whenever he seeks to retrieve
them.

Almost as if, somehow, they were being guarded.

I 11 f i n i r 11 ' s Shore  103

Strangely, this does not deter him from prodding at the
barricades. He has spent much too long in the company of
pain to hold it in awe any longer. Familiar with its quirks
and ways, Emerson figures he now knows pain as well as
he knows himself.

Better, in fact.

Like a quarry who turns at bay after growing bored with
running—and then begins hunting its pursuer—Emerson
eagerly stalks the fear scent, following it to its source.

The feeling is not shared. Though the draft beasts pant
and their hooves clatter, all echoes feel muffled, almost
deathlike. His fellow travelers react by hunching nervously
on the narrow bench seats, their breath misting the chill
air.

Kurt the Exploser seems a little less surprised by all this
than Sara or Dedinger, as if the old man long suspected the
existence of a subterranean path. Yet, his white-rimmed
eyes keep darting, as if to catch dreaded movement in the
surrounding shadows. Even their guides, the taciturn
women riders, appear uneasy. They must have come this
way before, yet Emerson can tell they dislike the tunnel.

Tunnel.

He mouths the word, adding it proudly to his list of
recovered nouns.

Tunnel.

Once upon a time, the term meant more than a mere
hole in the ground, when his job was fine-tuning mighty
engines that roamed the speckled black of space. Back
then it stood for ...

No more words come to mind. Even images fail him,
though oddly enough, equations stream from some portion
of his brain less damaged than the speech center. Equa-
tions that explain tunnels, in a chaste, sterile way—the sort
of multidimensional tubes that thread past treacherous
shoals of hyperspace. Alas, to his disappointment, the for-
mulas lack any power to yank memories to life.

They do not carry the telltale spoor of fear.

104 David B f i n

Also undamaged is his unfailing sense of direction. Emer-
son knows when the smooth-walled passage must be pass-
ing under the broad river, but no seepage is seen. The
tunnel is a solid piece of Galactic workmanship, built to
last for centuries or eons—until the assigned time for dis-
mantling.

That time came to this world long ago. This place should
have vanished along with all the great cities, back when
Jijo was lain fallow. By some oversight, it was missed by
the great destroyer machines and living acid lakes.

Now desperate fugitives use the ancient causeway to
evade a hostile sky, suddenly filled with ships.

While still vague on details, Emerson knows he has been
fleeing starships for a very long time, along with Gillian,
Hannes, Tsh 't, and the crew of Streaker.

Faces flicker, accompanying each name as recall agony
makes him grunt and squeeze his eyelids. Faces Emerson
pines for . . . and desperately hopes never to see again.
He knows he must have been sacrificed somehow, to help

the others get away.

Did the plan succeed? Did Streaker escape ahead of
those awful dreadnoughts? Or has he suffered all of this for
nothing?

His companions breathe heavily and perspire. They seem
taxed by the stale air, but to Emerson it is just another kind
of atmosphere. He has inhaled many types over the years.
At least this stuff nourishes the lungs . . .

. . . unlike the wind back on the green-green world,
where a balmy day could kill you if your helmet

failed. ...

And his helmet did fail, he now recalls, at the worst

possible time, while trying to cross a mat of sucking demi-
veg, running frantically toward—

Sara and Prity gasp aloud, snapping his mental thread,
making him look up to see what changed.

At a brisk pace the wagon enters a sudden widening of
the tunnel, like the bulge where a snake digests its meal.
Dimpled walls recede amid deep shadows, where dozens
of large objects dimly lurk—tubelike vehicles, corroded by

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 105

time. Some have been crushed by rock falls. Piles of stony
debris block other exits from the underground vault.

Emerson lifts a hand to stroke a filmy creature riding his
forehead, as lightly as a scarf or veil. The rewq trembles at
his touch, swarming down to lay its filmy, translucent
membrane over his eyes. Some colors dim, while others
intensify. The ancient transit cars seem to shimmer like
specters, as if he is looking at them not through space, but
time. It is almost possible to imagine them in motion, filled
with vital energies, hurtling through a network that once
girdled a living, global civilization.

The horsewomen sitting on the foremost bench clutch
their reins and peer straight ahead, enclosed by a nimbus
of tension made visible by the rewq. The film shows Emer-
son their edgy, superstitious awe. To them, this is no harm-
less crypt for dusty relics, but a macabre place where
phantoms prowl. Ghosts from an age of gods.

The creature on his brow intrigues Emerson. How does
the little parasite translate emotions—even between beings
as different as human and traeki—and all without words?
Anyone who brought such a treasure to Earth would be
richly rewarded.

To his right, he observes Sara comforting her chimpan-
zee aide, holding Prity in her arms. The little ape cringes
from the dark; echoless cavern, but the rewq's overlaid
colors betray a fringe of deceit in Prity's distress. It is partly
an act! A way to distract her mistress, diverting Sara from
her own claustrophobic fears.

Emerson smiles knowingly. The hues surrounding Sara
reveal what the unaided eye already knows—that the
young woman thrives on being needed.
"It's all right, Prity," she soothes. "Shh. It'll be all right."
The phrases are so simple, so familiar that Emerson un-
derstands them. He used to hear the same words while
thrashing in his delirium, during those murky days after the
crash, when Sara's tender care helped pull him back from
that pit of dark fire.

The vast chamber stretches on, with just the glowing
stripe to keep them from drifting off course. Emerson
glances back to see young Jomah, seated on the last bench
with his cap a twisted mass between his hands, while his

106   0 a v iid  B r i n

uncle Kurt tries to explain something in hushed tones, mo-
tioning at the distant ceiling and walls—perhaps speculat-
ing what held them up ... or what explosive force it
would take to bring them crashing down. Nearby, with
fastened hands and feet, the rebel, Dedinger, projects pure
hatred of this place.

Emerson snorts annoyance with his companions. What a
gloomy bunch! He has been in spots infinitely more dis-
turbing than this harmless tomb . . . some of them he can
even remember! If there is one sure truth he can recall from
his former life, it is that a cheerful journey goes much
faster, whether you are in deep space or the threshold of
hell.

From a bag at his feet, he pulls out the midget dulcimer
Ariana Foo had given him back at the Biblos Archive, that
ornate hall of endless corridors stacked high with paper
books. Not bothering with the hammers, he lays the instru-
ment on his lap and plucks a few strings. Twanging notes
jar the others from their anxious mutterings to look his
way.

Though Emerson's ravaged brain lacks speech, he has
learned ways to nudge and cajole. Music comes from a
different place than speech, as does song.

Free association sifts the shadowy files of memory. Early
drawers and closets, undammed by the traumas of later
life. From some cache he finds a tune about travel down
another narrow road. One with a prospect of hope at the
end of the line.

It spills forth without volition, as a whole, flowing to a
voice that's unpracticed, but strong.

"I've got a mule, her name is Sal,
Fifteen miles down the Erie Canal.
She's a good old worker and a good

old pal,
Fifteen miles down the Erie Canal.

We've hauled some cargo in our day,
Filled with lumber, coal, and hay,
And we know every inch of the way,
From Albany to Buffalo-o-o. ..."

Infinilii's Shore 107

Amid the shadows, they are not easily coaxed from their
worries. He too can feel the weight of rock above, and so
many years. But Emerson refuses to be oppressed. He
sings louder, and soon Jomah's voice joins the refrain, fol-
lowed tentatively by Sara's. The horses' ears flick. They
nicker, speeding to a canter.

The subterranean switching yard narrows again, walls
converging with a rush. Ahead, the glowing line plunges
into a resuming tunnel.

Emerson's voice briefly falters as a flicker of memory
intrudes. Suddenly he can recall another abrupt plunge
. . . diving through a portal that opened into jet vacuum
blankness . . . then falling as the universe converged on
him from all sides to squeeze. . . .

And something else.

A row of pale blue eyes.

Old Ones . . .

But the song has a life of its own. Its momentum
pours unstoppably from some cheerful corner of his mind,
overcoming those brief, awful images, making him call
out the next verse with a vigor of hoarse, throaty de-
fiance.

"Low bridge, everybody down!
Low bridge! 'Cause we're comin' to a
town.

And you 'II always know your neighbor,
Always know your pal,
If you ever navigate along the Erie Ca-
nal."

His companions lean away from the rushing walls. Their
shoulders press together as the hole sweeps up to swallow
them again.

PORT THREE

in

L -•>!»?^3^

fat

ONCE A LENGTHY EPISODE of colonisation
hnally comes to an end/ subduction recycling
Is among the more commonly used methods
tor clearing waste products on a llle world.
Where natural cycles ot plate tectonics pro-
vide a powerful indrawing torce/ the planets
own hot convection processes can melt and
remix elements that had been rashioned into
tools and civilised implements. /Vlaterials that
might otherwise prove poisonous or intrusive
to new-rising species are thus removed irom
the (allow environment/ as a world eases into
the necessary dormant phase.

Vvhat happens to these reiined materi-
als/ alter they have been drawn in/ depends
on mantle processes peculiar to each planet.
L^ertain convection systems turn the molten
substance into high-purity ores. borne become
lubricated by water seeps/ stimulating the re-
lease or great liquid magma spills, /et another
result can be sudden expulsions o( volcanic
dust/ which bridly coat the planet and can
later be traced in the relractory-metal enrich-
ment ot thin sedimentary layers.

bach 01 these outcomes can result in
perturbations ot the local biosphere/ and oc-

r

casional episodes of extinction. However/ the resulting enrichment
fccunJity usually proves benehcial enough to compensate/ encourag-
ing development ot new presapient species. . . .

from A. Oalactograpfuc Tutorial for Ignorant Voiding Tsrrans, a. spe-
cial publication of the Library Institute o( the Five Galaxies/ year 42
EC/ in partial satisfaction of the debt obligation ot 35 t,C

H

annes

SUESSI FELT NOSTALGIC ABOUT BEING HUMAN. NOW
and then, he even wished he were still a man.
Not that he was ungrateful for the boon the Old Ones
had granted him, in that strange place called the Fractal
System, where aloof beings transformed his aged, failing
body into something more durable. Without their gift, he
would be stone dead—as cold as the giant corpses sur-
rounding him in this dark ossuary of ships.

The ancient vessels seemed peaceful, in dignified re-
pose. It was tempting to contemplate resting, letting eons
pass without further care or strife.

But Suessi was much too busy to spare time for being
dead.

"Hannes," a voice crackled directly to his auditory nerve.

"Two minutes, Hannes. Then I think-k we'll be ready to
resume cut-t-ting."

Shafts of brilliant illumination speared through the wa-
tery blackness, casting bright ovals toward one curved hull

David B r i n

112

I XJX       M w  -  . _

segment of the Terran starship Streaker. Distorted silhou-
ettes crisscrossed the spotlight beams—the long undulating
shadows of workers clad in pressurized armor, their move-
ments slow, cautious.

This was a more dangerous realm than hard vacuum.

Suessi did not have a larynx anymore, or lungs to blow
air past one if he had. Yet he retained a voice.

"Standing by, Karkaett," he transmitted, then listened as

his words were rendered into groaning saser pulses.
"Please keep the alignment steady. Don't overshoot."

One shadow among many turned toward him. Though
cased in hard sheathing, the dolphin's tail performed a
twist turn with clear body-language meaning.

Trust me . . . do you have any choice?

Suessi laughed—a shuddering of his titanium rib cage
that replaced the old, ape-style method of syncopated
gasps. It wasn't as satisfying, but then, the Old Ones did

not seem to have much use for laughter.

Karkaett guided his team through final preparations
while Suessi monitored. Unlike some others in Streaker's
crew, the engineering staff had grown more seasoned and
confident with each passing year. In time, they might no
longer need the encouragement—the supervising crutch—
of a member of the patron race. When that day came, Han-

nes would be content to die.

I've seen too much. Lost too many friends. Someday,

we'll be captured by one of the eatee factions pursuing us.
Or else, we'll finally get a chance to turn ourselves in to
some great Institute, only to learn Earth was lost while we
fled helter-skelter across the universe. Either way, I don't

want to be around to see it.

The Old Ones can keep their Ifni-cursed, immortality.

Suessi admired the way his well-trained team worked,
setting up a specially designed cutting machine with cau-
tious deliberation. His audio pickups tracked low mutter-
ings—keeneenk chants, designed to help cetacean minds
concentrate on explicit thoughts and tasks that their ances-
tral brains were never meant to take on. Engineering
thoughts—the kind that some dolphin philosophers called

the most painful price of uplift.

These surroundings did not help—a mountainous grave-

1 n f i n i r u ' s Shore 113

yard of long-dead starcraft, a ghostly clutter, buried in the
kind of ocean chasm that dolphins traditionally associated
with their most cryptic cults and mysteries. The dense wa-
ter seemed to amplify each rattle of a tool. Every whir of a
harness arm resonated queerly in the dense liquid environ-
ment.

Anglic might be the language of engineers, but dolphins
preferred Trinary for punctuation—for moments of resolu-
tion and action. Karkaett's voice conveyed confidence in a
burst phrase of cetacean haiku.

* Through total darkness

* Where the cycloid's gyre comes never . . .
* Behold—decisiveness! f

The cutting tool lashed out, playing harsh fire toward the
vessel that was their home and refuge . . . that had car-
ried them through terrors unimaginable. Streaker's hull—
purchased by the Terragens Council from a third-hand ship
dealer and converted for survey work—had been the pride
of impoverished Earthclan, the first craft to set forth with a
dolphin captain and mostly cetacean crew, on a mission to
check the veracity of the billion-year-old Great Library of
the Civilization of the Five Galaxies.

Now the captain was gone, along with a quarter of the
crew. Their mission had turned into a calamity for both
Earthclan and the Five Galaxies. As for Streaker's hull—
once so shiny, despite her age—it now lay coated by a
mantle of material so black the abyssal waters seemed
clear by comparison. A substance that drank photons and
weighed the ship down.

Oh, the things we've put you through, dear thing.
This was but the latest trial for their poor ship.

Once, bizarre fields stroked her in a galactic tide pool
called the Shallow Cluster, where they "struck it rich" by
happening upon a vast derelict fleet containing mysteries
untouched for a thousand eons. In other words, where
everything first started going wrong.

114 David B r i n

Savage beams rocked her at the Morgran nexus point,
where a deadly surprise ambush, barely failed to snare
Streaker and her unsuspecting crew.

Making repairs on poisonous Kithrup, they ducked out al-
most too late, escaping mobs of bickering warships only by
disguising Streaker inside a hollowed-out Thennanin
cruiser, making it to a transfer point, though at the cost of
abandoning many friends.

Oakka, the green world, seemed an ideal goal after that—a
sector headquarters for the Institute of Navigation. Who
was better qualified to take over custody of their data? As
Gillian Baskin explained at the time, it was their duty as
Galactic citizens to turn the problem over to the great insti-
tutes—those august agencies whose impartial lords might
take the awful burden away from Streaker's tired crew. It
seemed logical enough—and nearly spelled their doom.
Betrayal by agents of that "neutral" agency showed how
far civilization had fallen in turmoil. Gillian's hunch saved
the Earthling company—that and a daring cross-country
raid by Emerson D'Anite, taking the conspirators' base
from behind.

Again, Streaker emerged chastened and worse for wear.

There was refuge for a while in the Fractal System, that vast
maze where ancient beings gave them shelter. But eventu-
ally that only led to more betrayal, more lost friends, and a
flight taking them ever farther from home.

Finally, when further escape seemed impossible, Gillian
found a clue in the Library unit they had captured on
Kithrup. A syndrome called the "Sooner's Path." Following
that hint, she plotted a dangerous road that might lead to
safety, though it meant passing through the licking flames
of a giant star, bigger than Earth's orbit, whose soot coated
Streaker in layers almost too heavy to lift.

I n fl n r 1] ' s Shore 115

But she made it to Jijo.

This world looked lovely, from orbit. Too bad we had only
that one glimpse, before plunging to an abyssal graveyard
of ships.

Under sonar guidance by dolphin technicians, their im-
provised cutter attacked Streaker's hull. Water boiled into
steam so violently that booming echoes filled this cave
within a metal mountain. There were dangers to releasing
so much energy in a confined space. Separated gases might
recombine explosively. Or it could make their sanctuary
detectable from space. Some suggested the risk was too
great . . . that it would be better to abandon St reaker and
instead try reactivating one of the ancient hulks surround-
ing them as a replacement.

There were teams investigating that possibility right
now. But Gillian and Tsh't decided to try this instead, ask-
ing Suessi's crew to pull off one more resurrection.

The choice gladdened Hannes. He had poured too much
into Streaker to give up now. There may be more of me in
her battered shell than remains in this cyborg body.

Averting his sensors from the cutter's actinic glow, he
mused on the mound of cast-off ships surrounding this
makeshift cavern. They seemed to speak to him, if only in
his imagination.

We, too, have stories, they said. Each of us was launched
with pride, flown with hope, rebuilt many times with skill,
venerated by those we protected from the sleeting desola-
tion of space, long before your own race began dreaming
of the stars.

Suessi smiled. All that might have impressed him once—
the idea of vessels millions of years old. But now he knew
a truth about these ancient hulks.

You want old? he thought. I've seen old.

I've seen ships that make most stars seem young.

The cutter produced immense quantities of bubbles. It
screeched, firing ionized bolts against the black layer, just
centimeters away. But when they turned it off at last, the
results of all that eager destructive force were disap-
pointing.

116 David B r i n

"That-t's all we removed?" Karkaett asked, incredulously,
staring at a small patch of eroded carbon. "It'll take years to
cut it all away, at-t this rate!"

The engineer's mate, Chuchki, so bulky she nearly burst
from her exo-suit, commented in awed Trinary.

"Mysteries cluster

* Frantic, in Ifni's shadow-^
* Where did the energy go! *

Suessi wished he still had a head to shake, or shoulders to
shrug. He made do instead by emitting a warbling sigh into
the black water, like a beached pilot whale.

* Not by Ifni's name,

* But her creative employer—
"I wish to God I.knew. *

Gillian

IT ISN'T EASY FOR A HUMAN BEING TO PRETEND

she's an alien.

Especially if the alien is a Thennanin.

Shrouds of deceitful color surrounded Gillian, putting
ersatz flesh around the lie, providing her with an appear-
ance of leathery skin and a squat bipedal stance. On her
head, a simulated crest rippled and flexed each time she
nodded. Anyone standing more than two meters away
would see a sturdy male warrior with armored derma and
medallions from a hundred stellar campaigns—not a slim
blond woman with fatigue-lined eyes, a physician forced
by circumstances to command a little ship at war.

The disguise was pretty good by now. It ought to be. She
had been perfecting it for well over a year.

"Gr-phmph pitith," Gillian murmured.

When she first started pulling these charades, the Niss
Machine used to translate her Anglic questions into Then-
nanin. But now Gillian figured she was probably as fluent

Infinirii's Shore 117

in that Galactic dialect as any human alive. Probably even
Tom.

It still sounds weird though. Kind of like a toddler mak-
ing disgusting fart imitations for the fun of it.

At times, the hardest part was struggling not to break out
laughing. That would not do, of course. Thennanin weren't
noted for their sense of humor.

She continued the ritual greeting.

"Fhishmishingul parfful, mph!"

Chill haze pervaded the dim chamber, emanating from a
! sunken area where a beige-colored cube squatted, creating
its own wan illumination. Gillian could not help thinking
of it as a magical box—a receptacle folded in many dimen-
sions, containing far more than any vessel its size should
rightfully hold.

She stood at a lipless balcony, masked to resemble the
former owners of the box, awaiting a reply. The barred-
spiral symbol on its face seemed slippery to the eye, as if
the emblem were slyly looking back at her with a soul far
older than her own.

"Toftorph-ph parffuL Fhishfingtumpti parff-
fui"

The voice was deeply resonant. If she had been a real
Thennanin, those undertones would have stroked her
ridge crest, provoking respectful attentiveness. Back home,
the Branch Library of Earth spoke like a kindly human
grandmother, infinitely experienced, patient, and wise.

"I am prepared to witness," murmured a button in her
ear, rendering the machine's words in Anglic. "Then I will
be available for consultation."

That was the perpetual trade-off. Gillian could not sim-
ply demand information from the archive. She had to give
as well.

Normally, that would pose no problem. Any Library unit
assigned to a major ship of space was provided camera
views of the control room and the vessel's exterior, in or-
der to keep a WOM record for posterity. In return, the
archive offered rapid access to wisdom spanning almost
two billion years of civilization, condensed from planet-

118 David B r i n

scale archives of the Library Institute of the Civilization of
Five Galaxies.

Only there's a rub, Gillian thought.

Streakerw&s not a "major ship of space." Her own WOM
units were solid, cheap, unresponsive—the only kind that
impoverished Earth could afford. This lavish cube was a far
greater treasure, salvaged on Kithrup from a mighty war
cruiser of a rich starfaring clan.

She wanted the cube to continue thinking it was on that
cruiser, serving a Thennanin admiral. Hence this disguise.

"Your direct watcher pickups are still disabled," she ex-
plained, using the same dialect. "However, I have brought
more recent images, taken by portable recording devices.
Please accept-and-receive this data now."

She signaled the Niss Machine, her clever robotic assis-
tant in the next room. At once there appeared next to the
cube a series of vivid scenes. Pictures of the suboceanic
trench that local Jijoans called the "Midden"—carefully ed-
ited to leave out certain things.

We're playing a dangerous game, she thought, as flick-
ering holosims showed huge mounds of ancient debris,
discarded cities, and abandoned spacecraft. The idea was
to pretend that the Thennanin dreadnought Krondor's Fire
was hiding for tactical reasons in this realm of dead ma-
chines . . . and to do this •without showing Streaker's
own slender hull, or any sign of dolphins, or even re-
vealing the specific name and locale of this planet.

If we make it home, or to a neutral Institute base, we'll
be legally bound to hand over this unit. Even under anon-
ymous seal, it would be safest for it to know as little as we
can get away with telling.

Anyway, the Library might not prove as cooperative to
mere Earthlings. Better to keep it thinking it was dealing
with its official lease-holders.

Ever since the disaster at Oakka, Gillian had made this
her chief personal project, pulling off a hoax in order to
pry data out of their prize. In many ways, the Library cube
was more valuable than the relics Streaker had snatched
from the Shallow Cluster.

In fact, the subterfuge had worked better than expected.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 119

Some of the information won so far might prove critically

useful to the Terragens Council.

Assuming we ever make it home again . . .
Ever since Kithrup, when Streaker lost the best and

brightest of her crew, that had always seemed a long shot,

at best.

In one particular area of technology, twenty-second-cen-
tury humans had already nearly equaled Galactic skill
levels, even before contact.

Holographic imagery.

Special-effects wizards from Hollywood, Luanda, and
Aristarchus were among the first to dive confidently into
alien arts, undismayed by anything as trivial as a billion-
year head start. Within mere decades Earthlings could say
they had mastered a single narrow field as well as the best
starfaring clans—

Virtuosity at lying with pictures.

For thousands of years, when we weren't scratching for
food we were telling each other fables. Prevaricating.
Propagandizing. Casting illusions. Making movies.

Lacking science, our ancestors fell back on magic.

The persuasive telling of untruths.

Still it seemed a wonder to Gillian that her Thennanin
disguise worked so well. Clearly the "intelligence" of this
unit, while awesome, was of a completely different kind
than hers, with its own limitations.

Or else maybe it simply doesn 't care.

From experience, Gillian knew the Library cube would
accept almost anything as input, as long as the show con-
sisted of credible scenes it had never witnessed before. So
Jijo's abyss flashed before it—this time the panoramas
came over fiber cable from the western sea, sent by Kaa's
team of explorers, near the settled region called the Slope.
Ancient buildings gaped—drowned, eyeless, and window-
less—under the scrutiny of probing searchlight beams. If
anything, this waste field was even greater than the one
where Streaker took refuge. The accumulated mass of
made-things collected by a planetary culture for a million
years.

120 0 o v I d B r i n

Finally, the cascade of images ceased.

There followed a brief pause while Gillian waited edgily.
Then the beige box commented.

"The event stream remains disjointed from previous
ones. Occurrences do not'take place in causal-temporal
order related to inertial movements of this vessel. Is this
effect a result of the aforementioned battle damage?"

Gillian had heard the same complaint—the very same
words, in fact—ever since she began this ruse, shortly after
Tom brought the'captured prize aboard Streaker . . .
only days before he flew away to vanish from her life.

In response, she gave the same bluff as always.

"That is correct. Until repairs are completed, penalties
for any discrepancies may be assessed to the Krondor's
Fire mission account. Now please prepare for consulta-
tion."

This time there was no delay.

"Proceed with your request,"

Using a transmitter in her left hand, Gillian signaled to
the Niss Machine, waiting in another room. The Tymbrimi
spy entity at once began sending data requisitions, a rush
of flickering light that no organic being could hope to
follow. Soon the info flow went bidirectional—a torrential
response that forced Gillian to avert her eyes.
Perhaps, amid that flood, there might be some data
helpful to Streaker's crew, increasing their chances of sur-
vival.

Gillian's heart beat faster. This moment had its own dan-
gers. If a starship happened to be scanning nearby—per-
haps one of Streaker's pursuers—onboard cognizance
detectors might pick up a high level of digital activity in
this area.

But Jijo's ocean provided a lot of cover, as did the sur-
rounding mountain of discarded starships. Anyway, the
risk seemed worthwhile.

If only so much of the information offered by the cube
weren't confusing! A lot of it was clearly meant for
starfarers with far more experience and sophistication than
the Streaker crew.

Worse, we're running out of interesting things to show

Infiniru's Shore 121

the Library. Without fresh input, it might withdraw. Refuse
to cooperate at all.

That was one reason she decided yesterday to let the
four native kids come into this misty chamber and visit the
archive. Since Alvin and his friends didn't yet know they
were aboard an Earthling vessel, there wasn't much they
could give away, and the effect on the Library unit might
prove worthwhile.

Sure enough, the cube seemed bemused by the unique
sight of an urs and hoon, standing amicably together. And
the existence of a living g'Kek was enough, all by itself, to
satisfy the archive's passive curiosity. Soon afterward, it
willingly unleashed a flood of requested information about
the varied types of discarded spaceships surrounding
Streaker in this underwater trash heap, including parame-
ters used by ancient Buyur control panels.

That was helpful. But we need more. A lot more.

I guess it won't be long until I'm forced to pay with real
secrets,

Gillian had some good ones she could use ... if she
dared. In her office, just a few doors down, lay a mummi-
fied cadaver well over a billion years old.

Herbie.

To get hold of that relic—and the coordinates where it
came from—most of the fanatic, pseudo-religious alliances
in the Five Galaxies had been hunting Streaker since be-
fore Kithrup.

Pondering the chill beige cube, she thought—

/'// bet if I showed you one glimpse of ol' Herb, you 'd
have a seizure and spill every datum you've got stored
inside.

Funny thing is . . . nothing would make me happier in
all the universe than if we'd never seen the damned thing.

As a girl, Gillian had dreamed of star travel, and some-
day doing bold, memorable things. Together, she and Tom
had planned their careers—and marriage—with a single
goal in mind. To put themselves at the very edge, standing
between Earth and the enigmas of a dangerous cosmos.

Recalling that naive ambition, and how extravagantly it
was fulfilled, Gillian very nearly laughed aloud. But with

pressed lips she managed to keep the bitter, poignant
irony bottled inside, without uttering a sound.

For the time being, she must maintain the dignified pres-
ence of a Thennanin admiral.

Thennanin did not appreciate irony. And they never

Sooners

&

wasx

VOU MIGHT AS WELL GET USED TO IT, MY RINGS.
The piercing sensations you feel are My fibrils of con-
trol, creeping down our shared inner core, bypassing
the slow, old-fashioned, waxy trails, attaching and pene-
trating your many toroid bodies, bringing them into new
order.

Now begins the lesson, when I teach you to be docile
servants of something greater than yourselves. No longer a
stack of ill-wed components, always quarreling, paralyzed
with indecision. No more endless voting over what beliefs
shall be held by a fragile, tentative ('.

That was the way of our crude ancestor stacks, meditating
loose, confederated thoughts in the odor-rich marshes of
Jophekka World. Overlooked by other star clans, we
seemed unpromising material for uplift. But the great, slug-
like Poa saw potential in our pensive precursors, and be-
gan upraising those unlikely mounds.

124   0 a v i d B f i n

Alas, after a million years, the Poa grew frustrated with
our languid traeki natures.

"Design new rings for our clients," they beseeched the
clever Oailie, "to boost, guide, and drive them onward."

The Oailie did not fail, so great was their mastery of
genetic arts.

WHAT WAS THEIR TRANSFORMING GIFT?

New, ambitious rings.

Master rings.

LIKE ME.

Infiniru's Shore 125

Will they break their promise, once we've shared all we
know?

Maybe they'll fake the answers. (How could we tell?)

Or perhaps they'll let us talk to the cube all we want,
because they figure the knowledge won't do us any good,
since we're never going home again.

On the other hand, let's say it's all open and sincere. Say
we do get a chance to pose questions to the Library unit,
that storehouse of wisdom collected by a billion-year-old
civilization.

What on Jijo could we possibly have to say?

Al

vin

THIS IS A TEST. I'M TRYING OUT A BURNISH-NEW WAY
| of writing.

I  If you call this "writing"—where I talk out loud and
watch sentences appear in midair above a little box I've
been given.

Oh, it's uttergloss all right. Last night, Huck used her new
autoscribe to fill a room with words and glyphs in Gal-
Three, GalEight, and every obscure dialect she knew, or-
dering translations back and forth until it seemed she was
crowded on all sides by glowing symbols.

Our hosts gave us the machines to help tell our life sto-
ries, especially how the Six Races live together on the
Slope. In return, the spinning voice promised a reward.
Later, we'll get to ask questions of the big chilly box.

Huck went delirious over the offer. Free access to a
memory unit of the Great Library of the Five Galaxies!
Why, it's like telling Cortes he could have a map to the Lost
Cities of Gold, or when the legendary hoonish hero Yuq-
wourphmin found a password to control the robot facto-
ries of Kurturn. My own nicknamesake couldn't have felt
more awe, not even when the secrets of Vanamonde and
the Mad Mind were revealed in all their fearsome glory.

Unlike Huck, 'though, I view the prospect with dark
worry. Like a detective in some old-time Earth storybook, I
gotta ask—where's the catch?

I've just spent a midura experimenting. Dictating text.
Backing up and rewriting. The autoscribe sure is a lot more
flexible than scratching away with a pencil and a ball of
guarru gum for an eraser! Hand motions move chunks of
text like solid objects. I don't even have to speak aloud, but
simply will the words, like that little tickle when you mut-
ter under your breath so's no one else can hear. I know it's
not true mind reading—the machine must be sensing mus-
cle changes in my throat or something. I read about such
things in The Black Jack Era and Luna City Hobo. But it's
unnerving anyway.

Like when I asked to see the little machine's dictionary
of Anglic synonyms! I always figured I had a good vocabu-
lary, from memorizing the town's copy of Roget's Thesau-
rus'. But it turns out that volume left out most of the Hindi
and Arabic cognate grafts onto the English-Eurasian root-
stock. This tiny box holds enough words to keep Huck and
me humble ... or me, at least.

My pals are in nearby rooms, reciting their own mem-
oirs. I expect Huck will rattle off something fast-paced,
lurid, and carelessly brilliant to satisfy our hosts. Ur-ronn
will be meticulous and dry, while Pincer will get distracted
telling breathless stories about sea monsters. I have a head
start because my journal already holds the greater part of
our personal story—how we four adventurers got to this
place of weirdly curved corridors, far beneath the waves.

So I have time to worry about why the phuvnthus want
to know about us.

126 David B r i n

It could just be curiosity. On the other hand, what if
something we say here eventually winds up hurting our
kinfolk, back on the Slope? I can hardly picture how. I
mean, it's not like we know any military secrets—except
about the urrish cache that Uriel the Smith sent us under-
water to retrieve. But the spinning voice already knows
about that.

In my cheerier moments I envision the phuvnthus letting
us take the treasure back, taking us home to Wuphon in
their metal whale, so we seem to rise from the dead like
the fabled crew of the Hukuph-tau . . . much to the sur-
prise of Uriel, Urdonnol, and our parents, who must have
given us up for lost.

Optimistic fantasies alternate with other scenes I can't
get out of my head, like something that happened right
after the whale sub snatched Wuphon's Dream out of its
death plunge. I have this hazy picture of bug-eyed spider-
things stomping through the wreckage of our handmade
vessel, jabbering weird ratchety speech, then jumping back
in mortal terror at the sight of Ziz, the harmless little traeki
five-stack given us by Tyug the Alchemist.

Streams of fire blasted poor Ziz to bits.

You got to wonder what anyone would go and do a
mean thing like that for.

Infinilii's Shore 127

effortless and easily corrected. It encourages running off at
the mouth, when good old pencil and paper meant you
had to actually think in advance what you were going to
sa—

Wait a minute. What was that?

There it goes again. A faint booming sound . . . only
louder this time. Closer.

I don't think I like it. Not at all.

Ifni! This time it set the floor quivering.

The rumble reminds me of Guenn Volcano back home,
belchin' and groanin', making everybody in Wuphon won-
der if it's the long-awaited Big 0—

Jeekee sac-rot! No fooling this time.

Those are explosions, getting close fast!

Now comes another noise, like a zookir screeching its
head off 'cause it sat on a quill lizard.

Is that the sound a siren makes? I always wondered—

Gishtuphwayo! Now the lights go dim. The floor jitters—

What is Ifni-slucking going on!

D

wer

I might as well get to work.

How to begin my story?

Call me Alvin. ...

No. Too hackneyed. How about this opening?

Alvin Hph-wayuo woke up one morning to find himself
transformed into a giant . . .

Uh-uh. That's hitting too close to home.

Maybe I should model my tale after 20,000 Leagues Un-
der the Sea. Here we are, castaways being held as cordial
prisoners in an underwater world. Despite being female,
Huck would insist she's the heroic Ned Land character. Ur-
ronn would be Professor Aronnax, of course, which leaves
either Pincer OR me to be the comic fall guy, Conseil.

So when are we going to .finally meet Afewo?

Hmm. That's a disadvantage of this kind of writing, so

THE VIEW FROM THE HIGHEST DUNE WASN'T PROMIS-

| ing-

I The Danik scout craft was at least five or six leagues
out to sea, a tiny dot, barely visible beyond a distinct line
where the water's hue changed from pale bluish green to
almost black. The flying machine cruised back and forth, as
if searching for something it had misplaced. Only rarely,
when the wind shifted, did they catch the faint rumble of
its engines, but every forty or so duras Dwer glimpsed
something specklike tumble from the belly of the sleek
boat, glinting in the morning sun before it struck the
sea. Ten more duras would pass after the object sank—
then the ocean's surface bulged with a hummock of roiling
foam, as if an immense monster suffered dying spasms far
below.

128 David B r i n

"What's Kunn doing?" Dwer asked. He turned to Rety,
who shaded her eyes to watch the distant flier. "Do you
have any idea?"

The girl started to shrug her shoulders, but yee, the little
urrish male, sprawled there, snaking his slender neck to
aim all three eyes toward the south. The robot rocked im-
patiently, bobbing up and down as if trying to signal the
distant flier with its body.

"I don't know, Dwer," Rety replied. "I reckon it has
somethin' to do with the bird."

"Bird," he repeated blankly.

"You know. My metal bird. The one we saved from the
mule spider."

" That bird?" Dwer nodded. "You were going to show it
to the sages. How did the aliens get their hands—"

Rety cut in.

"The Daniks wanted to know where it came from. So
Kunn asked me to guide him here, to pick up Jass, since he
was the one who saw where the bird came to shore. I
never figured that'd mean leavin' me behind in the vil-
lage. . . ." She bit her lip. "Jass must've led Kunn here.
Kunn said somethin' about 'flushin' prey.' I guess he's tryin'
to get more birds."

"Or else whoever made your bird, and sent it ashore."

"Or else that." She nodded, clearly uncomfortable. Dwer
chose not to press for details about her deal with the star
humans.

As their journey south progressed, the number of marshy
streams had multiplied, forcing Dwer to "carry" the robot
several more times before he finally called a halt around
dusk. There had been a brief confrontation when the com-
bat machine tried intimidating him to continue. But its god
weapons had been wrecked in the ambush at the sooner
camp, and Dwer faced the robot's snapping claws without
flinching, helped by a strange detachment, as if his mind
had somehow grown while enduring the machine's throb-
bing fields. Hallucination or not, the feeling enabled him to
call its bluff. ,

With grudging reluctance that seemed lifelike, the robot
gave in. By a small fire, Dwer had shared with Rety the

I n f i n i t u ' s Shore 129

donkey jerky in his pouch. After a moment's hesitation,
Rety brought out her own contribution, two small lozenges
sealed in wrappers that felt slick to the touch. She showed
Dwer how to unwrap his, and guffawed at the look on his
face when intense, strange flavors burst in his mouth. He
laughed, too, almost inhaling the Danik candy the wrong
way. Its lavish sweetness won a place on his List of Things
I'm Glad I Did Before Dying.

Later, huddled with Rety on the banked coals, Dwer
dreamed a succession of fantastic images far more potent
than normal—perhaps an effect of "carrying" the robot,
conducting its ground-hugging fields. Instead of crushing
weight, he fantasized lightness, as if his body wafted, unen-
cumbered. Incomprehensible panoramas flickered under
closed eyelids . . . objects glimmering against dark back-
grounds, or gassy shapes, glowing of their own accord.
Once, a strange sense of recognition seized him, a timeless
impression of loving familiarity.

The Egg, his sleeping consciousness had mused. Only
the sacred stone looked strange—not an outsized pebble
squatting in a mountain cleft, but something like a huge,
dark sun, whose blackness outshone the glitter of normal
stars.

Their journey resumed before dawn, and featured only
two more water crossings before reaching the sea. There
the robot picked them up and streaked eastward along the
beach until it reached this field of dunes—a high point to
scan the strange blue waters of the Rift.

At least Dwer thought it was the Rift—a great cleft split-
ting the continent. 7 wish I still had my telescope, he
thought. With it he might glean some idea what the pilot of
the scout ship was trying to accomplish.

Flushing out prey, Rety said.

If that was Kunn's aim, the Danik star warrior could
learn a thing or two about hunting technique. Dwer re-
called one lesson old Fallon taught him years ago.

No matter how potent your weapon, or whatever game
you're after, it's never a good idea to be both beater and
shooter. If there's just one of you, forget driving your
quarry.

130   D o v i d B r I n

The solitary hunter masters patience, and silently learns
the ways of his prey.

That approach had one drawback. It required empathy.
And the better you learn to feel like your prey, the greater
the chance you may someday stop calling it prey at all.

"Well, we settled one thing," Rety commented, watching
the robot semaphore its arms wildly at the highest point of
the dune, like a small boy waving to parents who were too
far away to hear. "You must've done a real job on its comm
gear. Even the short range won't work, on line-o'-sight."

Dwer was duly impressed. Rety had learned a lot during
her stint as an adopted alien.

"Do you think the pilot could spot us by eye, when he
heads back toward the village to pick you up?" Dwer
asked.

"Maybe . . . supposin' he ever meant to do that. He
may forget all about me when he finds what he wants, and
just zip west to the Rothen station, to report."

Dwer knew that Rety had already lost some favor with
the sky humans. Her voice was bitter, for aboard that dis-
tant flying dot rode Jass, her tormentor while growing up
in a savage tribe. She had arranged vengeance for the
bully. But now Jass stood at the pilot's elbow, currying
favor while Rety was stuck down here.

Her worry was clear. What if her lifelong enemy won the
reward she had struggled and connived for? Her ticket to
the stars?

"Hmm. Well, then we better make sure he doesn't miss
us when he cruises by."

Dwer wasn't personally anxious to meet the star pilot
who had blasted the poor urrish sooners so unmercifully
from above. He fostered no illusion of gentle treatment at
Kunn's hands. But the scout boat offered life and hope for
Rety. And perhaps by attracting the Danik's attention he
could somehow prevent the man's quick return to the Gray
Hills. Danel Ozawa had been killed in the brief fight with
the robot, but Dwer might still buy time for Lena Strong
and the urrish chief to work out an accord with Rety's old
band . . . beating a stealthy retreat to some place where
star gods would never find them. A delaying action could
be Dwer's last worthwhile service.

I n f I n I r ij ' s Shore 131

"Let's build a fire," the girl suggested, gesturing toward
the beach, littered with driftwood from past storms.
"I was just about to suggest that," Dwer replied.
She chuckled.
"Yeah, right! Sure you were."

S

'ara

RT FIRST THE ANCIENT TUNNEL SEEMED HORRID
and gloomy. Sara kept imagining a dusty Buyur tube car
coming to life, an angry phantom hurtling toward the
little horse-drawn wagon, bent on punishing fools who dis-
turbed its ghostly domain. Dread clung fast for a while,
making each breath come short and sharp between rapid
heartbeats.

But fear has one great enemy, more powerful than confi-
dence or courage.

Tedium.

Chafed from sitting on the bench for miduras, Sara even-
tually let go of the dismal oppression with a long sigh. She
slipped off the wagon to trot alongside—at first only to
stretch her legs, but then for longer periods, maintaining a
steady jog.

After a while, she even found it enjoyable.

/ guess I'm just adapting to the times. There may be no
place for intellectuals in the world to come.

Emerson joined her, grinning as he kept pace with long-
legged strides. And soon the tunnel began to lose its power
over some of the others, as well. The two wagon drivers
from the cryptic Illias tribe—Kepha and Nuli—grew visibly
less tense with each league they progressed toward home.

But where was that?,

Sara pictured a map of the Slope, drawing a wide arc
roughly south from the Gentt. It offered no clue where a
horse clan might stay hidden all this time.

How about in some giant, empty magma chamber, be-
neath a volcano?

What a lovely thought. Some magical sanctuary of hid-

132 David B r i n

den grassy fields, safe from the glowering sky. An under-
ground world, like in a pre-contact adventure tale featuring
vast ageless caverns, mystic light sources, and preposter-
ous monsters.

Of course no such place could form under natural laws.
But might the Buyur—or some prior Jijo tenant—have
used the same forces that carved 'this tunnel to create a
secret hideaway? A place to preserve treasures while the
surface world was scraped clean of sapient-made things?
Sara chuckled at the thought. But she did not dismiss it.

Sometime later, she confronted Kurt.

"Well, I'm committed now. Tell me what's so urgent that
Emerson and I had to follow you all this way."

But the exploser only shook his head, refusing to speak
in front of Dedinger.

What's the heretic going to do? Sara thought. Break his
bonds and run back to tell the world?

The desert prophet's captivity appeared secure. And yet
it was disconcerting to see on Dedinger's face an expres-
sion of serene confidence, as if present circumstances only
justified his cause.

Times like these bring heretics swarming . . . like pri-
vacy wasps converging on a gossip. We shouldn 't be sur-
prised to see fanatics thriving.

The Sacred Scrolls prescribed two ways for Jijo's illegal
colonists to ease their inherited burden of sin—by preserv-
ing the planet, and by following the Path of Redemption.
Ever since the days of Drake and Ur-Chown, the sages had
taught that both goals were compatible with commerce
and the comforts of daily life. But some purists disagreed,
insisting that the Six Races must choose.

We should not be here, proclaimed Lark's faction. We
sooners should use birth control to obey Galactic law, leav-
ing this fallow world in peace. Only then will our sin be
healed.

Others thought redemption should take higher priority.

Each clan should follow the example of glavers,
preached Dedinger's cult, and the Urunthai. Salvation and

Infiniru's Shore 133

renewal come to those who remove mental impediments
and rediscover their deep natures.

The first obstacle to eliminate—the anchor weighing
down our souls—is knowledge.

Both groups called today's High Sages true heretics, pan-
dering to the masses with their wishy-washy moderation.
When dread starships came, fresh converts thronged to
purer faiths, preaching simple messages and strong medi-
cine for fearful times.

Sara knew her own heresy would not attract disciples. It
seemed ill matched to Jijo—a planet of felons destined for
oblivion of one sort or another. And yet . . .

Everything depends on your point of view.

So taught a wise traeki sage.

we/i/you are oft fooled by the obvious.

BIN URRISH COURIER CAME RUSHING OUT OF THE

forest of tall, swaying greatboo.

I Could this be my answer already?

Lark had dispatched a militiaman just a few miduraS ago,
with a message to Lester Cambel in the secret refuge of the
High Sages.

But no. The rough-pelted runner had galloped up the
long path from Festival Glade. In her rush, she would not
even pause for Lark to tap the vein of a tethered simla,
offering the parched urs a hospitable cup of steaming
blood. Instead, the humans stared amazed as she plunged
her fringed muzzle into a bucket of undiluted water, barely
shuddering at the bitter taste.

Between gasping swallows, she told dire news.

As rumored, the second starship was titanic, squatting
like a mountain, blocking the river so a swamp soon
formed around the trapped Rothen cruiser, doubly impris-
oning Ling's comrades. Surviving witnesses reported see-
ing familiar outlines framed by the battleship's brightly lit

134 David B rIn

hatchway. Corrugated cones. Stacks of rings, luxuriously

glistening.

Only a few onlookers, steeped in ancient legends, knew
this was not a good sign, and they had little time to spread
a warning before torrid beams sliced through the night,
mowing down everything within a dozen arrowflights.

At dawn, brave observers peered from nearby peaks to
see a swathe of shattered ground strewn with oily smudges
and bloody debris. A defensive perimeter, stunned observ-
ers suggested, though such prudence seemed excessive for

omnipotent star gods.

"What casualties?" asked Jeni Shen, sergeant of Lark's
militia contingent, a short, well-muscled woman and a
friend of his brother, Dwer. They had all seen flickering
lights in the distance, and heard sounds like thunder, but
imagined nothing as horrible as the messenger related.

The urs told of hundreds dead . . . and that a High
Sage of the Commons was among those slaughtered. Asx
had been standing near a group of curious spectators and
confused alien lovers, waiting to parley with the visitors.
After the dust and flames settled, the traeki was nowhere to

be seen.

The g'Kek doctor tending Uthen expressed the grief they
all felt, rolling all four tentacle-like eyes and flailing the
ground with his pusher leg. This personified the horror.
Asx had been a popular sage, ready to mull over problems
posed by any of the Six Races, from marriage counseling to
dividing the assets of a bisected qheuen hive. Asx might
"mull" for days, weeks, or a year before giving an an-
swer—or several answers, laying out a range of options.

Before the courier departed, Lark's status as a junior sage
won him a brief look at the drawings in her dispatch
pouch. He showed Ling a sketch of a massive oval ship of
space, dwarfing the one that brought her to this world. Her
face clouded. The mighty shape was unfamiliar and fright-
ening.

Lark's own messenger—a two-legged human—had
plunged into the ranks of towering boo at daybreak, carry-
ing a plea for Lester Cambel to send up Ling's personal

Infinirii's Shore 135

Library unit, so she might read the memory bars he and
Uthen had found in the wrecked station.

Her offer, made the evening before, was limited to seek-
ing data about plagues, especially the one now sweeping
the qheuen community.

"If Ro-kenn truly was preparing genocide agents, he is a
criminal by our own law."

"Even a Rothen master?" Lark had asked skeptically.

"Even so. It is not disloyal for me to find out, or else
prove it was not so.

"However," she had added, "don't expect me to help
you make war against my crew mates or my patrons. Not
that you could do much, now that their guard is raised.
You surprised us once with tunnels and gunpowder, de-
stroying a little research base. But you'll find that harming a
starship is beyond even your best-equipped zealots."

That exchange took place before they learned about the
second vessel. Before word came that the mighty Rothen
cruiser was reduced to a captive toy next to a true colossus
from space.

While they awaited Cambel's answer, Lark sent his
troopers sifting through the burned lakeshore thicket, gath-
ering golden preservation beads. Galactic technology had
been standardized for millions of years. So there just might
be a workable reading unit amid all the pretty junk the
magpie spider had collected. Anyway, it seemed worth a
try.

While sorting through a pile of amber cocoons, he and
Ling resumed their game of cautious question-and-evasion.
Circumstances had changed—Lark no longer felt as stupid
in her presence—still, it was the same old dance.

Starting off, Ling quizzed him about the Great Printing,
the event that transformed Jijo's squabbling coalition of
sooner races, even more than the arrival of the Holy Egg.
Lark answered truthfully without once mentioning the
Biblos Archive. Instead he described the guilds of printing,
photocopying, and especially papermaking, with its
pounding pulp hammers and pungent drying screens,
turning out fine pages under the sharp gaze of his father,
the famed Nelo.

"A nonvolatile, randomly accessed, analog memory store

136   D a v i d B r i n

that is completely invisible from space. No electricity or
digital cognizance to detect from orbit." She marveled.
"Even when we saw books, we assumed they were hand-
copied—hardly a culture-augmenting process. Imagine, a
wolfling technology proved so effective . . . under spe-
cial circumstances."

Despite that admission, Lark wondered about the Danik
attitude, which seemed all too ready to dismiss the accom-
plishments of their own human ancestors—except when
an achievement could be attributed to Rothen intervention.

It was Lark's turn to ask a question, and he chose to veer
onto another track.

"You seemed as surprised as anybody, when the dis-
guise creature crawled off of Ro-pol's face."

He referred to events just before the Battle of the Glade,
when a dead Rothen was seen stripped of its charismatic,
symbiotic mask. Ro-pol's eyes, once warm and expres-
sive, had bulged lifeless from a revealed visage that was
sharply slanted, almost predatory, and distinctly less hu-

manoid.

Ling had never seen a master so exposed. She reacted to

Lark's question cautiously.

"I am not of the Inner Circle."

"What's that?"

Ling inhaled deeply. "Rann and Kunn are privy to
knowledge about the Rothen that most Daniks never learn.
Rann has even been to one of the secret Rothen home
sites. Most of us are never so blessed. When not on mis-
sions, we dwell with our families in the covered canyons of
Poria Outpost, with just a hundred or so of our patrons,
Even on Poria, the two races don't mix daily."

"Still, not to know something so basic about those who
claim to be—"

"Oh, one hears rumors. Sometimes you see a Rothen
whose face seems odd ... as if part of it was, well, put
on wrong. Maybe we cooperate with the deception by
choosing at some level not to notice. Anyway, that's not
the real issue, is it?"

"What is the real issue?"

"You imply I should be horrified to learn they wear sym-
bionts to look more humanoid. To appear more beautiful

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 137

in our eyes. But why shouldn't the Rothen use artificial
aids, if it helps them serve as better guides, shepherding
our race toward excellence?"

Lark muttered, "How about a little thing called honesty?"

"Do you tell your pet chimp or zookir everything? Don't
parents sometimes lie to children for their own good? What
about lovers who strive to look nice for each other? Are
they dishonest?

"Think, Lark. What are the odds against another race
seeming as gloriously beautiful to human eyes as our pa-
trons appear? Oh, part of their attraction surely dates back
to early stages of uplift, on Old Earth, when they raised our
apelike ancestors almost to full sapiency, before the Great
Test began. It may be ingrained at a genetic level . . . the
way dogs were culled in favor of craving the touch of man.

"Yet, we are still unfinished creatures. Still crudely emo-
tional. Let me ask you. Lark. If your job were to uplift
flighty, cantankerous beings, and you found that wearing a
cosmetic symbiont would make your role as teacher easier,
wouldn't you do it?"

Before Lark could answer an emphatic no, she rushed
ahead.

"Do not some members of your Six use rewq animals for
similar ends? Those symbionts that lay their filmy bodies
over your eyes, sucking a little blood in exchange for help
translating emotions? Aren't rewq a vital part of the com-
plex interplay that is your Commons?"

"Hr-rm." Lark throat-umbled like a doubtful hoon.
"Rewq don't help us lie. They are not themselves lies."

Ling nodded. "Still, you never faced a task as hard as the
Rothens'—to raise up creatures as brilliant, and disagree-
able, as human beings. A race whose capability for future
majesty also makes us capricious and dangerous, prone to
false turns and deadly errors."

Lark quashed an impulse to argue. She might only dig in,
rationalizing herself into a corner and refusing to come out.
At least now she admitted that one Rothen might do evil
deeds—that Ro-kenn's personal actions might be criminal.

And who knows? That may be all there is to it. The
scheming of a rogue individual. Perhaps the race is just as
wonderful as she says. Wouldn 't it be nice if humanity

138   D a v i d B r i n

really had such patrons, and a manifest greatness waiting,

beyond the next millennium?

Ling had seemed sincere when she claimed the Rothen
ship commander would get to the bottom of things.

"It's imperative to convince your sages they must release
the hostages and Ro-pol's body, along with those 'photo-
grams' your portraitist took. Blackmail won't work against
the Rothen—you must understand this. It's not in their
character to respond to threats. Yet the 'evidence' you've
gathered could do harm in the long run."

That was before the stunning news—that the Rothen
ship was itself captured, encased in a prison of light.

Lark mused over one of the mule spider's golden eggs
while Ling spoke for a while about the difficult but glorious
destiny her masters planned for impulsive, brilliant human-
ity.

"You know," he commented. "There's something screwy

about the logic of this whole situation."

"What do you mean?"

Lark chewed his lip, like an urs wrestling with uncer-
tainty. Then he decided—it was time to bring it all in the

open.

"I mean, let's put aside for now the added element of the

new starship. The Rothen may have feuds you know noth-
ing about. Or it may be a different gang of gene raiders,
come to rob Jijo's biosphere. For all we know, magistrates
from the Galactic Migration Institute have brought Judg-
ment Day as foretold in the Scrolls.

"For now, though, let's review what led to the Battle of
the Glade—the fight that made you my prisoner. It began
when Bloor photo'd the dead Ro-pol without her mask.
Ro-kenn went livid, ordering his robots to kill everyone

who had seen.

"But didn't you once assure me there was no need to

delete local witnesses to your team's visit? That your mas-
ters could handle it, even if oral and written legacies sur-
vive hundreds or thousands of years, describing a visit by
human and Rothen gene raiders?"

"I did."
"But you admit gene raiding is against Galactic law!

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 139

know you feel the Rothen are above such things. Still, they
don't want to be caught in the act.

"Let's assume credible testimony, maybe even photos,
finally reach Migration Institute inspectors next time they
visit Jijo. Testimony about you and Rann and Kunn. Hu-
man gene raiders. Even I know the rule—'police your own
kind'—prevails in the Five Galaxies. Did Ro-kenn explain
how the Rothen would prevent sanctions coming down on
Earth?"

Ling wore a grim expression. "You're saying he played
us for fools. That he let me spread false assurances among
the natives, while planning all along to strew germs and
wipe out every witness."

Obviously it was bitter for her to say it.

Ling seemed surprised when Lark shook his head.

"That's what I thought at first, when qheuens fell sick.
But what I now imagine is worse yet."

That got her attention.

"What could be worse than mass murder? If the charge is
proved, Ro-kenn will be hauled off to the home sites in
dolor chains'. He'll be punished as no Rothen has been in
ages."

Lark shrugged. "Perhaps. But stop and think a bit.

"First, Ro-kenn wasn't relying on disease alone to do the
job.

"Oh, he probably had a whole library of bugs—infec-
tious agents used in past wars in the Five Galaxies. No
doubt starfaring qheuens long ago developed countermea-
sures against the germ raging through Uthen's lymph pipes
right now. I'm sure Ro-kenn's concoctions will kill a lot
more of us."

Ling started to protest, but Lark forged ahead.

"Nevertheless, I know a thing or two about how pes-
tilence works in natural ecosystems. It would be a com-
plete fluke for even a string of diseases to wipe out every
member of the Six. Random immunities would stymie the
best-designed bugs. Furthermore, the sparser the popula-
tion got, the harder it would be to reach and infect dis-
persed survivors.

"No, Ro-kenn needed something more. A breakdown of
the Commons into total war! A war that could be exploited,

i4o David B rIn

pushed to the limits. A stmggle so bitter that each race
would pursue its victims to the farthest corners ofJijo, will-
ingly helping to spread new parasites in order to slay their

foes."

He saw Ling struggle to find a way around his logic. But

she had been present when Ro-kenn's psi-recordings were
played—sick dream images, meant to incite fatal grudges
among the Six. Those present weren't fooled because they
were forewarned, but what if the messages had been
broadcast as planned . . . amplified through the compel-
ling wave forms of the Holy Egg?

"I will tell of this, back home," she vowed in a low, faint
voice. "He will be punished."

"That's gratifying," Lark went on. "But I'm not finished.
You see, even by combining plagues with war, Ro-kenn
could never guarantee annihilation of all six races, or elimi-
nate the off chance that credible testimony might be
passed down the generations—perhaps stored in some
cave—to finally reach Institute prosecutors. On the other
hand, he could influence which race or sept would be left
standing at the end, and which would perish first. There is
one, in particular, whose fate he knows well how to ma-
nipulate. That one is Homo sapiens.

"The way I see it, Ro-kenn's plan had several parts. First,
he had to make sure Earthlings were hated. Second, he
must weaken the other five races by releasing diseases that
could then be blamed on humans. But the ultimate goal
was to make sure humans went extinct on Jijo. He didn't
give a damn if others left a few survivors to tell the tale."

Ling stared. "What good would that do? You said testi-
mony might be passed down—"

"Yes, but with Earthlings on Jijo only a hated memory, all
history will tell is that once upon a time a ship full of
humans came down, stole genes, and tried to kill every-
body. No one will bother emphasizing which humans did

these things.

"In the future—perhaps only a few centuries, if someone
plants an anonymous tip—Galactic judges would arrive
and hear that people from Earth did these dreadful things.
Earth will bear the full brunt of any sanctions, while the
Rothen get off scot-free."

I n f i n i r ij ' s Shore i4i

Ling was silent for a long moment, working her way
through his logic. Finally, she looked up with a broad grin.

"You had me worried a minute, but I found the defect in
your reasoning!"

Lark tilted his head. "Do tell."

"Your diabolical scenario just might make sense, but for
two flaws—

"First—the Rothen are patrons of all humanity. Earth and
her colonies, while presently governed by Darwinist fools
on the Terragens Council, still represent the vast majority
of our gene pool. The Rothen would never let harm come
to our homeworld. Even in the current galactic crisis, they
are acting behind the scenes to ensure Earth's safety from
the enemies besetting her."

There it was again ... a reference to dire events hap-
pening megaparsecs away. Lark yearned to follow that
thread, but Ling continued with her argument.

"Second—let's say Ro-kenn wanted all blame shifted to
humans. Then why did he and Ro-pol emerge from the
station and show themselves? By walking around, letting
artists sketch them and scribes take down their words,
weren't they jeopardizing the Rothen to the same eyewit-
ness accounts you say could damage Earth?"

Ling seemed ready to accept that her immediate boss
might be criminal or insane, but with bulwarks of logic she
defended her patron race. Lark had mixed feelings about
demolishing such faith. He, too, had his heresies.

"I'm sorry, Ling, but my scenario still stands.

"Your first point only has validity if it is true that the
Rothen are our patrons. I know that's the central premise
around which you were raised, but believing does not
make it so. You admit your people, the Daniks, are small in
number, live on an isolated outpost, and see just a few.
Rothen. Putting aside mythic fables about ancient visitors
and Egyptian pyramids, all you really have is their word
regarding a supposed relationship with our race. One that
may simply be a hoax.

"As for your second point, just look back at the way
events unfolded. Ro-kenn surely knew he was being
sketched when he emerged that evening, using his cha-

142 David B r i n

risma on the crowd and planting seeds of dissension. After
living so long together, all six races are affected by each
other's standards of beauty, and the Rothen were indeed

beautiful!

"Ro-kenn may even have known we had the ability to

etch our drawings onto durable plates. Later, when he saw
Bloor's first set of photographic images, he hardly batted
an eye. Oh, he pretended to dicker with the sages, but you
and I could both tell he was unafraid of the 'proof being
used to blackmail him. He was only buying time till the
ship returned. And it might have worked—if Bloor hadn't
uncovered and recorded Ro-pol's corpse, bare and un-
masked. That's when Ro-kenn went hysterically murder-
ous, ordering a massacre!"

"I know." Ling shook her head. "It was madness. But
you must understand. Disturbing the dead is very serious.
It must have pushed him over the edge—"

"Over the edge, my left hind hoof! He knew exactly
what he was doing. Think, Ling. Suppose someday Insti-
tute observers see photos showing humans, and a hunch
of very humanlike beings nobody ever heard of, commit-
ting crimes on Jijo. Could such crude pictures ever really

implicate the Rothen?

"Perhaps they might, (/ that's what Rothen looked like.

But till Bloor shot Ro-pol's naked face, our crude images
posed no threat to Rothen security. Because in a century or
two those facial disguise symbionts won't exist anymore,
and no one alive will know that Rothen ever looked like

that."

"What are you talking about? Every Danik grows up see-
ing Rothen as they appear with symbionts on. Obviously
there will be people around who know . . ."

Her voice faded. She stared at Lark, unblinking. "You

can't mean—"

"Why not? After long association with your people, I'm

sure they've acquired the necessary means. Orsce humans
are of no further use as front men for their schemes, your
'patrons' will simply use a wide spectrum of tailored vi-
ruses to wipe out every Danik, just as they planned to
eliminate humans on Jijo.

I n f i n I r i] ' s Shore  143

"For that matter, once they've tested it on both our peo-
ples, they'll be in a good position to sell such a weapon to
Earth's enemies. After all, once our race goes extinct, who
will protest our innocence? Who will bother to look for
other suspects in a series of petty felonies that were com-
mitted, all over the Five Galaxies, by groups of bipeds
looking a lot like—"

"Enough!" Ling shouted, standing suddenly, spilling gold
cocoons from her lap. She backed away, hyperventilating.
Unrelenting, he stood and followed.
"I've thought about little else since we left the Glade.
And it all makes sense. Even down to the way the Rothen
won't let your kind use neural taps."

"I told you before. It's forbidden because the taps might
drive us mad!"

"Really? Why do the Rothen themselves have them? Be-
cause they're more highly evolved?" Lark snorted. "Any-
way, I hear that nowadays humans elsewhere use them
effectively."

"How do you know what humans elsewhere—"
Lark hurriedly cut her off.

"The truth is, the Rothen can't risk letting their pet hu-
mans make direct mind-computer links, because someday
one of you Daniks might bypass sanitized consoles, draw
on the Great Library directly, and figure out how you've
been pawns—"

Ling backed away another pace. "Please, Lark ... I
don't want to do this anymore."

He felt an impulse to stop, to take pity. But he quashed
it. This had to come out, all of it.

"I must admit it's quite a scam, using humans as front
men for gene theft and other crimes. Even two centuries
ago, when the Tabernacle departed, our race had a vile
reputation as one of the lowest-ranking citizen tribes in the
Five Galaxies. So-called wolflings, with no ancient clan to
stand up for us. If anybody gets caught, we'll make perfect
patsies. The Rothen scheme is clever. The real question is,
why would any humans let themselves be used that way?
"History may hold the answer, Ling. According to our
texts, humans suffered from a major inferiority complex at

144 David B r i n

the time of contact, when our primitive canoe-spacecraft
stumbled onto a towering civilization of star gods. Your
ancestors and mine chose different ways of dealing with
the complex, each of them grasping at straws, seeking any

excuse for hope.

"The Tabernacle colonists dreamed of escaping to some

place out of sight of bureaucrats and mighty Galactic
clans—a place to breed freely and fulfill the old romance
of colonizing a frontier. In contrast, your Danik forebears
rushed to embrace a tall tale they were told by a band of
smooth talkers. A flattering fable that indulged their
wounded pride, promising a grand destiny for certain cho-
sen humans and their descendants , . . providing they
did exactly as they were told. Even if it meant raising their
children to be shills and sneak thieves in service to a pack

of galactic gangsters."

Tremors rocked Ling as she held up one hand, palm out,

at the end of a rigid arm, as if trying physically to stave off

any more words.

"I asked . . . you to stop," she repeated, and seemed to

have trouble breathing. Pain melted her face.

Now Lark did shut up. He had gone too far, even in the
name of truth. Raggedly, trying to maintain some remnant
of her dignity, Ling swiveled and strode off to the acrid
lake that lay below a boulder field of tumbled Buyur ruins.
Does anybody like having their treasured worldview
torn away? Lark mused, watching Ling hurl stones into the
caustic pond. Most of us would reject all the proof in the
cosmos before considering that our own beliefs might be

wrong.

But the scientist in her won't let her dismiss evidence so

easily. She has to face facts, like them or not.

The habit of truth is bard to learn, and a mixed blessing.
It leaves no refuge when a new truth comes along that

hurts.
Lark knew his feelings were hardly a testament to clarity.

Anger roiled, mixed with shame that he could not hold on
to the purity of his own convictions. There was childish
satisfaction from upsetting Ling's former smug superiority
. . . and chagrin at finding such a motive smoldering in-

1 n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 145

side. Lark enjoyed being right, though it might be better,
this time, if he turned out to be wrong.

Just when I had her respecting me as an equal, and
maybe starting to like me, that's when I have to go stomp-
ing through her life, smashing idols she was raised to wor-
ship, showing off the bloodstained hands of her gods.

You may win an argument, boy. You may even con-
vince her. But could anyone fully forgive you for doing
something like that?

He shook his head over how much he might have just
thrown away, all for the torrid pleasure of harsh honesty.

wasx

DO NOT BE AFRAID, MY LESSER PARTS.
The sensations you feel may seem like coercive pain,
but they convey a kind of love that will grow dear to
you, with time. I am part of you now, one with you. I will
never do anything to cause us harm, so long as this alliance
serves a function.

Go ahead, stroke the wax if you wish, for the old ways
of memory still have lesser uses (so long as they serve My
purpose). Play over recent images so we may recall to-
gether events leading to our new union. Re-create the
scene perceived by Asx, staring up in awe, watching the
great Jophur warship, Polkjhy, swoop from the sky, taking
the pirates captive, then landing in this tortured valley.
Poor, loosely joined, scatterbrained Asx—did you/we not
stare in tremulous fear?

Yes, I can stroke another driving motivation. One that
kept you admirably unified, despite swirling dread. It was a
cloying sense of duty. Duty to the not-self community of
half beings you call the Commons.

As Asx, your stack planned to speak for the Commons.
Asx expected to face star-traveling humans, along with
creatures known as "Rothen." But then Jophur forms were
seen through our ship ports!

146 David B r i n

After some hesitation, did you not turn at last and try to

flee?

How slow this stack was before the change! When knives

of fire lanced forth from this mighty vessel, how did you
react to the maelstrom of destruction? To hot ravening
beams that tore through wood, stone, and flesh, but always
spared this pile of aged rings? Had you then possessed the
bright new running legs we now wear, you might have
thrown yourselves into that roaring calamity. But Asx was
slow, too slow even to shelter nearby comrades with its

traeki bulk.

All died, except this stack.

ARE YOU NOT PROUD?

The next ray from the ship seized this multistriped cone,
lifting it into the night air, sweeping the fatty rings toward

doors that gaped to receive them.

Oh, how well Asx spoke then, despite the confusion!
With surprising coherence for a stack without a master,
tapping waxy streaks of eloquence, Asx pleaded, cajoled,
and reasoned with the enigmatic creatures who peered

from behind glaring lights.

Finally, these beings glided forward. The starship's hold

filled with Asx's ventings of horrified dread.

How unified you were, My rings! The testimony of the
wax is clear. At that moment, you were one as never be-
fore.

United in shared dismay to see those cousin toroids your

ancestors sought to escape, many cycles ago.
WeJophur, the mighty and fulfilled.

D

wer

THE ROBOT PROVED USEFUL AT HEAPING DRIFT-
wood onto the seaside shoulder of a high dune over-
looking the Rift. Without rest or pause, it dumped a load
then scurried for more, in whatever direction Rety indi-
cated with an outstretched arm. The Danik machine

I n f i n i r 11 ' s Shore 147

seemed willing to obey once more—so long as her orders
aimed toward a reunion with Kunn.

Such single-minded devotion to its master reminded
Dwer of Earth stories about dogs—tales his mother read
aloud when he was small. It struck him odd that the Taber-
nacle colonists brought horses, donkeys, and chimps, but
no canines.

Lark or Sara might know why.

That was Dwer's habitual thought, encountering some-
thing he didn't understand. Only now it brought a pang,
knowing he might never see his brother and sister again.

Maybe Kunn won't kill me outright. He might bring me
borne in chains, instead, before the Rothens wipe out the
Six Races to cover their tracks.

That was the terrible fate the High Sages foresaw for
Jijo's fallen settlers, and Dwer figured they ought to know.
He recalled Lena Strong musing about what means the
aliens might use to perform their genocide. With gruesome
relish, Lena kept topping herself during the long hike east
from the Rimmer Range. Would the criminal star gods wash
the Slope with fire, scouring it from the glaciers to the sea?
Would they melt the ice caps and bring an end by drown-
ing? Her morbid speculations were like a fifth companion
as Dwer guided two husky women and a lesser sage past a
thousand leagues of poison grass all the way to the Gray
Hills, in a forlorn bid to safeguard a fragment of human
civilization on Jijo.

Dwer had last glimpsed Jenin, Lena, and Danel during
the brief fight near the huts of Rety's home clan. This same
robot cut poor Danel down with lethal rays, instants before
its own weapons pod was destroyed.

Indeed, the battle drone was no dog to be tamed or
befriended. Nor would it show gratitude for the times
Dwer helped it cross rivers, anchoring its fields to ground
through the conduit of his body.

Mudfoot was hardly any better a comrade. The lithe
noor beast swiftly grew bored with wood-gathering chores,
and scampered off instead to explore the tide line, digging
furiously where bubbles revealed a buried hive of sand
clamettes. Dwer looked forward to roasting some . . . un-

avid B f i

148   D

til he saw that Mudfoot was cracking and devouring every

one, setting none aside for the humans.

As useful as a noor, he thought, quashing stings of hun-
ger as he hoisted another bundle of twisty driftwood slabs,
digging his moccasins into the sandy slope.

Dwer tried to remain optimistic.

Maybe Kunn will feed me, before attaching the torture

machines.

yee stood proudly atop the growing woodpile. The diminu-
tive urrish male called directions in a piping voice, as if
mere humans could never manage a proper fire without
urrish supervision. Rety's "husband" hissed disappoint-
ment over Dwer's poor contribution—as if being
wounded, starved, and dragged across half of Jijo in a
robot's claws did not excuse much. Dwer ignored yee's
reprimand, dumping his load then stepping over to the
dune's seaward verge, shading his eyes in search of Kunn's

alien scoutship.

He spied it far away, a silvery bead, cruising back and
forth above the deep blue waters of the Rift. At intervals,
something small and shiny would fall from the slender
spacecraft. An explosive, Dwer supposed, for about twenty
duras after each canister struck the water, the sea abruptly
frothed white. Sometimes a sharp, almost musical tone

reached shore.

According to Rety, Kunn was trying to force some-
thing—or somebody—out of hiding.

I hope you miss, Dwer thought . . . though the star pi-
lot might be in a better mood toward prisoners if his hunt

went well.

"I wonder whatJass has been tellin' Kunn, all this time,"

Rety worried aloud, joining Dwer at the crest. "What if they

become pals?"

Dwer waited as the robot dropped another cargo of

wood and went off for more. Then he replied.

"Have you changed your mind? We could still try to es-
cape. Take out'the robot. Avoid Kunn. Go our own way."
Rety smiled with surprising warmth,                 i
"Why, Dwer, is that a whatchamacallum? A proposal i

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 149

What'll we do? Make our own little sooner clan, here on
the wind barrens? Y'know I already have one husban' and I
need his p'rmission to add another."

Actually, he had envisioned trying to make it back to the
Gray Hills, where Lena and Jenin could surely use a hand.
Or else, if that way seemed too hard and Rety rigidly op-
posed returning to the tribe she hated, they might strike
out west and reach the Vale in a month or two, if the
foraging was good along the way.

Rety went on, with more edge in her voice.

"B'sides, I still have my eye set on an apart'mint on Poria
Outpost. Like the one Besh an' Ling showed me a picture
of, with a bal-co-ny, an' a bed made o' cloud stuff. I figure
it'll be just a bit more comfy than scratchin' out the rest of
my days here with savages."

Dwer shrugged. He hadn't expected her to agree. As a
"savage," he had reasons of his own for going ahead with
the bonfire to attract Kunn's attention.

"Well, anyway, I don't suppose the bot would let its
guard down a second time."

"It was lucky to survive doin' it around you once."

Dwer took a moment to realize she had just paid him a
compliment. He cherished its uniqueness, knowing he
might never hear another.

The moment of unaccustomed warmth was broken
when something massive abruptly streaked by, so fast that
its air wake shoved both humans to the ground. Dwer's
training as a tracker let him follow the blurry object . . .
to the top of a nearby dune, which erupted in a gushing
spray of sand.

It was the robot, he realized, digging with furious speed.
In a matter of heartbeats it made a hole that it then dived
within, aiming its remaining sensor lens south and west.

"Come on!" Dwer urged, grabbing his bow and quiver.
Rety paused only to snatch up a wailing, hissing yee. To-
gether they fled some distance downslope, where Dwer
commenced digging with both hands.

Long ago,. Fallen the Scout had taught him—If you don't
know what's happening in a crisis, mimic a creature who
does. If the robot felt a sudden need to hide, Dwer thought
it wise to follow.

130   D a v i d B r I n

"Ifni!" Rety muttered. "Now what in hell's he doin'?"
She was still standing—staring across the Rift. Dwer
yanked her into the hole beside him. Only when sand cov-
ered most of their bodies did he poke his head back out to

look.

The Danik pilot clearly felt something was wrong. The

little craft hurtled toward shore, diving as it came. Seeking
cover, Dwer thought. Maybe it can dig underground, like

the robot.

Dwer started turning, to spot whatever had Kunn in such
a panic, but just then the boat abruptly veered, zigzagging
frantically. From its tail bright fireballs arced, like sparks
leaping off a burning log. They flared brightly and made
the air waver in a peculiar way, blurring the escaping ves-
sel's outlines.

From behind Dwer, streaks of fierce light flashed over-
head toward the fleeing boat. Most deflected through
warped zones, veering off course, but one bypassed the
glowing balls, striking target.

At the last moment, Kunn flipped his nimble ship around
and fired back at his assailants, launching a return volley
just as the unerring missile closed in.

Dwer shoved Rety's head down and closed his eyes.

The detonations were less Jijo-shattering than he
expected—a series of dull concussions, almost anticlimac-

tic.

Looking up with sand-covered faces, they witnessed
both winner and loser in the brief battle of god chariots.

Kunn's boat had crashed beyond the dune field, plow-
ing into a marshy fen. Smoke boiled from its shattered

rear.

Circling above, the victor regarded its victim, glistening
with a silvery tint that seemed less metallic than crystal.
The newcomer was bigger and more powerful looking
than the Danik scout.

Kunn never stood a chance.

Rety muttered, her voice barely audible.

"She said there'd turn out to be someone stronger."

Dwer shook his head. "Who?"

"That smelly old urs! Leader o' those four-legged soon-

1 n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 151

ers, back in the village pen. Said the Rothen might be
a-feared of somebody bigger. So she was right."
"urs smelly?" yee objected, "you wife should talk?"
Rety stroked the little male as yee stretched his neck,
fluting a contented sigh.

The fallen scout boat. rocke'd from a new explosion, this
one brightly framing a rectangle in the ship's side. That
section fell and two bipeds followed, leaping into the bog,
chased by smoke that boiled from the interior. Staggering
through murky water, the men leaned on each other to
reach a weedy islet, where they fell, exhausted.

The newcomer ship cruised a wary circle, losing altitude.
As it turned, Dwer saw a stream of pale smoke pouring
from a gash in its other side. A roughness to the engine
sound grew steadily worse. Soon, the second cruiser set-
tled down near the first.

Well, it looks like Kunn got in a lick of his own.
Dwer wondered—Now why should that make me feel
glad?

Alvin

BONE-RATTLING CONCUSSIONS GREW MORE TERRI-
fying with each dura, hammering our undersea prison
refuge, sometimes receding for a while, then returning
with new force, making it hard for a poor hoon to stand
properly on the shuddering floor.

Crutches and a back brace didn't help, nor the little
autoscribe, fogging the room with my own projected
words. Stumbling through them, I sought some solid object
to hold, while the scribe kept adding to the mob of words,
recording my frantic curses in Anglic and GalSeven. When
I found a wall stanchion, I grabbed for dear life. The
clamor of reverberating explosions sounded like a giant,
bearing down with massive footsteps, nearer . . . ever
nearer. . . .

Then, as I feared some popping seam would let in the

152 David B r i n

dark, heavy waters of the Midden ... it abruptly

stopped.
Silence was almost as disorienting as the jeekee awful

noise. My throat sac blatted uselessly while a hysterical
Huphu clawed my shoulders, shredding scales into torglike

ribbons.
Fortunately, hoon don't have much talent for panic.

Maybe our reactions are too slow, or else we lack imagina-
tion.

As I was gathering my wits, the door hatch opened and

one of the little amphibian types rushed in, squeaking a
few rapid phrases in simplified GalTwo.

A summons. The spinning voice wanted us for another

powwow.

"Perhaps we should share knowledge," it said when the
four of us (plus Huphu) were assembled.

Huck and Pincer-Tip, able to look all ways at once,
shared meaningful glances with Ur-ronn and me. We were
pretty rattled by the recent booming and shaking. Even
growing up next to a volcano had never prepared us for

that!
The voice seemed to come from a space where abstract

lines curled in tight patterns, but I knew that was an illu-
sion. The shapes and sounds were projections, sent by
some entity whose real body lay elsewhere, beyond the
walls. I kept expecting Huphu to dash off and tear away a
curtain, exposing a little man in an emerald carnival suit.
Do they think we're rubes, to fall for such a trick?

"Knowledge?" Huck sneered, drawing three eyes back
like coiled snakes. "You want to share some knowledge?
Then tell us what's going on! I thought this place was
breaking up! Was it a quake? Are we being sucked into the

Midden?"

"I assure you, that is not happening," came the answer

in smooth-toned GalSix. "The source of our mutual con-
cern lies above, not below."

"Exflosions," Ur-ronn muttered, blowing through her
snout fringe and stamping a hind hoof. "Those weren't
quakes, vut underwater detonations. Clean, sharf, and very

153

n f i n i r ij 's Shore

close. I'd say soneone uf there doesn't like you guys very
nuch."

Pincer hissed sharply and I stared at our urrish friend,
but the spinning voice conceded.

"That is an astute guess."

I couldn't tell if it was impressed, or just sarcastic.

"And since our local guild of exflosers could hardly
achieve such feats, this suggests you have other, fowerful
foes, far greater than we feevie Six."

"Again, a reasonable surmise. Such a bright young
lady."

"Hr-rm," I added, in order not to be left out of the sar-
donic abuse. "We're taught that the simplest hypothesis
should always be tried first. So let me guess—you're being
hunted by the same folks who landed a while back in the
Festival Glade. Those gene raiders Uriel got word about
before we left. Is that it?"

"A goodly conjecture, and possibly even true . . .
though it could as easily be someone else."

"Someone else? What're you say-ay-aying?" Pincer-Tip
demanded, raising three legs and teetering dangerously on
the remaining two. His chitin skin flared an anxious crim-
son shade. "That the eatees-tees-tees on the Glade might
not be the only ones? That you've got whole passels of
enemies?"

Abstract patterns tightened to a tornado of meshing lines
as silence reigned. Little Huphu, who had seemed fasci-
nated by the voice from the very start, now dug her claws
in my shoulder, transfixed by the tight spiral form.

Huck demanded, in a hushed tone.

"How many enemies have you guys got?"

when the voice spoke again, all sardonic traces were
gone. Its tone seemed deeply weary.

"Ah, dear children. It seems that half of the known side-
real universe has spent years pursuing us."

Pincer clattered his claws and Huck let out a low,
mournful sigh. My own dismal contemplation-umble
roused Huphu from her trancelike fixation on the whirling
display, and she chittered nervously.

Ur-ronn simply grunted, as if she had expected this, vin-
dicating her native urrish cynicism. After all, when things

154 David B r i n

seem unable to get any worse, isn't that when they nearly
always do? Ifni has a fertile, if nasty imagination. The god-
dess of fate keeps shaving new faces on her infinite-sided
dice.

"Well, I guess this means—hrm-m—that we can toss out all
those ideas about you phuvnthus being ancient Jijoans, or
native creatures of the deep."

"Or remnants of cast-off Buyur machines," Huck went
on. "Or sea monsters."

"Yeah," Pincer added, sounding disappointed. "Just an-
other bunch of crazy Galactics-tic-tics."

The swirling patterns seemed confused. "You would pre-
fer sea monsters'"'

"Forget it," Huck said. "You wouldn't understand."

The patterns bent and swayed.

"/ am afraid you may be right about that. Your small
band of comrades has us terribly perplexed. So much that
a few of us posed a sly scenario—that you were planted in
our midst to sow confusion."

"How do you mean?"

"Your values, beliefs, and evident mutual affection con-
tribute to undermining assumptions we regarded as im-
mutably anchored in the nature of reality.

"Mind you, this confusion is not wholly unpleasant. As a
thinking entity, one of my prime motives might be called a
lust for surprise. And those I work with are hardly less
bemused by the unforeseen marvel of your fellowship."

"Glad you find us entertaining," Huck commented, as
dryly sarcastic as the voice had been. "So you guys came
here to hide, like our ancestors?"

"There are parallels. But our plan was never to stay.
Only to make repairs, gather stores, and wait in conceal-
ment for a favorable window at the nearest transfer point."

"So Uriel and the sages may be wrong about the ship
that came to the Glade? Being a gang of gene raiders—that
could just be a cover story. Are you the real cause of our
troubles?"

"Trouble is synonymous with being a metabolizing en-

1 n f i n i r 11 ' s Shore 153

tity. Or else why have you young adventurers sought it so
avidly?

"But your complaint has merit. We thought we had
eluded all pursuit. The ship that landed in the mountains
may be coincidental, or attracted by a confluence of un-
lucky factors. In any event, had we known of your exis-
tence, we would have sought shelter somewhere off-planet
instead, perhaps in a dead city on one of your moons,
though such places are less convenient for effecting re-
pairs. "

That part I had trouble believing. I'm just an ignorant
savage, but from the classic scientific romances I grew up
reading, I could picture working in some lunar ghost town
like my nicknamesake, waking mighty engines that had
slept for ages. What kind of starfaring beings would find
darkness and salt water more "convenient" than clean vac-
uum?

We lapsed into moody silence, unable to stay outraged at
folks who accept responsibility so readily. Anyway,
weren't they fellow refugees from Galactic persecution?

Or from justice, came another, worried thought.

"Can you tell us why everyone's so mad at you?" I asked.

The spinning figure turned into a narrow, whirling fun-
nel whose small end seemed diminished and very far
away.

"Like you, we delved and probed into unvisited places,
imagining ourselves bold explorers. . . . ," the voice ex-
plained in tones of boundless sadness. "Until we bad the
misfortune to find the very thing we sought. Unexpected
wonders beyond our dreams.

"Breaking no law, we planned only to share what we
had found. But those pursuing us abandoned all pretense
of legality. Like giants striving over possession of a gnat,
they war lustily, battling each other for a chance to capture
us! Alas, whoever wins our treasure will surely use it
against multitudes."

Again, we stared. Pincer unleashed awed whispers from
all vents at once.

"Tr-tr-treasure-ure-ure . . . ?"

Huck wheeled close to the spinning pattern. "Can you
prove what you just said?"

156 David B f i n

"Not at this time. Not without putting your people in
more danger than they already are."

I recall wondering—what could be more dangerous than
the genocide Uriel had spoken of, as one likely outcome of
contact with gene raiders?

"Nevertheless, "the voice continued, "it may prove possi-
ble to improve our level of mutual confidence. Or even help
each other in significant ways."

S

ara

SUPPOSE THE WORLD'S TWO MOST CAREFUL OB-
servers witnessed the same event. They would never
agree precisely on what had happened. Nor could they
go back and check. Events may be recorded, but the past
can't be replayed.

And the future is even more nebulous—a territory we
make up stories about, mapping strategies that never go as
planned.

Sara's beloved equations, derived from pre-contact
works of ancient Earth, depicted time as a dimension, akin
to the several axes of space. Galactic experts ridiculed this
notion, calling the relativistic models of Einstein and others
"naive." Yet Sara knew the expressions contained truth.
They had to. They were too beautiful not to be part of
universal design.

That contradiction drew her from mathematics to ques-
tions of language—how speech constrains the mind, so
that some ideas come easily, while others can't even be
expressed.  Earthling tongues—Anglic,  Rossic,  and
Nihanic—seemed especially prone to paradoxes, tautolo-
gies, and "proofs" that sound convincing but run counter
to the real world.

But chaos had also crept into the Galactic dialects used
byJijo's other exile races, even before Terran settlers came.
To some Biblos linguists, this was evidence of devolution,
starfaring sophistication giving way to savagery, and even-
tually to proto-sapient grunts. But last year another expla-

f i nIr i) ' s Shore  157

nation occurred to Sara, based on pre-contact information
theory. An insight so intriguing that she left Biblos to work
on it.

Or was I just looking for an excuse to stay away?

After Joshu died of the pox—and her mother of a
stroke—research in an obscure field seemed the perfect
refuge. Perched in a lonely tree house, with just Prity and
her books for company, Sara thought herself sealed off
from the world's intrusions.

But the universe has a way of crashing through walls.

Sara glanced at Emerson's glistening dark skin and ro-
bust smile, warmed by feelings of affection and accom-
plishment. Aside from his muteness, the starman scarcely
resembled the shattered wreck she had found in the mule
swamp near Dolo and nursed back from near death.

Maybe I should quit my intellectual pretensions and
stick with what I'm good at. If the Six Races fell to fighting
among themselves, there would be more need of nurses
than theoreticians.

So her thoughts spun on, chaotically orbiting the thin
glowing line down the center of the tunnel. A line that
never altered as they trudged on. Its changelessness re-
buked Sara for her private heresy, the strange, blasphe-
mous belief that she held, perhaps alone among all Jijoans.

The quaint notion of progress.

Out of breath after another run, she climbed back aboard
the wagon to find Prity chuffing nervously. Sara reached
over to check the little chimp's wound, but Prity wriggled
free, clambering atop the bench seat, hissing through
bared teeth as she peered ahead.

The drivers were in commotion, too. Kepha and Nuli
inhaled with audible sighs. Sara took a deep breath and
found her head awash with contrasts. The bucolic smell of
meadows mixed with a sharp metallic tang . . . some-
thing utterly alien. She stood up with the backs of her
knees braced against the seat.

Was that a hint of light, where the center stripe met its
vanishing point?

158 David B r i n

Soon a pale glow was evident. Emerson nipped his rewq
over his eyes, then off again.

"Uncle, wake up!" Jomah shook Kurt's shoulder. "I think

we're there!"

But the glow remained vague for a long time. Dedinger
muttered impatiently, and for once Sara agreed with him.
Expectation of journey's end made the tunnel's remnant

almost unendurable.

The horses sped without urging, as Kepha and Nuli rum-
maged beneath their seats and began passing out dark
glasses. Only Emerson was exempted, since his rewq made
artificial protection unnecessary. Sara turned the urrish-
made spectacles in her hand.

I guess daylight will seem unbearably bright for a time,
after we leave this hole. Still, any discomfort would be brief
until their eyes readapted to the upper world. The precau-
tion seemed excessive.

At last we'll find out where the horse clan hid all these
years. Eagerness blended with sadness, for no reality—not
even some god wonder of the Galactics—could compare
with the fanciful images found in pre-contact tales.

A mystic portal to some parallel reality? A kingdom float-
ing in the clouds?

She sighed. It's probably just some out-of-the-way moun-
tain valley where neighboring villagers are too inbred and
ignorant to know the difference between a donkey and a

horse.

The ancient transitway began to rise. The stripe grew
dim as illumination spread along the walls, like liquid trick-
ling from some reservoir, far ahead. Soon the tunnel began
taking on texture. Sara made out shapes. Jagged outlines.

Blinking dismay, she realized they were plunging
toward sets of triple jaws, like a giant urrish mouth lined
with teeth big enough to spear the wagon whole!

Sara took her cue from the Illias. Kepha and Nuli seemed
unruffled by the serrated opening. Still, even when she saw
the teeth were metal—corroded with flaking rust—Sara
could hardly convince herself it was only a dead machine.

A huge Buyur thing.

She had never seen its like. Nearly all the great buildings
and devices of the meticulous Buyur had been hauled to

Infiniru's Shore 159

sea during their final years on Jijo, peeling whole cities and
seeding mule spiders to eat what remained.

So why didn 't the deconstructors carry this thing away?

Behind the massive jaws lay disks studded with shiny
stones that Sara realized were diamonds as big as her head.
The wagon track went from smooth to bumpy as Kepha
maneuvered the team along a twisty trail through the great
machine's gullet, zigzagging around the huge disks.

At once Sara realized—

This is a deconstructor! It must have been demolishing
the tunnel when it broke down.

I wonder why no one ever bothered to repair or haul it

away.

Then Sara saw the reason.

Lava.

Tongues and streamlets of congealed basalt protruded
through a dozen cracks, where they hardened in place half
a million years ago. It was caught by an eruption.

Much later, teams of miners from some of the Six Races
must have labored to clear a narrow path through the belly
of the dead machine, chiseling out the last stretch separat-
ing the tunnel from the surface. Sara saw marks of crude
pickaxes. And explosives must have been used, as well.
That could explain the guild's knowledge of this place.

Sara wanted to gauge Kurt's reaction, but just then the
glare brightened as the team rounded a final sharp bend,
climbing a steep ramp toward a maelstrom of light.

Sara fumbled for her glasses as the world exploded with
color.

Swirling colors that stabbed.
Colors that shrieked.

Colors that sang with melodies so forceful that her ears
throbbed.

Colors that made her nose twitch and skin prickle with
sensations just short of pain. A gasping moan lifted in uni-
son from the passengers, as the wagon crested a short rise
to reveal surroundings more foreign than the landscape of
a dream.

Even with the dark glasses in place, each peak and val-
ley shimmered more pigments than Sara could name.
In a daze, she sorted her impressions. To one side pro-

l6o David B r i n

truded the mammoth deconstructor, a snarl of slumped
metal, drowned in ripples of frozen magma. Ripples that
extended to the far horizon—layer after layer of radiant

stone.

At last she knew the answer to her question.
Where on the Slope could a big secret remain hidden for

a century or more?

Even Dedinger, prophet of the sharp-sand desert,

moaned aloud at how obvious it was.

They were in the last place on Jijo anyone would go

looking for people.
The very center of the Spectral Flow.

PORT FOUR

FROM THE NOTES
OF G1LLIAN BASKIN

WISH I COULD introduce myself to Alvtn. I
'• icel 1 already know the lad/ irom reading his
' Journal and eavesdropping on conversations
' among his mends.

I       1 heir grasp ol twenty-thtrd-century
] /\nglic idiom is so perrect/ and their eager

• enthusiasm so dllierent irom the hoons and
' urs 1 met before coming to Jljo/ that hal( the
. time I almost lorget 1m listening to aliens.
i that is/ it 1 ignore the weird speech tones
' and inrlecttons they take lor granted.
,       I hen one ol them comes up with a
' burst ol eerily skewed logic that reminds me
I these arent just human kids alter all/ dressed

up in llalloween suits to look like a crab/ a
; centaur/ and a squid (n a wheelchatr.
'       lassing the time/ they wondered vand 1
. could not blame them,/ whether they were

• prisoners or guests in this underwater reiuge.
^ Speculation led to a wide-ranging discussion/
, comparing various tamous captives ot literature.
Yvmong their intriguing perceptions——Ur-

• ronn sees Richard 11 as the story o( a legiti-

mate business takeover/ with Dolingbroke as the kings authentic

apprentice.

1 he red qheuen/ 1 incer- lip/ maintains that the hero ot the

leng Ho chronicles was kept in the emperors harem against his
will/ even though he had access to the bight Hundred Beauties

and could leave at any time.

finally/ Huck declared It frustrating that Shakespeare spent

so little time dealing with /Vlacbeths evil wile/ especially her
attempt to escape sin by iinding redemption in a presapient state.
[luck has ideas tor a sequel/ describing the ladys reuplilt irom
the tallow condition. Iner ambitious work would be no less than
a morality tale about betrayal and destiny in the 1'ive Oalaxles!

Beyond these singular insights/ 1 am struck that here on Jijo
an illiterate community ot castaways was suddenly Hooded with
written lore provided by human settlers. What an ironic reversal
ot Larths situation/ with our own native culture nearly over-
whelmed by exposure to the Oreat Oalactic Liorary. Astonish-
ingly/ the Six Kaces seem to have adapted with vitality and
contidence/ if tluck and Y\lvin are at all representative.
1 wish their experiment well.

Admittedly/ 1 still have trouble understanding their religion.
the concept o( redemption through devolution is one they seem to
take tor granted/ yet its attraction eludes me.

to my surprise/ our ships doctor said she understands the

concept/ quite well.

tvery dolphin grows up tee ling the call/ /Vlakanee told
me. In sleep/ our minds still roam the vast songscape ol the
V/hale Uream. It beckons us to return to our basic nature/
whenever the stress ot sapiency becomes too great.

1 his dolphin crew has been under pressure lor three long
years. /Vlakanees tfait must care tor over two dogen patients who
are already redeemed/ as a Jijoan would put it. 1 hese dolphins
have reclaimed their basic nature all right. In other words/ we

have lost them as comrades and skilled colleagues/ as surely as it
they died.

/Vlakanee tights regression wherever she tinds symptoms/ and
yet she remains philosophical. She even otters a theory to explain
why the idea revolts me so.

She put it something like so——

1 L,Ktiy\l S you humans dread this lite avenue because your race
had to work tor sapiency/ earning it lor yourselt the hard way/
across thousands ot bleak generations.

We tins—and these urs and qheuens and noons/ and
every other Oalactic clan——all had the gitt handed to us by
some race that came betore. /ou can t expect us to hold on to it
quite as tenaciously as you/ who had to struggle so desperately tor
the same pri^e.

1 he attraction ot this so-called Kedemption lath may be a
bit like ditching school. 1 here s something alluring about the no-
tion ol letting go/ shucking the discipline and toil ot maintaining
a rigorous mind. It you slack ott/ so what' YOM descendants will
get another chance. /\ tresh start on the upward road ot uplift/
with new patrons to show you the way.

1 asked /Vlakanee it she found that part of it especially appealing.

Ihe idea of new patrons. Vwuld dolphins be better off with
ditlerent sponsors than Homo sapiens'

She laughed and expressed her answer in deliclously ambiguous

Irinary.

When winter sends ice

(growling across northern seas
Wimps love the gull stream!

/Vlakanees comment made me ponder again the question ot hu-
man origins.

On Earth/ most people seem willing to suspend Judgment
on the question of whether our species had help irom genetic
meddlers/ before the age of science and then contact. Stubborn
l-)arwinists still present a strong case/ but lew have the guts to
insist Oalactic experts are wrong when they claim/ with eons 01
experience/ that the sole route to sapiency is Uplift. AAany lerran
citizens take their word (or it.

So the debate rages——on popular media shows and in pri-
vate arguments among humans/ dolphins/ and chims—about who
our absent patrons might have been. /\t last count there were six
do?en candidates—from luvalllans and L»ethani all the way to
Sun Ohosts and time travelers irom some bizarre (Nineteenth
L-)imension.

While a few dolphins do believe in missing patrons/ a
majority are like /Vlakanee. I hey hold that we humans must have
done it ourselves/ struggling against darkness without the slightest
Intervention by outsiders.

How did Chaplain Oreideiki put it/ once" Oh yes.

1 Hr,Kt are racial memories/ lorn and Jill. Kecollecttons that
can be accessed through deep keeneenk meditation. One particular
image comes down (rom our dreamlike legends——ot an apelike
creature paddling to sea on a tree trunk/ proudly proclaiming that
he had carved it/ all by himself/ with a stone ax/ and demanding
congratulations irom an indifferent cosmos.

l\ow 1 ask you/ would any decent patron let its client act
in such a way y\ manner that made you look so ridiculous'

INO. Irom the beginning we could tell that you humans
were being raised by amateurs. Dy yourselves.

./\T least thats how 1 remember Oreidelkis remark, lorn found it
hilarious/ but 1 recall suspecting that our captain was withholding
part 01 the story. 1 here was more/ that he was saving for another
time.

Only another time never came.

L.ven as we dined with Oreideiki that evening/ Streaker
was wriggling her way by an obscure back route into the Shallow
duster.

/\ day or two later/ everything changed.

11 S late and ! should finish these notes. Iry to catch some sleep.

Mannes reports mixed results irom engineering, lie and
l\arkaett found a way to remove some o( the carbon coating from
JtreaKer s hull/ but a more thorough job would only wind up
damaging our already weak Ranges/ so thats out for now.

On the other hand/ the control parameters 1 hoaxed out or
the Library cube enabled Suessis crew to bring a couple or these
derelict dross starships back to lire! 1 hey re still Junk/ or else the
Duyur would have taken them along when they lett. Out immer-
sion in icy water appears to have made little difference since then.
lerhaps some use might be found for one or two of the hulks.
/\nyway/ it gives the engineers something to do.

VVe need distraction/ now that Jtreaker seems to be
trapped once more. Oalactic cruisers have yet again chased us
down to a far corner or the universe/ coveting our lives and our
secrets.

How'

Ive pondered this over and over. How did they follow our
trail?

1 he course past l?munuti seemed well hidden. Others made
successful escapes this way before. 1 he ancestors of the Six Kaces/
ior instance.

It should have worked.

/vOKOSS this narrow room/ 1 stare at a small figure in a
centered spotlight. /Vly closest companion since lorn went away.

Herbie.

Our pri^e from the Shallow duster.

Bearer ot hopes and evil luck.

\^as there a curse on the vast fleet of translucent vessels'
we discovered at that strange dip in space' When Tom lound a
way through their shimmering fields and snatched Herb as a
souvenir/ did he bring back a Jinx that will haunt us until we
put the damned corpse back in its billion-year-old •tomb1

I used to find the ancient mummy entrancing. Its hint ot a
humanoid smile seemed almost whimsical.

But Ive grown to hate the thing/ and alt the space this
discovery has sent us Heeing across.

Fd give it all to have Tom back. To make the last three
years go away. lo recover those innocent old days/ when the rive
Oalaxies were merely very/ very dangerous/ and there was still
such a thing as home.

B-BUT YOU SAID HOONS WERE OUR ENEMIESSS!"
Zhaki's tone was defiant, though his body posture—
head down and flukes raised—betrayed uncertainty.
Kaa took advantage, stirring water with his pectoral fins,
taking the firm upright stance of an officer in the Terragens
Survey Service.

"Those were different hoons," he answered. "The
NuDawn disaster happened a long time ago."

Zhaki shook his bottle snout, flicking spray across the
humid dome. "Eatees are eateesss. They'll crush Earthlings
any chance they get, just like the Soro and Tandu and all
the other muckety Galactics-cs!"

Kaa winced at the blanket generalization, but after two
years on the run, such attitudes were common among the
ranks. Kaa also nursed the self-pitying image of Earth
against the entire universe. But if that were true, the tor-
ment would have ended with annihilation long ago.

We have allies, a few friends . . . and the grudging
sympathy of neutral clans, who hold meetings debating
what to do about a plague of fanaticism sweeping the Five

l68 David B r i n

Galaxies. Eventually, the majority may reach a consensus
and act to reestablish civilization.
They may even penalize our murderers . . . for all the

good it will do us.

"Actually," said Brookida, turning from his workbench
in the far corner of the cramped shelter. "I would not put
the hoon in the same category as our other persecutors.
They aren't religious radicals, or power-hungry conquer-
ors. Sourpuss bureaucrats—that's a better description. Offi-
cious sticklers for rules, which is why so many enter
service with Galactic Institutes. At NuDawn they were only
enforcing the law. When human settlers resisted—"

"They thought they were being invaded!" Zhaki ob-
jected.

"Yessss." Brookida nodded. "But Earth's colony hadn't
heard about contact, and they lacked equipment to hear
Galactic inquiries. When hoonish officials came to give a
ritual last warning, they met something not in their manu-
als ... armed trespassersss. Barbarians with no Galactic
language. Mistakes followed. Military units swarmed in

from Joph—"

"This has nothing to do with our present problem." Kaa
interrupted Brookida's history lecture. "Zhaki, you must
stop cutting the local hoons' fishing netsss! It draws atten-
tion to us."

"Angry attention," Brookida added. "They grow wary
against your dep-p-predations, Zhaki. Last time, they cast
many spears."

The young dolphin snorted.

* Let the whalers throw!

* As in autumn storms of old—
* Waves come, two-legs drown! *

Kaa flinched. Moments ago, Zhaki was eager to avenge
humans who had died on a lost colony, back when dol-
phins could barely speak. Now the irate youth lumped all
bipeds together,, dredging up a grudge from days before
men and women became caretakers of Earth. There was no
arguing with a mind that worked that way.
Still, it was Kaa's job to enforce discipline.

infiniru's Shore 169

* If you repeat this act,

* No harpoon will sting your backside
* Like my snapping teeth! *

It wasn't great haiku—not poetical Trinary like Captain
Creideiki used to dazzle his crew with, Grafting devoted
loyalty from waves of gorgeous sound. But the warning
rocked Zhaki. Kaa followed up, projecting a beam of in-
tense sonar from his brow, piercing Zhaki's body, be-
traying fear churnings within.

When in doubt, he thought, fall back on the ancestors'
ways.

"You are dismisssssed," he finished. "Go rest. Tomor-
row's another long day."

Zhaki swerved obediently, retreating to the curtained al-
cove he shared with Mopol.

Alas, despite this brief success, Kaa also knew it would
not last.

Tsh 't told us this was an important mission. But I bet she
assigned us all here because we're the ones Streaker could
most easily do without.

That night he dreamed of piloting.

Neo-dolphins had a flair for it—a precocious talent for
the newest sapient species in all Five Galaxies. Just three
hundred years after human geneticists began modifying
natural bottlenose dolphins, starship Streaker was dis-
patched in a noble experiment to prove the skill of dolphin
crews. The Terragens Council thought it might help solidify
Earth's shaky position to become known as a source of
crackerjack pilots.

"Lucky" Kaa had naturally been pleased to be chosen for
the mission, though it brought home one glaring fact.

/ was good . . . but not the best.

In half slumber, Kaa relived the terrifying ambush at
Morgran, a narrow escape that still rocked him, even after
-all this time.

Socketed in his station on the bridge, helpless to do any-

170 David B f i n

thing but go along for the ride, as Chief Pilot Keepiru sent
the old Snark-class survey ship through maneuvers a
Tandu fighter ship would envy, neatly evading lurk mines
and snare fields, then diving back into the Morgran mael-
strom, without benefit of guidance computation.

The memory lost no vividness after two long years.

Transit threads swarmed around them, a dizzying blur
of dimensional singularities. By a whim of cerebral evolu-
tion, trained dolphin pilots excelled at picturing the shim-
mering space-time clefts with sonar imagery. But Kaa had
never rushed through such a tangle/A tornado of knotted
strands. Any shining cord, caught at the wrong angle,
might burl the ship back into normal space with the consis-
tency of quark stew ...

. . . Yet somehow, the ship sped nimbly from one thread
to the next, Keepiru escaped the pursuers, dodged past the
normal trade routes, and finally brought Streaker to a ref-
uge Captain Creideiki chose.

Kithrup, where resources for repairs could be found as
pure isotopic metal, growing like coral in a poison
sea . . .

. . . Kithrup, homeworld of two unknown races, one
sinking in an ancient wallow of despair, and the other
hopeful, new ...

. . . Kithrup, where no one should have been able to
follow ...

. . . But they did. Galactics, feuding and battling in-
sanely overhead . . .

. . . And soon Keepiru was gone, along with Toshio,
Hikahi, and Mr. Orley . . .

. . . and Kaa learned that some wishes were better not
coming true.

He learned that he did not really want to be chief pilot,
after all.

In the years since, he has gained experience. The es-
capes he piloted—from Oakka and the Fractal System—
were performed well, if not as brilliantly.

Not quite good enough to preserve Kaa's nickname.

7 never heard anyone else say they could do better.

All in all, it was not a restful sleep.

f i n i f u ' s Shore 171

Zhaki and Mopol were at it again, before dawn, rubbing
and squealing beyond a slim curtain they nearly shredded
with their slashing tails. They should have gone outside to
frolic, but Kaa dared not order it.

"It is typical postadolescent behavior," Brookida told
him, by the food dispenser. "Young males grow agitated.
Among natural dolphins, unisex play ceases to be suffi-
cient as youths turn their thoughts to winning the compan-
ionship of females. Young allies often test their status by
jointly challenging older males."

Of course Kaa knew all that. But he could not agree with
the "typical" part. / never acted that way. Oh sure, I was an
obnoxious, arrogant young fin. But I never acted inten-
tionally gross, or like some reverted animal.

"Maybe Tsh't should have assigned females to our
team." He pondered aloud.

"Wouldn't help," answered the elderly metallurgist. "If
those two schtorks weren't getting any aboard ship, they
wouldn't do any better here. Our fern-fins have high stan-
dards."

Kaa sputtered out a lump of half-chewed mullet as he
laughed, grateful for Brookida's lapse into coarse humor—
though it grazed by a touchy subject among Streaker's
crew, the petition to breed that some had been circulating
and signing.

Kaa changed the subject. "How goes your analysis of the
matter the hoons dumped overboard?"

Brookida nodded toward his workbench, where several
ribboned casks lay cracked open. Bits of bone and crystal
glittered amid piles of ashen dust.

"So far, the contents confirm what the hoonish boy
wrote in his journal."

"Amazing. I was sure it must be a fake, planted by our
enemies." Transcripts of the handwritten diary, passed
on by Streaker's command, seemed too incredible to be-
lieve.

"Apparently the story is true. Six races do live together
on this world. As part of ecology-oriented rituals, they send
their unrecyclable wastes—called dross—to sea for burial

172   0 a v i d B r i n

in special disposal zones. This includes parts of their pro-
cessed bodies."

"And you found—"

"Human remainsss." Brookida nodded. "As well as
chimps, hoons, urs . . . the whole crowd this young 'Al-
vin' wrote about."

Kaa was still dazed by it all.

"And there are ... J-Jophur." He could hardly speak
the word aloud.

Brookida frowned. "A matter of definition, it seems. I've
exchanged message queries with Gillian and the Niss Ma-
chine. They suggest these so-called traeki might have the
other races fooled as part of an elaborate, long-range plot."

"How could that be?"

"I am not sure. It would not require that every traeki
be in on the scheme. Just a few, with secret master rings, •
and the hidden equipment to dominate their fellow be-
ings. I cannot quite fathom it. But Gillian has questioned
the captured Library unit. And that seems a possssible sce-
nario."

Kaa had no answer for that. Such matters seemed so
complex, so far beyond his grasp, his only response was to
shiver from the tip of his rostrum all the way down to his
trembling tail.

They spent another day spying on the local sooners. The
hoonish seaport, Wuphon, seemed to match the descrip-
tions in Alvin's journal . . . though more crude and
shabby in the eyes of beings who had seen the sky towers
of Tanith and bright cities on Earth's moon. The hoons
appeared to pour more lavish attention on their boats than
their homes. The graceful sailing ships bore delicate carv-
ing work, down to proud figureheads shaped like garish
deities.

When a vessel swept past Kaa, he overheard the deep,
rumbling sounds of singing, as the sailors boomed evident
joy across the whitecaps.

It's hard to believe these are the same folk Brookida de-
scribed as passionless prigs. Maybe there are two races that

nf \ u ' s Shore 173

look alike, and have similar-sounding names. Kaa made a
mental note to send an inquiry in tonight's report.

Hoons weren't alone on deck. He peered at smaller crea-
tures, scrambling nimbly over the rigging, but when he
tried using a portable camera, the image swept by too fast
to catch much more than a blur.

Streaker also wanted better images of the volcano,
which apparently was a center of industrial activity among
the sooner races. Gillian and Tsh't were considering send-
ing another independent robot ashore, though earlier
drones had been lost. Kaa got spectral readings of the
mountain's steaming emissions, and discovered the trace of
a slender tramway, camouflaged against the rocky slopes.

He checked frequently on Zhaki and Mopol, who
seemed to be behaving for a change, sticking close to their
assigned task of eavesdropping on the red qheuen colony.

But later, when all three of them were on their way back
to base, Mopol lagged sluggishly behind.

"It must-t have been some-thing I ate," the blue dolphin
murmured, as unpleasant gurglings erupted within his ab-
domen.

Oh great, Kaa thought. I warned him a hundred times
not to sample local critters before Brookida had a chance
to test them!

Mopol swore it was nothing. But as the water surround-
ing their shelter dimmed with the setting sun, he started
moaning again. Brookida used their tiny med scanner, but
was at a loss to tell what had gone wrong.

NOMINALLY, SHE COMMANDED EARTH'S MOST FA-
mous spaceship—a beauty almost new by Galactic stan-
dards, just nine hundred years old when the Terragens
Council purchased it from a Puntictin used-vessel dealer,
then altered and renamed it Streaker to show off the skills
of neo-dolphin voyagers.

Alas, the bedraggled craft seemed unlikely ever again to

174 David B r i n

cruise the great spiral ways. Burdened by a thick coat of
refractory stardust—and now trapped deep underwater
while pursuers probed the abyss with sonic bombs—to all
outward appearances, it seemed doomed to join the sur-
rounding great pile of ghost ships, sinking in the slowly
devouring mud of an oceanic ravine.

Gone was the excitement that first led Tsh't into the ser-
vice. The thrill of flight. The exhilaration. Nor was there
much relish in "authority," since she did not make policies
or crucial decisions. Gillian Baskin had that role.

What remained was handling ten thousand details . . .
like when a disgruntled cook accosted her in a water-filled
hallway, wheedling for permission to go up to the realm of

light.

"It'ssss too dark and c-cold to go fishing down here!"

complained Bulla-jo, whose job it was to help provide
meals for a hundred finicky dolphins. "My harvesst team
can hardly move, wearing all that pressure armor. And
have you seen the so-called fish we catch in our nets?
Weird things, all sspiky and glowing!"

Tsh't replied, "Dr. Makanee has passed at least forty
common varieties of local sea life as both tasty and nutri-
tious, so long as we sssupplement with the right additives."

Still, Bulla-jo groused.

"Everyone favors the samples we got earlier, from the
upper world of waves and open air. There are great
schools of lovely things swimming around up-p there."

Then Bulla-jo lapsed into Trinary.

* Where perfect sunshine

* Makes lively prey fish glitter
* As they flee from us! *

He concluded, "If you want fresh f-food, let us go to the

surface, like you p-promised!"

Tsh't quashed an exasperated sigh over Bulla-jo's forget-
fulness. In this early stage of their Uplift, neo-dolphins
often perceived whatever they chose, ignoring contradic-
tions.

J do it myself, now and then.

She tried cultivating patience, as Creideiki used to teach.

Infinirii's Shore 175

"Dr. Baskin canceled plans to send more parties to the
sunlit surface," she told Bulla-jo, whose speckled flanks
and short beak revealed ancestry from the stenos dolphin
line. "Did it escape your notice that gravitic emissions have
been detected, cruising above this deep fissure? Or that
someone has been dropping sonic charges, seeking to find
usss?"

Bulla-jo lowered his rostrum in an attitude of obstinate
insolence. "We can g-go naked . . . carry no tools the
eatees could detect-ct."

Tsh't marveled at such single-minded thinking.

"That might work if the gravities were far away, say in
orbit, or passing by at high altitude. But once they know
our rough location they can cruise low and slow, ssseeking
the radiochemical spoor of molecules in our very blood.
Surface-swimming fins would give us away."

Irony was a bittersweet taste to Tsh't, for she knew
something she had no intention of sharing with Bulla-jo.
They are going to detect us, no matter how many precau-
tions Gillian orders.

To the frustrated crew member, she had only soothing
words.

"Just float loose for a while longer, will you, Bulla-jo? I,
too, would love to chase silvery fish through warm waters.
All may be resolved sh-shortly."

Grumpy, but mollified, the messmate saluted by clap-
ping his pectoral fins and swimming back to duty . . .
though Tsh't knew the crisis would recur. Dolphins dis-
liked being so far from sunlight, or from the tide's cycloid
rub against shore. Tursiops weren't meant to dwell so
deep, where pressurized sound waves carried in odd, dis-
turbing ways.

It is the realm of Physeter, sperm whale, great-browed
messenger of the ancient dream gods, who dives to wrestle
great-armed demons.

The abyss was where hopes and nightmares from past,
present, and future drifted to form dark sediments—a place
best left to sleeping things.

We neo-fins are superstitious at heart. But what can you
expect, having humans as our beloved patrons? Humans,

176 David B r i n

who are themselves wolflings, primitive by the standards of
a billion-year-old culture.

This she pondered while inhaling deeply, filling her gill
lungs with the air-charged fluid, oxy-water, that filled most
of Streaker's residential passages—a genetically impro-
vised manner of breathing that nourished, but never com-
fortably. One more reason many of the crew yearned for
the clean, bright world above.

Turning toward the Streaker's bridge, she thrust power-
fully through the fizzing liquid, leaving clouds of efferves-
cence behind her driving flukes. Each bubble gave off a
faint pop! as it hiccuped into existence, or merged back
into supercharged solution. Sometimes the combined su-
surration sounded like elfin applause—or derisive laugh-
ter—following her all over the ship.

At least I don't fool myself, she thought. 7 do all right.
Gillian says so, and puts her trust in me. But I know I'm
not meant for command.

Tsh't had never expected such duty when Streaker
blasted out of Earth orbit, refurbished for use by a neo-
dolphin crew. Back then—over two years ago, by ship-
clock time—Tsh't had been only a junior lieutenant, a
distant fifth in line from Captain Creideiki. And it was com-
mon knowledge that Tom Orley and Gillian Baskin could
step in if the need seemed urgent ... as Gillian eventu-
ally did, during the crisis on Kithrup.

Tsh't didn't resent that human intervention. In arranging
an escape from the Kithrup trap, Tom and Gillian pulled
off a miracle, even if it led to the lovers' separation.

Wasn't that the job of human leaders and heroes? To
intercede when a crisis might overwhelm their clients?

But where do we turn when matters get too awful even
for humans to handle?

Galactic tradition adhered to a firm—some said oppres-
sive—hierarchy of debts and obligations. A client race to its
patron. That patron to its sapience benefactor . . . and so
on, tracing the great chain of uplift all the way back to the
legendary Progenitors. The same chain of duty underlay
the reaction of' some fanatical clans on hearing news of
Streaker's discovery—a fleet of derelict ships with ancient,
venerated markings.

Infinilij's Shore 177

But the pyramid of devotion had positive aspects. The
uplift cascade meant each new species got help crossing
the dire gap dividing mere animals from starfaring citizens.
And if your sponsors lacked answers, they might ask their
patrons. And so on.

Gillian had tried appealing to this system, taking
Streaker from Kithrup to Oakka, the green world, seeking
counsel from impartial savants of the Navigation Institute.
Failing there, she next sought help in the Fractal Orb—that
huge icy place, a giant snowflake that spanned a solar sys-
tem's width—hoping the venerable beings who dwelled
there might offer wise detachment, or at least refuge.

It wasn't Dr. Baskin's fault that neither gamble paid off
very well. She had the right general idea, Tsh't mused. But
Gillian remains blind to the obvious.

Who is most likely to help, when you're in trouble and a
lynch mob is baying at your tail?

The courts?

Scholars at some university?

Or your own family?

Tsh't never dared suggest her idea aloud. Like Tom
Orley, Gillian took pride in the romantic image of upstart
Earthclan, alone against the universe. Tsh't knew the an-
swer would be no.

So, rather than flout a direct order, Tsh't had quietly put
her own plan into effect, just before Streaker made her
getaway from the Fractal System.

What else could I do, with Streaker pursued by horrid
fleets, our best crew members gone, and Earth under siege?
Our Tymbrimi friends can barely help even themselves.
Meanwhile, the Galactic Institutes have been corrupted
and the Old Ones lied to us.

We had no choice.

. . . I had no choice . . .

It was hard concealing things, especially from someone
who knew dolphins as well as Gillian. For weeks since
Streaker arrived here, Tsh't half hoped her disobedience
would come to nought.

Then the detection officer reported gravitic traces. Star-
craft engines, entering Jijo space.

So, they came after all, she had thought, hearing the

178 David B r i n

news, concealing satisfaction while her crew mates ex-
pressed noisy chagrin, bemoaning that they now seemed
cornered by relentless enemies on a forlorn world.

Tsh't wanted to tell them the truth, but dared not. That

good news must wait.

Ifni grant that I was right.

Tsh't paused outside the bridge, filling her gene-altered
lungs with oxy-water. Enriching her blood to think clearly
before setting in motion the next phase of her plan.

There is just one true option for a client race, when your
beloved patrons seem overwhelmed, and all other choices

are cut off.

May the gods of Earth's ancient ocean know and under-
stand what I've done.

And what I may yet have to do.

Sooners

Net elo

ONCE, A BUYUR URBAN CENTER STRETCHED BE-
tween two rivers, from the Roney all the way to the far-
off Bibur.

Now the towers were long gone, scraped and hauled
away to distant seas. In their place, spiky ferns and cloud-
like voow trees studded a morass of mud and oily water.
Mule-spider vines laced a few rounded hummocks remain-
ing from the great city, but even those tendrils were now
faded, their part in the demolition nearly done.

To Nelo, this was wasteland, rich in life but useless to
any of the Six Races, except perhaps as a traeki vacation
resort.

What am I doing here? he wondered. I should he back
in Dolo, tending my mill, not prowling through a swamp,
keeping a crazy woman company.

Behind Nelo, hoonish sailors cursed low, expressive
rumblings, resentful over having to pole through a
wretched bog. The proper time for gleaning was at the start
of the dry season, when citizens in high-riding boats took
turns sifting the marsh for Buyur relics missed by the pa-

180

tient mule beast. Now, with rainstorms due any day, condi-
tions were miserable for exploring. The muddy channels
were shallow, yet the danger of a flash flood was very real.
Nelo faced the elderly woman who sat in a wheelchair
near the bow, peering past obscuring trees with a rewq

over her eyes.

"The crew ain't happy, Sage Foo," he told her. "They'd

rather we waited till it's safe."

Ariana Foo answered without turning from her search.
"Oh, what a great idea. Four months or more we'd sit
around while the swamp fills, channels shift, and the thing
we seek gets buried in muck. Of course, by then the infor-
mation would be too late to do any good."

Nelo shrugged. The woman was retired now. She had no
official powers. But as former High Sage for all humans on
Jijo, Ariana had moral authority to ask anything she
wanted—including having Nelo leave his beloved paper
mill next to broad Dolo Dam, accompanying her on this

absurd search.

Not that there was much to do at the mill, he knew. With
commerce spoiled by panic over those wretched starsbips,
no one seems interested in buying large orders.

"Now is the best time," Ariana went on. "Late in dry
season, with water levels low, and the foliage drooping,
we get maximum visibility."

Nelo took her word. With most young men and women
away on militia duties, it was mostly adolescents and old-
timers who got drafted into the search party. Anyway,
Nelo's daughter had -been among the first to find the
Stranger from Space in this very region several months ago,
during a routine gleaning trip. And he owed Ariana for
bringing word about Sara and the boys—that they were all I
right, when last she heard. Sage Foo had spent time with
Nelo's daughter, accompanying Sara from Tarek Town to
the Biblos Archive.

He felt another droplet strike his cheek . . . the tenth
since they left the river, plunging into this endless slough.
He held his hand under a murky sky and prayed the real
downpours would hold off for a few more days.

Then let it come down! The lake is low. We need water

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore isi

pressure for the wheel, or else I'll have to shut down the mill
for lack of power.

His thoughts turned to business—the buying and gather-
ing of recycled cloth from all six races. The pulping and
sifting. The pressing, drying, and selling of fine sheets that
his family had been known for ever since humans brought
the blessing of paper to Jijo.

A blessing that some called a curse. That radical view
now claimed support from simple villagers, panicked by
the looming end of days—

A shout boomed from above.

"There!" A wiry young hoon perched high on the mast,
pointing. "Hr-r ... It must be the Stranger's ship. I told
you this had to be the place!"

Wyhuph-eihugo had accompanied Sara on that fateful
gleaning trip—a duty required of all citizens. Lacking a
male's throat sac, she nevertheless umbled with some
verve, proud of her navigation.

At last! Nelo thought. Now Ariana can make her
sketches, and we can leave this awful place. The crisscross-
ing mule cables made him nervous. Their boat's obsidian-
tipped prow had no trouble slicing through the desiccated
vines. Still it felt as if they were worming deeper into some
fiendish trap.

Ariana muttered something. Nelo turned, blinking.

"What did you say?"

The old woman pointed ahead, her eyes glittering with
curiosity.

"I don't see any soot!"

"So?"

"The Stranger was burned. His clothes were ashen tat-
ters. We thought his ship must have come down in
flames—perhaps after battling other aliens high over Jijo.
But look. Do you see any trace of conflagration?"

The boat worked around a final voow grove, revealing a
rounded metal capsule on the other side, gleaming amid a
nest of shattered branches. The sole opening resembled
the splayed petals of a flower, rather than a door or hatch.
The arrival of this intruder had cut a swathe of devastation
stretching to the northwest. Several swamp hummocks

182 David B rIn

were split by the straight gouge, only partly softened by

regrown vegetation.

Nelo had some experience as a surveyor, so he helped

take sightings to get the ship's overall dimensions. It was
small—no larger than this hoonish boat, in fact—certainly
no majestic cruiser like the one that clove the sky over
Dolo Town, sending its citizens into hysteria. The rounded
flanks reminded Nelo of a natural teardrop, more than any-
thing sapient-made.

Two pinpoints of moisture dotted his cheek and fore-
head. Another struck the back of his hand. In the distance,
Nelo heard a sharp rumble of thunder.

"Hurry closer!" Ariana urged, flipping open her

sketchpad.

Murmuring unhappily, the hoons leaned on their poles

and oars to comply.

Nelo stared at the alien craft, but all he could think was
dross. When Sixers went gleaning through Buyur sites, one
aim was to seek items that might be useful for a time, in a
home or workshop. But useful or not, everything eventu-
ally went into ribboned caskets to be sent on to the Great
Midden. Thus colonists imagined they were helping
cleanse Jijo—perhaps doing more good than harm to their

adopted world.

"Ifni!" Nelo sighed under his breath, staring at the vehi-
cle that brought the Stranger hurtling out of space. It might
be tiny for a starship, but it looked hard as blazes to move

by hand.

"We'll be in for a hell of a job draggin' this thing out of

here, let alone gettin' it down to sea."

Again, off to the south, the sound of thunder boomed.

Infinilu's*Shore 183

from the too-timid Poa, completing the final stages of our
Uplift.

Those same Oailie who designed new master rings to
focus and bind our natures.

Without rings like Me, how could our race ever have
become great and feared among the Five Galaxies?

AND YET, even as I learn to integrate your many little
selves into our new whole, I am struck by how vivid are
these older drippings that I find lining our inner core! Drip-
pings that date from before My fusion with your aged pile
of rings. How lustrous clear these memories seem, despite
their counterpointing harmonies. I confess, existence had
intensity and verve when you/we were merely Asx.

PERHAPS this surprise comes because I/Myself am so
young, only recently drawn from the side of our Ship Com-
mander—from that great one's very own ring-of-embryos.

Yes, that is a high heritage. So imagine the surprise of
finding Myself in this situation! Designed for duties in the
dominion caste, I am wedded, for pragmatic reasons, to a
haphazard heap of rustic toruses, ill educated and filled
with bizarre, primitive notions. I have been charged to
make the best of things until some later time, when sur-
gery-of-reconfiguration can be performed—

AH. THAT DRAWS A REACTION FROM SOME OF YOU?
Our second ring of cognition, in particular, finds this no-
tion disturbing.

Fear not, My rings! Accept these jolts of painful love
soothing, to remind you of your place—which is not to
question, only to serve. Be assured that the procedure I
refer to is now quite advanced among the mighty Jophur.
When a ring is removed for reassembly in a new stack,
often as many as half of the other leftover components can
be recovered and reused as well! Of course, most of you
are elderly, and the priests may decide you carry other-race
contaminations, preventing incorporation into new
mounds. But accept this pledge. When the time comes, I,
your beloved master ring, shall very likely make the transi-
tion in good health, and take fond memories of our associ-
ation to My glorious new stack.

I know this fact will bring you all great satisfaction, con-
templating it within our common core.

Cwasx

WE JOPHUR ARE TAUGHT THAT IT IS TERRIBLE TO BE
traeki—a stack lacking any central self. Doomed to a
splintered life of vagueness and blurry placidity.
ALL SING PRAISES to the mighty Oailie, who took over

PATHEDRAL-LIKE STILLNESS FILLED THE BOO POR-
| est—a dense expanse of gray-green columns, towering
Uto support the sky. Each majestic trunk had a girth like
the carapace of a five-clawed qheuen. Some stretched as
high as the Stone Roof of Biblos.

Now I know how an insect feels, scuttling under a sea of
pampas grass.

Hiking along a narrow lane amid the giant pillars, Lark
often could reach out his arms and brush two giant stems
at the same time. Only his militia sergeant seemed immune
to a sense of confinement infecting travelers in this strange
place of vertical perspectives. Other guards expressed edg-
iness with darting eyes that glanced worriedly down
crooked aisles at half-hidden shadows.

"How far is it to Dooden Mesa?" Ling asked, tugging the
straps of her leather backpack. Perspiration glistened down
her neck to dampen the Jijoan homespun jerkin she wore.
The effect was not as provocative as Lark recalled from
their old survey trips together, when the sheer fabric of a
Danik jumpsuit sometimes clung to her biosculpted figure
in breathtaking ways.

Anyway, I can't afford that, now that I'm a sage. The
promotion brought only unpleasant responsibilities.

"I never took this shortcut before," Lark answered, al-
though he and Uthen used to roam these mountains in
search of data for their book. There were other paths
around the mountain, and the wheeled g'Keks nominally
in charge of this domain could hardly be expected to do
upkeep on such a rough trail. "My best guess is we'll make
it in two miduras. Want to rest?"

Ling pushed sodden strands from her eyes. "No. Let's
keep going."

The former gene raider seemed acutely aware of Jeni
Shen, the diminutive sergeant, whose corded arms cradled
her crossbow like a beloved child. Jeni glanced frequently
at Ling with hunter's eyes, as if speculating which vital

Infiniru's Shore 185

organ might make a good target. Anyone could sense
throbbing enmity between the two women—and that Ling

would rather die than show weakness before the militia
scout.

Lark found one thing convenient about their antago-
nism. It helped divert Ling's ire away from him, especially
after the way he earlier used logic to slash her beloved
Rothen gods. Since then, the alien biologist had been civil,
but kept to herself in brooding silence.

No one likes to have their most basic assumptions

knocked from under them—especially by a primitive sav-
age.

Lark blew air through his cheeks—the hoonish version
of a shrug.

"Hr-rm. We'll take a break at the next rise. By then we
should be out of the worst boo."

In fact, the thickest zone was already behind them, a
copse so dense the monstrous stems rubbed in the wind,
creating a low, drumming music that vibrated the bones of
anyone passing underneath. Traveling single file, edging
sideways where the trunks pressed closest, the party had

watched for vital trail marks, cut on one rounded bole after
the next.

I was right to leave Uthen behind, he thought, hoping to
convince himself. Just hold on, old friend. Maybe we'll
come up with something. I pray we can.

Visibility was hampered by drifting haze, since many of
the tall boo leaked from water reserves high above, spray-
ing arcs of fine droplets that spread to saturate the misty
colonnade. Several times they passed clearings where aged
columns had toppled in a domino chain reaction, leaving
maelstroms of debris.

Through the fog, Lark occasionally glimpsed other sym-
bols, carved on trunks beyond the trail. Not trail marks, but
cryptic emblems in GalTwo and GalSix . . . accompanied
by strings of Anglic numbers.

Why would anyone-go scrawling graffiti through a
stand ofgreatboo?

• He even spied dim figures through the murk—once a
human, then several urs, and finally a pair of traeki—
glimpsed prowling amid rows of huge green pillars. At

186 David B r i n

least he hoped the tapered cones were traeki. They van-
ished like ghosts before he could tell for sure.

Sergeant Shen kept the party moving too fast to investi-
gate. Lark and his prisoner had been summoned by two of
the High Sages—a command that overruled any other pri-
ority. And despite the difficult terrain, recent news from the
Glade of Gathering was enough to put vigor in their steps.

Runners reported that the Jophur dreadnought still
blocked the sacred valley, squatting complacently inside its
swathe of devastation, with the captive Rothen ship doubly
imprisoned nearby—first by a gold cocoon, and now a
rising lake as well. The Jophur daily sent forth a pair of
smaller vessels, sky-prowling daggers, surveying the Slope
and the seas beyond. No one knew what the star gods

were looking for.

Despite what happened on the night the great ship

landed—havoc befalling Asx and others on the Glade—the
High Sages were preparing to send another embassy of
brave volunteers, hoping to parley. No one asked Lark to
serve as an envoy. The Sages had other duties planned for

him.

Humans weren't the only ones to cheat a little, when their
founding generation came to plant a taboo colony on for-
bidden Jijo.

For more than a year after it made landfall, the Taberna-
cles crew delayed sending their precious ship to an ocean
abyss. A year spent using god tools to cut trees and print
books . . . then storing the precious volumes in a strong-
hold that the founders carved beneath a great stone over-
hang, protected by high walls and a river. During those
early days—especially the urrish and qheuen wars—Biblos
Fortress served as a vital refuge until humans grew strong

enough to demand respect.

The Gray Queens also once had such a citadel, sculpted

by mighty engines when they first arrived, before their
sneakship fell beneath the waves. The Caves of Snood,
near present-day Ovoom Town, must have seemed im-
pregnable. But. that maze of deep-hewn caverns drowned
under a rising water table when blue and red workers

f i n i r u ' s S h o r     187

dropped their slavish maintenance duties, wandering off
instead to seek new homes and destinies, apart from their
chitin empresses.

Dooden Mesa was the oldest of the sooner ramparts.
After Tarek Town, it formed the heart of g'Kek life on Jijo, a
place of marvelous stone ramps that curved like graceful
filigrees, allowing the wheeled ones to swoop and careen
through a swirl of tight turns, from their looms and work-
shops to tree-sheltered platforms where whole families
slept with their hubs joined in slowly rotating clusters. Un-
der an obscuring blur-cloth canopy, the meandering sys-
tem resembled pictures found in certain Earthling books
about pre-contact times—looking like a cross between an
"amusement park" and the freeway interchanges of some
sprawling city.

Ling's face brightened with amazed delight when she
regarded the settlement, nodding as Lark explained the
lacy pattern of narrow byways. Like Biblos, Dooden Ram-
part was not meant to last forever, for that would violate
the Covenant of Exile. Someday it all would have to go—
g'Kek elders conceded. Still, the wheeled ones throbbed
their spokes in sinful pride over their beloved city. Their
home.

While Ling marveled, Lark surveyed the busy place with
fresh poignancy.

/(is their only home.

Unless the Rothen lied, it seems there are no more g'Kek
living among the Five Galaxies.

If they die on Jijo, they are gone for good.

Watching youngsters pitch along graceful ramps with
reckless abandon, streaking round corners with all four
eyestalks flying and their rims glowing hot, Lark could not
believe the universe would let that happen. How could any
race so unique be allowed to go extinct?

With the boo finally behind them, the party now stood
atop a ridge covered with normal forest. As they paused, a
zookir dropped onto the path from the branches of a
nearby garu tree—all spindly arms and legs, covered with
white spirals of fluffy torg. Treasured aides and pets of the
g'Kek, zookirs helped make life bearable for wheeled be-

188 David B r i n

ings on a planet where roads were few and stumbling

stones all too many.

This zookir squinted at the party, then scampered closer,
sniffing. Unerringly, it bypassed the other humans, zeroing

in on Lark.

Trust a zookir to know a sage—so went a folk saying. No
one had any idea how the creatures could tell, since they
seemed less clever than chimps in other ways. Lark's pro-
motion was recent and he wore the new status of "junior
sage" uncomfortably, yet the creature had no trouble set-
ting him apart. It pressed damp nostrils against his wrist
and inhaled. Then, cooing satisfaction, it slipped a folded

parchment in Lark's hand.

MEET US AT THE REFUGE—That was all it said.

RPAIR OF HIGH SAGES WAITED IN A NARROW CAN-
yon, half a league away. Lester Cambel and Knife-Bright
Insight, the blue qheuen whose reputation for compas-
sion made her a favorite among the Six.

Here, too, the paths were smooth and well suited for
g'Keks, since this was part of their Dooden Domain.
Wheeled figures moved among the meadows, looking after
protected ones who lived in thatched shelters beneath the
trees. It was a refuge for sacred simpletons—those whose
existence promised a future for the Six Races—according

to the scrolls.                                                  ,

Several of the blessed ones gathered around Knife-Bright  |
Insight, clucking or mewing in debased versions of Galac-  i
tic tongues. These were hoons and urs, for the most part,
though a red qheuen joined the throng as Lester watched,
and several traeki stacks slithered timidly closer, burbling
happy stinks as they approached. Each received a loving
pat or stroke from Knife-Bright Insight, as if her claws were

gentle hands.

Lester regarded his colleague, and knew guiltily that he

could never match her glad kindness. The blessed were

Infinirii's Shore 189

superior beings, ranking above the normal run of the Six.
Their simplicity was proof that other races could follow the
example of glavers, treading down the Path of Redemp-
tion.

It should fill my heart to see them, he thought.

Yet I hate coming to this place.

Members of all six races dwelled in simple shelters un-
derneath the canyon walls, tended by local g'Keks, plus
volunteers from across the Slope. Whenever a qheuen, or
hoon, or urrish village found among their youths one who
had a knack for innocence, a gift for animal-like naivete,
the lucky individual was sent here for nurturing and study.

There are just two ways to escape the curse bequeathed
to us by our ancestors, Lester thought, struggling to be-
lieve. We could do as Lark's group of heretics want—stop
breeding and leave Jijo in peace. Or else we can all seek a
different kind of oblivion, the kind that returns our chil-
dren's children to presentience. Washed clean and ready
for a new cycle of uplift. Thus they may yet find new pa-
trons, and perhaps a happier fate.

So prescribed the Sacred Scrolls, even after all the com-
promises wrought since the arrival of Earthlings and the
Holy Egg. Given the situation of exile races, living here on
borrowed time, facing horrid punishment if/when a Galac-
tic Institute finds them here, what other goal could there
be?

But I can't do it. I cannot look at this place with joy.
Earthling values keep me from seeing these creatures as
lustrous beings. They deserve kindness and pity—but not
envy.

It was his own heresy. Lester tried to look elsewhere.
But turning just brought to view another cluster of
"blessed." This time, humans, gathered in a circle under a
ilhuna tree, sitting cross-legged with hands on knees,
chanting in low, sonorous voices. Men and women whose
soft smiles and unshifting eyes seemed to show simplicity
of the kind sought here . . . only Lester knew them to be
liars!

Long ago, he took the same road. Using meditation tech-
niques borrowed from old Earthling religions, he sat under
just such a tree, freeing his mind of worldly obsessions,

190   D a v i d B r i n

disciplining it to perceive Truth. And for a while it seemed
he succeeded. Acolytes bowed reverently, calling him illu-
minated. The universe appeared lucid then, as if the stars
were sacred fire. As if he were united with all Jijo's crea-
tures, even the very quanta in the stones around him. He
lived in harmony, needing little food, few words, and even
fewer names.

Such serenity—sometimes he missed it with an ache in-
side.

But after a while he came to realize—the clarity he had
found was sterile blankness. A blankness that felt fine, but
had nothing to do with redemption. Not for himself. Not
for his race.

The other five don't use discipline or concentration to
seek simplicity. You don't see glavers meditating by a rotten
log full of tasty insects. Simplicity calls to them naturally.
They live their innocence.

WhenJijo is finally reopened, some great clan will gladly
adopt the new glaver subspecies, setting them once more
upon the High Path, perhaps with better luck than they bad
the first time.

But those patrons won't choose us. No noble elder clan is
looking for smug Zen masters, eager to explain their own
enlightenment. That is not a plainness you can write upon.
It is simplicity based on individual pride.

Of course the point might be moot. If the Jophur ship
represented great Institutes of the Civilization of the Five
Galaxies, these forests would soon throng with inspectors,
tallying up two thousand years of felonies against a fallow
world. Only glavers would be safe, having made it to safety
in time. The other six races would pay for a gamble lost.

And if they don't represent the Institutes?

The Rothen had proved to be criminals, gene raiders.
Might the Jophur be more of the same? Murderous geno-
cide could still be in store. The g'Kek clan, in particular,
were terrified of recent news from the Glade.

On the other hand, it might be possible to cut a deal. Or
else maybe they'll just go away, leaving us in the same state
we were in before.

In that case, places like this refuge would go back to

Infinirii's Shore 191

being the chief hope for tomorrow ... for five races out
of the Six.

Lester's dark thoughts were cut off by a tug on his
sleeve.

"Sage Cambel? The . . . um, visitors you're, ah, expect-
ing ... I think . . -."

It was a young human, broad-cheeked, with clear blue
eyes and pale skin. The boy would have seemed tall—
almost a giant—except that a stooped posture diminished
his appearance. He kept tapping a corner of his forehead
with the fingertips of his right hand, as if in a vague salute.

Lester spoke gentle words in Anglic, the only language
the lad ever managed to learn.

"What did you say, Jimi?"

The boy swallowed, concentrating hard.

"I think the . . . um . . . the people you want t'see
... I think they're here . . . Sage Cambel."

"Lark and the Danik woman?"

A vigorous nod.

"Um, yessir. I sent 'em to the visitors' shed ... to wait
for you an' the other Great Sage. Was that right?"

"Yes, that was right, Jimi." Lester gave his arm a friendly
squeeze. "Please go back now. Tell Lark I'll be along
shortly."

A broad grin. The boy turned around to run the way he
came, awkward in his eagerness to be useful.

There goes the other kind of human who comes to this
place, Lester thought. Our special ones . . .

The ancient euphemism tasted strange.

At first sight, it would seem people like Jimi fit the bill.
Simpler minds. Innocent. Our ideal envoys to tread the
Path.

He glanced at the blessed ones surrounding Knife-Bright
Insight—urs, hoons, and g'Keks who were sent here by
their respective races in order to do that. To lead the way.

By the standards of the scrolls, these ones aren 't dam-
aged. Though simple, they aren't flawed. They are leaders.
But no one can say that of Jimi. All sympathy aside, he is
injured, incomplete. Anyone can see that.

We can and should love him, help him, befriend him.

But he leads humanity nowhere.

192 David B r i n f i n i r y ' s Shore 193

Lester signaled to his blue qheuen colleague, using an
urslike shake of his head to indicate that their appointment
had arrived. She responded by turning her visor cupola in
a quick series of GalTwo winks, flashing that she'd be
along shortly.

Lester turned and followed Jimi's footsteps, trying to shift
his thoughts back to the present crisis. To the problem of
the Jophur battleship. Back to urgent plans he must discuss
with the young heretic and the woman from the stars.
There was a dire proposal—farfetched and darkly danger-
ous—they must be asked to accept.

Yet, as he passed by the chanting circle of meditating
humans—healthy men and women who had abandoned
their farms, families, and useful crafts to dwell without
work in this sheltered valley—Lester found his contempla-
tions awash with bitter resentment. The words in his head
were unworthy of a High Sage, he knew. But he could not
help pondering them.

Morons and mediators, those are the two types that our
race sends up here. Not a true "blessed" soul in the lot. Not
by the standards set in the scrolls. Humans almost never
take true steps down redemption's path. Ur-Jah and the
others are polite. They pretend that we, too, have that op-
tion, that potential salvation.

But we don't. Our lot is sterile.

With or without judgment from the stars—the only fu-
ture humans face onJijo is damnation.

D

wer

SMOKE SPIRALED FROM THE CRASH SITE. IT WAS
against his better judgment to sneak closer. In fact, now
was his chance to run the other way, while the Danik
robot cowered in a hole, showing no further interest in its
prisoners.

And if Rety wanted to stay?

Let her! Lena and Jenin would be glad to see Dwer if he
made the long journey back to the Gray Hills. That should

be possible with his trusty bow in hand. True, Rety needed
him, but those up north had better claim on his loyalty.

Dwer's senses still throbbed from the din of the brief
battle, when the mighty Danik scoutship was shot down by
a terrifying newcomer. Both vessels lay beyond the next
dune, sky chariots of unfathomable power . . . and Rety
urged him to creep closer still!

"We gotta find out what's going on," she insisted in a
harsh whisper.

He gave her a sharp glance, demanding silence, and for
once she complied, giving him a moment to think.

Lena and Jenin may be safe for a while, now that Kunn
won't be returning to plague them. If the Daniks and
Rothens have enemies onJijo, all the star gods may be too
busy fighting each other to hunt a little band in the Gray
Hills.

Even without guidance from Danel Ozawa, Lena Strong
was savvy enough to make a three-way deal, with Rety's
old band and the urrish sooners. Using Danel's "legacy,"
their combined tribe might plant a seed to flourish in the
wilderness. Assuming the worst happened back home on
the Slope, their combined band might yet find its way to
the Path.

Dwer shook his head. He sometimes found it hard to
concentrate. Ever since letting the robot use his body as a
conduit for its fields, it felt as if voices whispered softly at
the edge of hearing. As when the crazy old mule spider
used to wheedle into his thoughts.

Anyway, it wasn't his place to ponder destiny, or make
sagelike decisions. Some things were obvious. He might
not owe Rety anything. She may deserve to be abandoned
to her fate. But he couldn't do that.

So, despite misgivings, Dwer nodded to the girl, adding
with emphatic hand motions that she had better not make
a single sound. She replied with a happy shrug that
seemed to say, Sure . . . until I decide otherwise.

Slinging his bow and quiver over one shoulder, he led
the way forward, creeping from one grassy clump to the
next, till they reached the crest of the dune. Cautiously they
peered through a cluster of salty fronds to stare down at
two sky vessels—the smaller a smoldering ruin, half-

194 David B r i n

submerged in a murky swamp. The larger ship, nestled
nearby, had not escaped the fracas unscarred. It bore a
deep fissure along one flank that belched soot whenever

the motors tried to start.

Two men lay prostrate on a marshy islet, barely moving.

Kunn and Jass.

Dwer and Rety scratched a new hole to hide in, then
settled down to see who—or what—would emerge next.

They did not wait long. A hatch split the large cylinder,
baring a dark interior. Through it floated a single figure,
startlingly familiar—an eight-sided pillar with dangling
arms—close cousin to the damaged robot Dwer knew all
too well. Only this one gleamed with stripes of alternating
blue and pink, a pattern Dwer found painful to behold.

It also featured a hornlike projection on the bottom,
aimed downward. That must be what lets it travel over
water, he thought. If the robot is similar, could that mean

Kunn's enemies are human, too?

But no, Danel had said that machinery was standard
among the half a million starfaring races, changing only
slowly with each passing eon. This new drone might be-
long to anybody.

The automaton neared Kunn and Jass, a searchlight play-
ing over their bodies, vivid even in bright sunshine. Their
garments rippled, frisked by translucent fingers. Then the
robot dropped down, arms outstretched. Kunn and Jass lay
still as it poked, prodded, and lifted away with several ob-
jects in its pincers.

A signal must have been given, for a ramp then jutted
from the open hatch, slanting to the bog. Who's going to go
traipsing around in that stuff? Dwer wondered. Are they

going to launch a boat?

He girded for some weird alien race, one with thirteen
legs perhaps, or slithering on trails of slime. Several great
clans had been known as foes of humankind, even in the
Tabernacles day, such as the legendary Soro, or the insect-
like Tandu. Dwer even nursed faint hope that the newcom-
ers might be from Earth, come all this vast distance to rein
in their criminal cousins. There were also relatives of
hoons, urs, and qheuens out there, each with ships and
vast resources at their command.

n f I n i 11| ' s Shore 195

Figures appeared, twisting down the ramp into the open
air.

Rety gasped. "Them's traekis!"

Dwer stared at a trio of formidable-looking ring stacks,
with bandoliers of tools hanging from their toroids-of-ma-
nipulation. The tapered cones reached muddy water and
settled in. Abruptly, the flipper legs that seemed awkward
on the ramp propelled them with uncanny speed toward
the two survivors.

"But ain't traekis s'posed to be peaceful?"

They are, Dwer thought, wishing he had paid more at-
tention to the lessons his mother used to give Sara and
Lark. Readings from obscure books that went beyond what
you were taught in school. He reached back for a name,
but came up empty. Yet he knew a name existed. One that
inspired fear, once-upon-a-time.

"I don't—" he whispered, then shook his head firmly. "I
don't think these are traeki. At least not like anyone's seen
here in a very long while."

Al vin

THE SCENE WAS HARD TO INTERPRET AT FIRST. HAZY
blue-green images jerked rapidly, sending shivers down
my still-unsteady spine. Huck and Pincer seemed to
catch on more quickly, pointing at various objects in the"
picture display, sharing knowing grunts. The experience
reminded me of our trip on Wupbon 's Dream, when poor
Alvin the Hoon was always the last one to grok what was
going on.

Finally, I realized—we were viewing a faraway locale,
back in the world of sunshine and rain!

(How many times have Huck and I read about some
storybook character looking at a distant place by remote
control? It's funny. A concept can be familiar from novels,
yet rouse awe when you finally encounter it in real life.)

Daylight streamed through watery shallows where green
fronds waved in a gentle tide. Schools of flicking, silvery

196 David B r i n

shapes darted past—species that our fishermen brought
home in nets, destined for the drying racks and stewpots of

hoonish khutas.

The spinning voice said there were sound "pickups"

next to the moving camera lens, which explained the
swishing, gurgling noises. Pincer shifted his carapace,
whistling a homesick lament from all five vents, nostalgic
for the tidal pens of his red qheuen rookery. But Ur-ronn
soon had quite enough, turning her sleek head with a
queasy whine, made ill by the sight of all that swishing

water.

Slanting upward, the surf grew briefly violent. Then wa-
ter fled the camera's eye in foamy sheets as our viewpoint
emerged onto a low sandscape. The remote unit scurried

inland, low to the ground.

"Normally, we would send a drone ashore at night. But
the matter is urgent. We must count on the land's hot glare

to mask its emergence."
Ur-ronn let out a sigh, relieved to see no more liquid

turbulence.

"It forces one to wonder," she said, "why you have not

sent sleuthy agents vefore."

"In fact several were dispatched to seek signs of civiliza-
tion. Two are long overdue, but others reported startling

scenes."

"Such as?" Huck asked.
"Such as boon mariners, crowing wooden sailing ships

on the high seas."

"Hr-rr . . . What's strange about that?"

"And red qheuens, living unsupervised by grays or
blues, beholden to no one, trading peacefully with their

hoonish neighbors."

Pincer huffed and vented, but the voice continued.
"Intrigued, we sent a submarine expedition beyond the
Rift. Our explorers followed one of your dross ships, collect-
ing samples from its sacred discharge. Then, returning to
base, our scout vessel happened on the urrish 'cache' you
were sent to recover. Naturally, we assumed the original

owners must be extinct."

"Oh?" Ur-ronn asked, archly. "Why is that?"

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 197

"Because we had seen living boon! Who would conceive
of urs and boon cohabiting peacefully within a shared
volume less broad than a cubic parsec? If boon lived, we
assumed all urs on Jijo must have died."

"Oh," Ur-ronn commented, turning her long neck to
glare at me.

"Imagine our surprise when a crude vessel plummeted
toward our submarine. A hollowed-out tree trunk contain-
ing—"

The voice cut off. The remote unit was in motion again.
We edged forward as the camera eye skittered across sand
mixed with scrubby vegetation.

"Hey," Ur-ronn objected. "I thought you couldn't use
radio or anything that can ve detected from sface!"

"Correct."

"Then how are you getting these Pictures in real tine?"

"An excellent question, coming from one with no direct
experience in such matters. In this case, the drone needs
only to travel a kilometer or so ashore. It can deploy a fiber
cable, conveying images undetectably."

I twitched. Something in the words just spoken jarred
me, in an eerie-familiar way.

"Does it have to do with the exflosions?" Ur-ronn asked.
"The recent attack on this site vy those who would destroy
you?"

The spinning shape contracted, then expanded.

"You four truly are quick and imaginative. It has been
an unusual experience conversing with you. And I was
created to appreciate unusual experiences."

"In other words, yes," Huck said gruffly.

"Some time ago, a/lying machine began sifting this sea
with tentacles of sound. Hours later, it switched to drop-
ping depth charges in a clear effort to dislodge us from our
mound of concealing wreckage.

"Matters were growing dire when gravitic fields of a sec-
ond craft entered the area. We picked up rhythms of aerial
combat. Missiles and deadly rays were exchanged in a
brief, desperate struggle."

Pincer rocked from foot to foot. "Gosh-osh-osh!" he
sighed, ruining our pose of nonchalance.

198 David B r I n

"Then both vessels abruptly stopped/lying. Their inertial
signatures ceased close to the drone's present location."

"How close?" Ur-ronn asked.

"Very close," the voice replied.

Transfixed, we watched a hypnotic scene of rapid mo-
tion. An ankle-high panorama of scrubby plants, whipping
past with blurry speed. The camera eye dodged clumps of
saber fronds, skittering with frantic speed, as the drone
sought height overlooking a vast marshy fen.

All at once, a glint of silver! Two glints. Curving flanks
of—

That was when it happened.

Without warning, just as we had our first thrilling
glimpse of crashed flyships, the screen was abruptly filled
by a grinning face.

We rocked back, shouting in surprise. I recoiled so fast,
even the high-tech back brace could not save my spine
from surging pain. Huphu's claws dug in my shoulder as
she trilled an amazed cry.

The face bared a glittering, gleeful display of pointy
teeth. Black, beady eyes stared at us, inanely magnified, so
full of feral amusement that we all groaned with recogni-
tion.

Our tiny drone pitched, trying to escape, but the grin-
ning demon held it firmly with both forepaws. The creature
raised sharp claws, preparing to strike.

The spinning voice spoke then—a sound that flew out,
then came back to us through the drone's tiny pickups.
There were just three words, in a queerly accented form of
GalSeven, very high-pitched, almost beyond a hoon's
range.

"Brother, " the voice said quickly to the strange noor.

"Please stop."

-wasx

WORD COMES THAT WE HAVE LOST TRACK OF A COR-

vette!

Our light cruiser sent to pursue an aircraft of the

Rothen bandits.

Trouble was not anticipated in such a routine chore. It
raises disturbing questions. Might we have underestimated
the prowess of this brigand band?

You, our second ring-of-cognition—you provide access
to many memories and thoughts once accumulated by our
stack, before I joined to become your master ring. Memo-
ries from a time when we/you were merely Asx.

You recall hearing the human gene thieves making pre-
posterous claims. For instance, that their patrons—these
mysterious "Rothen"—are unknown to Galactic society at
large. That the Rothen wield strong influence in hidden
ways. That they scarcely fear the mighty battle fleets of the
great clans of the Five Galaxies.

We of the battleship Polkjhy heard similar tall tales be-
fore arriving at this world. We took it all for mere bluff. A
pathetic cover story, attempting futilely to hide the outlaws'
true identity.

BUT WHAT IF THE STORY IS TRUE?

No one can doubt that mysterious forces do exist—an-
cient, aloof, influential. Might we have crossed fates with
some cryptic power, here in an abandoned galaxy, far from
home?

OR TAKE THE IDEA MORE BROADLY. Might such a
puissant race of cloaked ones stand secretly behind all Ter-
rans, guiding their destiny? Protecting them against the fate
that generally befalls wolflihg breeds? It would explain
much strangeness in recent events. It could also bode ill for
our Obeyer Alliance, in these dangerous times.

BUT NO! Facts do not support that fear.

You primitive, rustic rings would not know this, so let
Me explain.

NOT LONG AGO, the Polkjhy was contacted by certain

200 David B r i n

petty data merchants, unscrupulous vermin offering news
for sale. Through human agents, these "Rothen" ap-
proached us—the great and devout Jophur—because our
ship happened to be on search patrol nearby. Also, they
calculated Jophur would pay twice as much for the infor-
mation they wanted to sell.

—ONCE for clues to find the main quarry we seek, a

missing Earth vessel that ten thousand ships have pursued
for years, as great a prize as any in the Five Galaxies—

—AND A SECOND TIME for information about the an-
cestor-cursed g'Kek, a surviving remnant who took refuge
here many planet cycles ago, thwarting our righteous, ex-
tinguishing wrath.

The Rothen and their henchmen hoped to reap hand-
some profit by selling us this information, added to what-
ever genetic scraps they might steal from this unripe world.
The arrangement must have seemed ideal to them, for both
sides would be well advised to keep the transaction secret

forever.

Is that the behavior of some great, exalted power? One

risen above trivial mortal concerns?

Would deity-level beings have been so rudely surprised
by local savages, who vanquished their buried station with

mere chemical explosives?

Did they prove so mighty when we turned our rings

around half circle in an act of pious betrayal, and pounced
upon their ship? Freezing it in stasis by means of a not-

unclever trick?

No, this cannot be a reasonable line of inquiry, My rings. It
worries me that you would waste our combined mental

resources pursuing a blind pathway.                    ,

This digression—IS IT YET.ANOTHER VAIN EFFORT TO (
DISTRACT ME FROM THE NARROWNESS OF PURPOSE '
THAT IS MY PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTION TO THE STACK? I

Is that also why some of you keep trying to tune in so-
called guidance ^patterns from that silly rock you call a

"Holy Egg"?

Are these vague, disjointed efforts aimed at yet another

rebellion?

I n f I n i r i| ' s S h o re  201

HAVE YOU NOT YET LEARNED?

Shall I demonstrate, once again, why the Oailie made My
kind, and named us "master rings"?

LET US drop these silly cogitations and consider alternative
explanations for the disappearance of the corvette. Per-
haps, when our crew hunted down the scout boat of the
Rothen, they stumbled onto something else instead?

Something more powerful and important, by far?

. . . ?

Is this true? You truly have no idea what I am hinting at?

Not even a clue? Why, most of the inhabitants of the Five
Galaxies—even the enigmatic Zang—know of the ship we
seek. A vessel pursued by half the armadas in known
space.

You have indeed lived in isolation, My rustic rings! My
primitive subselves. My temporary pretties, who have not
heard of a ship crewed by half-animal dolphins.

How very strange indeed.

S,

'ara

WITHOUT DARK GLASSES PROVIDED BY THE HORSE-
riding Illias, Sara feared she might go blind or insane. A
few stray glints were enough to stab her nerves with
unnatural colors, cooing for attention, shouting danger-
ously, begging her to remove the coverings, to stare . . .
perhaps losing herself in a world of shifted light.

Even in sepia tones, the surrounding bluffs seemed
laden with cryptic meaning. Sara recalled how legendary
Odysseus, sailing near the fabled Sirens, ordered his men
to fill their ears with wax, then lashed himself to the mast
so he alone might hear the temptresses' call, while the
crew rowed frantically past bright, alluring shoals.

Would it hurt to take the glasses off and stare at the
rippled landscape? If transfixed, wouldn't her friends res-

202 David B r i n

cue her? Or might her mind be forever absorbed by the

panorama?

People seldom mentioned the Spectral Flow—a blind

spot on maps of the Slope. Even those hardy men who
roamed the sharp-sand desert, spearing roul shamblers be-
neath the hollow dunes, kept awed distance from this poi-
son landscape. A realm supposedly bereft of life.

Only now Sara recalled a day almost two years ago,
when her mother lay dying in the house near the paper
mill, with the Dolo waterwheel groaning a low background
lament. From outside Melina's sickroom, Sara overheard
Dwer discussing this place in a low voice.

Of course her younger brother was specially licensed to
patrol the Slope and beyond, seeking violations of the Cov-
enant and Scrolls. It surprised Sara only a little to learn he
had visited the toxic land of psychotic colors. But from
snippets wafting through the open door, it sounded as if
Melina had also seen the Spectral Flow—before coming
north to marry Nelo and raise a family by the quiet green
Roney. The conversation had been in hushed tones of
deathbed confidentiality, and Dwer never spoke of it after.
Above all, Sara was moved by the wistful tone of her

dying mother's voice.

"Dwer . . . remind me again about the colors. ..."
The horses did not seem to need eye protections, and
the two drivers wore theirs lackadaisically, as to stave off a
well-known irritation rather than dire peril. Relieved to be
out of the Buyur tunnel, Kepha murmured to Nuli, sharing
the first laughter Sara had heard from any Illias.

She found her thoughts more coherent now, with sur-
prise giving way to curiosity. What about people and races
who are naturally color-blind? The effect must involve
more than mere frequency variations on the electromag-
netic spectrum, as the urrish glasses probably did more
than merely darken. There must be some other effect. Light

polarization? Or psi?

Emerson's rewq satisfied his own need for goggles. But
Sara felt concern when he peeled back the filmy symbiont
to take an unprotected peek. He winced, visibly recoiling
from sensory overflow, as ir a hoonish grooming fork had
plunged into his eye. She started toward him—but that

Infinitii'sShore 203

initial reaction was brief. A moment later the starman
grinned at her, an expression of agonized delight.

Well, anything you can do—she thought, nudging her
glasses forward. . . .

Her first surprise was the pain that wasn't. Her irises
adjusted, so the sheer volume of illumination was bearable.

Rather, Sara felt waves of nausea as the world seemed to
shift and dissolve ... as if she were peering through
layer after layer of overlapping images.

The land's mundane topography was a terrain of layered
lava flows, eroded canyons, and jutting mesas. Only now
that seemed only the blank tapestry screen on which some
mad g'Kek artist had embroidered an apparition in lumi-
nous paint and textured thread. Each time Sara blinked,
her impressions shifted.

—Towering buttes were fairy castles, their fluttering
pennants made of glowing shreds of windblown
haze. ...

—Dusty basins became shimmering pools. Rivers of
mercury and currents of blood seemed to flow uphill as
merging swirls of immiscible fluid. . . .

—Rippling like memory, a nearby cliff recalled Buyur
architecture—the spires of Tarek Town—only with blank
windows replaced by a million splendid glowing
lights. . . .

—Her gaze shifted to the dusty road, with pumice flying
from the wagon wheels. But on another plane it seemed
the spray made up countless glittering stars. . . .

—Then the trail crested a small hill, revealing the most
unlikely mirage of all ... several narrow, fingerlike val-
leys, each surrounded by steep hills like ocean waves, fro-
zen in their spuming torrent. Underneath those sheltering
heights, the valley bottoms appeared verdant green, cov-
ered with impossible meadows and preposterous trees.

"Xi," announced Kepha, murmuring happily in that ac-
cent Sara found eerily strange-familiar . . .

. . . and she abruptly knew why!

Surprise made Sara release the glasses, dropping them
back over her eyes.

The castles and stars vanished . . .

. . . but the meadows remained. Four-footed shapes

204   D a v i d B r i n

could be seen grazing on real grass, drinking from a very

real stream.

Kurt and Jomah sighed. Emerson laughed and Prity
clapped her hands. But Sara was too astonished to utter a
sound. For now she knew the truth about Melina the
Southerner, the woman who long ago came to the Roney,
supposedly from the far-off Vale, to become Nelo's bride.
Melina the happy eccentric, who raised three unusual chil-
dren by the ceaseless drone of Dolo Dam.

Mother . . . Sara thought, in numb amazement. This
must have been your home.

The rest of the horsewomen arrived a few miduras later
with their urrish companions, dirty and tired. The Illias un-
saddled their faithful beasts before stripping off their riding
gear and plunging into a warm volcanic spring, beneath
jutting rocks where Sara and the other visitors rested.

Watching Emerson, Sara verified that one more portion
of his battered brain must be intact, for the spaceman's
eyes tracked the riders' nude femininity with normal male

appreciation.

She squelched a jealous pang, knowing that her own
form could never compete with those tanned, athletic fig-
ures below.

The starman glanced Sara's way and flushed several
shades darker, so sheepishly rueful that she had to laugh

out loud.

"Look, but don't touch," she said, with an exaggerated
waggle of one finger. He might not grasp every word, but
the affectionate admonishment got through.

Grinning, he shrugged as if to say, Who, me? I wouldn 't

think of it!

The wagon passengers had already bathed, though more
modestly. Not that nakedness was taboo elsewhere on the
Slope. But the Illias women behaved as if they did not
know—or care—about the simplest fact all human girls
were taught about the opposite sex. That male Homo sapi-
ens have primitive" arousal responses inextricably bound
up in their optic nerves.

Perhaps it's because they have no men, Sara thought.

I n f i n I r ij ' s Shore 205

Indeed, she saw only female youths and adults, tending
chores amid the barns and shelters. There were also urs, of
Ulashtu's friendly tribe, tending their precious simla and
donkey herds at the fringes of the oasis. The two sapient
races did not avoid each other—Sara glimpsed friendly en-
counters. But in this narrow realm, each had its favored
terrain.

Ulashtu knew Kurt, and must have spent time in the
outer Slope. In fact, some Illias women also probably went
forth, now and then, moving among unsuspecting villagers
of the Six Races.

Melina had a good cover story when she came to Dolo,
arriving ivith letters of introduction, and baby Lark on her
hip. Everyone assumed she came from somewhere in the
Vale. A typical arranged remarriage.

It never seemed an issue to Nelo, that his eldest son had
an unknown father. Melina subtly discouraged inquiries
into her past.

But a secret like this . . .

With Ulashtu's band came a prisoner. Vigor, the urrish
tinker who befriended Sara back at Dolo, only to spring a
trap, leading to captivity by Dedinger's fanatics and the
reborn Urunthai. Now their roles were reversed. Sara noted
Vigor's triplet eyes staring in dismay at the astonishing oa-
sis.

How the Urunthai would hate this place! Their predeces-
sors seized our horses to destroy them all. Urrish sages later
apologized, after Drake the Elder broke the Urunthai. But
how can you undo death?

You cannot. But it is possible to cheat extinction. Watch-
ing fillies and colts gambol after their mares below a bright
rocky overhang, Sara felt almost happy for a time. This
oasis might even remain unseen by omniscient spy eyes of
alien star lords, confused by the enclosing land of illusion.
Perhaps Xi would survive when the rest of the Slope was
made void of sapient life.

She saw Uigor ushered to a pen near the desert prophet,
Dedinger. The two did not speak.

Beyond the women splashing in the pool and the graz-
ing herds, Sara had only to lift her eyes in order to brush a
glittering landscape where each ripple and knoll pretended

206 David B r i n

to be a thousand impossible things. The country of lies was
a name for the Spectral Flow. No doubt a person got used
to it, blanking out irritating chimeras that never proved
useful or informative. Or else, perhaps the Illias had no
need of dreams, since they lived each day awash in Jijo's

fantasies.

The scientist in Sara wondered why it equally affected all

races, or how such a marvel could arise naturally. There's
no mention of anything like it in Biblos. But humans only
had a sprinkling of Galactic reference material when the
Tabernacle left Earth. Perhaps this is a common phenome-
non, found on many worlds.

But how much more wonderful ifJijo had made some-
thing unique!

She stared at the horizon, letting her mind free-associate
shapes out of the shimmering colors, until a mellow female

voice broke in.

"You have your mother's eyes, Sara."

She blinked, drawing back to find two humans nearby,
dressed in the leather garments of Illias. The one who had
spoken was the first elderly woman Sara had seen here.

The other was a man.

Sara stood up, blinking in recognition. "F-Fallon?"

He had aged since serving as Dwer's tutor in the wilder-
ness arts. Still, the former chief scout seemed robust, and

smiled broadly.

A little tactlessly, she blurted, "But I thought you were

• dead!"

He shrugged. "People assume what they like. I never

said I'd died."

A Zen koan if she ever heard one. But then Sara recalled
what the other person said. Though shaded against the
desert's glow, the old woman seemed to partake of the

hues of the Spectral Flow.

"My name is Foruni," she told Sara. "I am senior rider."

"You knew my mother?"

The older woman took Sara's hand. Her manner re-
minded Sara of Ariana Foo.

"Melina was my cousin. I've missed her, these many
years—though infrequent letters told us of her remarkable
children. You three validate her choice, though exile must

Infinirii's Shore 207

not have been easy. Our horses and shadows are hard to
leave behind."

"Did Mother leave because of Lark?"

"We have ways of making it likely to bear girls. When a
boy is born we foster him to discreet friends on the Slope,
taking a female child in trade."

Sara nodded. Exchange fostering was a common prac-
tice, helping cement alliances between villages or clans.

"But Mother wouldn't give Lark up."

"Just so. In any event, we need agents out there, and
Melina was dependable. So it was done, and the decision
proved right . . . although we mourned, on hearing of
her loss."

Sara accepted this with a nod.

"What I don't understand is why only women?"

The elder had deep lines at the corners of her eyes, from
a lifetime of squinting.

"It was required in the pact, when the aunties of
Urchachkin tribe offered some humans and horses shelter
in their most secret place, to preserve them against the
Urunthai. In those early days, urs found our menfolk dis-
quieting—so strong and boisterous, unlike their own
husbands. It seemed simpler to arrange things on a female-
to-female basis.

"Also, a certain fraction of boys tend to shrug off social
constraints during adolescence,' no matter how carefully
they are raised. Eventually, some young man would have
burst from the Illias realm without adequate preparation—
and all it would take is one. In his need to preen and make
a name, he might spill our secret to the Commons at large."

"Girls act that way, too, sometimes," Sara pointed out.

"Yes, but our odds were better this way. Ponder the
young men you know, Sara. Imagine how they would have
behaved."

She pictured her brothers, growing up in this narrow
oasis. Lark would have been sober and reliable. But Dwer,
at fifteen, was very different than he became at twenty.

"And yet, I see you aren't all women. ..."

The senior rider grinned. "Nor are we celibates. From
time to time we bring in mature males—often chief scouts,
sages, or explosers—men who already know our secret,

208 David B ri n

and are of an age to be calm, sensible companions . . .
yet still retain vigor in their step."

Fallen laughed to cover brief embarrassment. "My step is
no longer my best feature."

Foruni squeezed his arm. "You'll do for a while yet."

Sara nodded. "An urrish-sounding solution." Sometimes
a group of young urs, lacking the means to support indi-
vidual husbands, would share one, passing him from
pouch to pouch.

The senior rider nodded, expressing subtleties of irony
with languid motions of her neck. "After many generations,
we may have become more than a bit urrish ourselves."

Sara glanced toward Kurt the Exploser, sitting on a
smooth rock studying carefully guarded texts, with both
Jomah and Prity lounging nearby.

"Then you sent the expedition to fetch Kurt because you

want another—"

"Ifni, no! Kurt is much too old for such duties, and when
we do bring in new partners it is with quiet discretion.
Hasn't Kurt explained to you what this is all about? His role
in the present crisis? The reason why we gambled so much
to fetch you all?"

When Sara shook her head, Poruni's nostrils flared and
she hissed like an urrish auntie, perplexed by foolish ju-
niors.

"Well, that's his affair. All I know is that we must escort
you the rest of the way as soon as possible. You'll rest with
us tonight, my niece. But alas, family reminiscence must
wait till the emergency passes ... or once it overwhelms
us all."

Sara nodded, resigned to more hard riding.

"From here . . . can we see—?"

Fallen nodded, a gentle smile on his creased features.

"I'll show you, Sara. It's not far."

She took his arm as Foruni bade them return soon for a
feast. Already Sara's nose filled with scents from the cook-
fire. But soon her thoughts were on the path as they
crossed narrow,' miraculous meadows, then scrublands
where simlas grazed, and beyond to a steepening pass
wedged between two hills. Sunlight was fading rapidly,

I n f i n I r u ' s Shore 209

and soon the smallest moon, Passen, could be seen gleam-
ing near the far west horizon.

She heard music before they crested the pass. The famil-
iar sound of Emerson's dulcimer, pinging softly ahead. Sara
was loath to interrupt, yet the glow drew her—a shimmer-
ing lambency rising from Jijo, filling a vista beyond the
sheltered oasis.

The layered terrain seemed transformed in pearly moon-
light. Gone were the garish colors, yet there remained an
extravagant effect on the imagination. It took an effort of
will in order not to go gliding across the slopes, believing
in false oceans and battlements, in ghost cities and star-
scapes, in myriad phantom worlds that her pattern-glean-
ing brain Grafted out of opal rays and shadows.

Fallon took Sara's elbow, turning her toward Emerson.

The starman stood on a rocky eminence with the dulci-
mer propped before him, beating its forty-six strings. The
melody was eerie. The rhythm orderly, yet impossible to
constrain, like a mathematical series that refused to con-
verge.

Emerson's silhouette was framed by flickering fire as he
played for nature's maelstrom.

This fire was no imagining—no artifact of an easily
fooled eye. It rippled and twisted in the far distance, rim-
ming the broad curves of a mighty peak that reared half-
way up the sky.

Fresh lava.

Jijo's hot blood.

The planet's nectar of renewal, melted and reforged.

Hammering taut strings, the Stranger played for Mount
Guenn, serenading the volcano while it repaid him with a
halo of purifying flame.

PflBT FIVE

A PROPOSAL FOR A USEFUL
TOOL/STRATEGY BASED ON
OUR EXPERIENCE ON JUO

: IT HAS BEEN NEARLY A

• MILLENNIUM SINCE A LARGE
; OUTBREAK OF TRAEKINESS

• WAS FOUND.

i       1 hese Hare-ups used to be Irequent
' embarrassments/ where stacks or hapless rings
i were round languishing without even a single
1 master torus to guide them. But no word 01
; such an occurrence has come within the mem-
1'ory 01 living wax.

The reaction 01 our lollijhy ship to this

i discovery on Jijo was disgusted loathing.
i

[   HOWEVER/ LET US NOW

l/vJSE and consider how the Great
'; Jophur League might learn/benerit irom this
1 experiment. Never belore have cousin rings
. dwelled in such intimacy with other races.
; /vlthough polluted/contaminated/ these traeki
, have also acquired waxy expertise aoout urs/
i boon/ and qheuen sapient lilc-torms——as well
. as human wollllngs and gis-ek vermin.

MOREOVER, the very traits that we Jophur {ind repel-
lent in traeki-natural rings-—their lack ol locus/ sell/ or ambi-
tion——appear to enable them to achieve empathy with unitary
beings! 1 he other Hve races ol Jijo trust these ring stacks. I hey
contide secrets/ share conlidences/ delegate some traekts with medi-
cal tasl<s and even powers ot llle continuation/cessation.

IMAGINE THIS POSSIBILITY SUPPOSE WE
ATTEMPT A RUSE.

INTENTIONALLY we might create new traeki and
arrange tor them to escape the loving embrace ol our noble clan.
Genuinely believing they are in (light Irom oppressive master
rings/ these stacl<s would be induced to seek shelter among some
ol the races we call enemies.

Next suppose that/ using this knack ol vacuous empathy/
they make Iriendships among our toes. /\s generations pass/ they
become trusted comrades.

A,t which point we arrange (or agents to snatch—to har-
vest——some ol these rogue traeki/ converting them to Jophur ex-
actly as we did when /\sx was translormed into Ewasx/ by
applying the needed master rings.

Would this not give us quick expertise about our toes'

GK/\N 1 L,U/ this L,wasx experiment has not been a complete
success. 1 he old traeki/ Y\sx/ managed to melt many waxy memo-
ries beiore completion ot metamorphosis. 1 he resulting partial am-
nesia has proved inconvenient.

Yet/ this does not detract Irom the value ol the scheme—to
plant empathic spies in our enemies midst. Jples who are believ-
able because they think they are true triends! Nevertheless/ with
the boon ot master rings/ we can reclaim lost brethren wherever
and whenever we hnd them.

Mak aKanec

[ERE WERE TWO KINDS OF PUPILS IN THE WIDE,
wet classroom.

One group signified hope—the other, despair.
One was illegal—the other, hapless.
The first type was innocent and eager.
The second had already seen and heard far too much.

# good fish . . .

# goodfisb, goodfish . . .

# good-good FISH.' #

Dr. Makanee never used to hear Primal Delphin spoken
aboard the Streaker. Not when the keeneenk master,
Creideiki, used to hold the crew rock steady by his unwa-
vering example.

Nowadays, alas, one commonly picked up snatches of
old-speech—the simple, emotive squealing used by unal-
tered Tursiops in Earth's ancient seas. As ship physician,
even Makanee sometimes found herself grunting a snatch

214 David B r i n

phrase, when fmstrations crowded in from all sides . . .
and when no one was listening.

Makanee gazed across a broad chamber, half-filled with
water, as students jostled near a big tank at the spinward
end, avid to be fed. There were almost thirty neo-dolphins,
plus a dozen six-armed, monkeylike figures, scrambling up
the shelf-lined walls, or else diving to swim agilely with
webbed hands. Just half the original group of Kiqui sur-
vived since they were snatched hastily from far-off Kithrup,
but the remaining contingent seemed healthy and glad to
frolic with their dolphin friends.

I'm still not sure we did the right thing, taking them
along. Neo-dolphins are much too young to take on the

responsibilities of patronhood.

A pair of teachers tried bringing order to the unruly mob.
Makanee saw the younger instructor—her former head
nurse, Peepoe—use a whirring harness arm to snatch living
snacks from the tank and toss them to the waiting crowd of
pupils. The one who uttered the Primal burst—a middle-
aged dolphin with listless eyes—smacked his jaw around a
blue thing with writhing tendrils that looked nothing like a
fish. Still, the fin crooned happily while he munched.

# Goodfish . . . good-good-good! #

Makanee had known poor Jecajeca before Streaker
launched from Earth—a former astrophotographer who
loved his cameras and the glittering black of space. Now
Jecajeca was another casualty of Streaker's long retreat,
fleeing ever farther from the warm oceans they called

home.

This voyage was supposed to last six months, not two and
a half years, with no end in sight. A young client race
shouldn't confront the challenges we have, almost alone.

Taken in that light, it seemed a wonder just a quarter of
the crew had fallen to devolution psychosis.

Give it time, Makanee. You may yet travel that road
yourself.

Infinitii's Shore 215

"Yes, they are tasty, Jecajeca," Peepoe crooned, turning
the reverted dolphin's outburst into a lesson. "Can you tell
me, in Anglic, where this new variety of 'fish' comes
from?"

Eager grunts and squeaks came from the brighter half of
the class, those with a future. But Peepoe stroked the older
dolphin with sonar encouragement, and soon Jecajeca's
glazed eye cleared a bit. To please her, he concentrated.

"F-f-rom    out-side . . . Good    s-s-sun . . . good
wat-t-ter . . ."

Other students offered raspberry cheers, rewarding this
short climb back toward what he once had been. But it was
a slippery hill. Nor was there much a doctor could do. The
cause lay in no organic fault.

Reversion is the ultimate sanctuary from worry.

Makanee approved of the decision of Lieutenant Tsh't
and Gillian Baskin, not to release the journal of Alvin the
Hoon to the crew at large.

If there's one thing the crew don't need right now, it's to
hear of a religion preaching that it's okay to devolve.

Peepoe finished feeding the reverted adults, while her
partner took care of the children and Kiqui. On spying
Makanee, she did an agile flip and swam across the cham-
ber in two powerful fluke strokes, resurfacing amid a burst
of spray.

"Yesss, Doctor? You want to see me?"

Who wouldn 't want to see Peepoe? Her skin shone with
youthful luster, and her good spirits never flagged, not
even when the crew had to flee Kithrup, abandoning so
many friends.

"We need a qualified nurse for a mission. A long one, I'm
afraid."

Ratcheting clicks spread from Peepoe's brow as she pon-
dered.

"Kaa's outpost. Is someone hurt-t?"
"I'm not sure. It may be food poisoning ... or else

kingree fever."

Peepoe's worried expression eased. "In that case, can't
Kaa take care of it himself? I have duties here."

216 David B r I n

"Olachan can handle things while you are away."

Peepoe shook her head, a human gesture by now so
ingrained that even reverted fins used it. "There must be
two teachers. We can't mix the children and Kiqui with the
hapless ones too much."

Just five dolphin infants had been born to crew members
so far, despite a growing number of signatures on the irk-
some Breeding Petition. But those five youngsters de-
served careful guidance. And that counted double for the
Kiqui—presentients who appeared ripe for uplift by some
lucky Galactic clan who won the right to adopt them. That
laid a heavy moral burden on the Streaker crew.

"I'll keep a personal eye on the Kiqui . . . and we'll
free the kids' parents from duty on a rotating basis, to join
the creche as teachers' aidesss. That's the best I can do,
Peepoe."

The younger dolphin acquiesced, but grumbled. "This'll
turn out to be a wild tuna chase. Knowing Kaa, he prob'ly
forgot to clean the water filters."

Everyone knew the pilot had a long-standing yearning
for Peepoe. Dolphins could sonar-scan each other's in-
nards, so there was no concealing simple, persistent pas-
sions.

Poor Kaa. No wonder he lost his nickname.

"There is a second reason you're going," Makanee re-
vealed in a low voice.

"I thought so. Does it have to do with gravitic signals
and depth bombsss?"

"This hideout is jeopardized," Makanee affirmed. "Gil-
lian and Tsh't plan to move Streaker soon."

"You want me to help find another refuge? By scanning
more of these huge junk piles, along the way?" Peepoe
blew a sigh. "What else? Shall I compose a symphony, in-
vent a star drive, and dicker treaties with the natives while
I'm at it?"

Makanee chuttered. "By all accounts, the sunlit sea
above is the most pleasant we've encountered since de-
parting Calafia. Everyone will envy you."

When Peepoe snorted dubiously, Makanee added in Tri-
nary—

I n f i n i \ i| ' s Shore 217

* Legends told by whales

* Call one trait admirable—
* Adaptability! *

This time, Peepoe laughed appreciatively. It was the sort
of thing Captain Creideiki might have said, if he were still
around.

Back in sick bay, Makanee finished treating her last patient
and closed shop for the day. There had been the usual
psychosomatic ailments, and inevitable accidental injuries
from working outside in armored suits, bending and weld-
ing metal under a mountainous heap of discarded ships. At
least the number of digestive complaints had gone down
since teams with nets began harvesting native food. Jijo's
upper sea teemed with life, much of it wholesome, if prop-
erly supplemented. Tsh't had even been preparing to allow
liberty parties outside . . . before sensors picked up star-
ships entering orbit.

Was it pursuit? More angry fleets chasing Streaker for her
secrets? No .one should have been able to trace Gillian's
sneaky path by a nearby supergiant whose sooty winds
had disabled the robot guards of the Migration Institute.

But the idea wasn't as original as we hoped. Others
came earlier, including a rogue band of humans. I guess
we shouldn't be surprised if it occurs to our pursuers, as
well.

Makanee's chronometer beeped a reminder. The ship's
council—two dolphins, two humans, and a mad com-
puter—was meeting once more to ponder how to thwart
an implacable universe.

There was a sixth member who silently attended, offer-
ing fresh mixtures of opportunity and disaster at every
turn. Without that member's contributions, Streaker would
have died or been captured long ago.

Or else, without her, we'd all be safe at home.

Either way, there was no escaping her participation.

Ifni, capricious goddess of chance.

H

annes

IT WAS HARD TO GET ANYTHING DONE. DR. BASKIN
kept stripping away members of his engine-room gang,
assigning them other tasks.

He groused. "It's too soon to give up on Streaker, I tell
you!"

"I'm not giving her up quite yet," Gillian answered. "But
with that carbonite coating weighing the hull down—"

"We've been able to analyze the stuff, at last. It seems the
stellar wind blowing off Izmunuti wasn't just atomic or mo-
lecular carbon, but a ftind of star soot made up of tubes,
coils, spheres, and such."

Gillian nodded, as if she had expected this.

"Buckyballs. Or in GalTwo—" Pursed lips let out a click-
ing trill that meant container home for individual atoms. "I
did some research in the captured Library cube. It seems
an interlaced mesh of these microshapes can become
superconducting, carrying away vast amounts of heat.
You're not going to peel it off easily with any of the tools
we have."

"There could be advantages to such stuff."

"The Library says just a few clans have managed to syn-
thesize the material. But what good is it, if it makes the hull
heavy and seals our weapons ports so we can't fight?"

Suessi argued that her alternative was hardly any better.
True, a great heap of ancient starships surrounded them,
and they had reactivated the engines of a few. But that was
a far cry from finding a fit replacement for the Snark-class
survey craft that had served this crew so well.

These are ships the Buyur didn 't think worth taking with
them, when they evacuated this system!

Above all, how were dolphins supposed to operate a
starship that had been built back when humans were
learning to chip tools out of flint? Streaker was a marvel of
clever compromises, redesigned so beings lacking legs or
arms could move about and get their jobs done—either

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 219

striding in six-legged walker units, or by swimming
through broad flooded chambers.

Dolphins are crackerjack pilots and specialists. Someday
lots of Galactic clans may hire one or two at a time, offer-
ing them special facilities as pampered professionals. But
few races will ever want a ship like Streaker, with all the
hassles involved.

Gillian was insistent.

"We've adapted before. Surely some of these old ships
have designs we might use."

Before the meeting broke up, he offered one last objec-
tion.

"You know, all this fiddling with other engines, as well
as our own, may let a trace signal slip out, even through all
the water above us."

"I know, Hannes." Her eyes were grim. "But speed is
crucial now. Our pursuers already know roughly where we
are. They may be otherwise occupied for the moment, but
they'll be coming soon. We must prepare to move Streaker
to another hiding place, or else evacuate to a different ship
altogether."

So, with resignation, Suessi juggled staff assignments,
stopped work on the hull, and augmented teams sent out
to alien wrecks—a task that was both hazardous and fasci-
nating at the same time. Many of the abandoned derelicts
seemed more valuable than ships impoverished Earth had
purchased through used vessel traders. Under other cir-
cumstances, this Midden pile might have been a terrific
find.

"Under other circumstances," he muttered. "We'd never
have come here in the first place."

nf   r U ' s Shore 221

Sooners

merson

WHAT A WONDERFUL PLACE!

Ever since glorious sunset, he had serenaded the
stars and the growling volcano . . . then a crescent of
sparkling reflections on the face of the largest moon. Dead
cities, abandoned in vacuum long ago.

Now Emerson turns east toward a new day. Immersed in
warm fatigue, standing on heights protecting the narrow
meadows of Xi, he confronts the raucous invasion of
dawn.

Alone.

Even the horse-riding women keep inside their shelters
at daybreak, a time when glancing beams from the swollen
sun sweep all the colors abandoned by night, pushing
them ahead like an overwhelming tide. A wave of speckled
light. Bitter-sharp, like shards of broken glass.

His former self might have found it too painful to en-
dure—that logical engineer who always knew what was
real, and how to classify it. The clever Emerson, so good at
fixing broken things. That one might have quailed before
the onslaught. A befuddling tempest of hurtful rays.

But now that seems as nothing compared with his other
agonies, since crashing on this world. In contrast to having
part of his brain ripped out, for instance, the light storm
could hardly even be called irritating. It feels more like the
claws of fifty mewling kittens, setting his callused skin
a-prickle with countless pinpoint scratches.

Emerson spreads his arms wide, opening himself to the
enchanted land, whose colors slice through roadblocks in
his mind, incinerating barriers, releasing from numb im-
prisonment a spasm of pent-up images.

Banded canyons shimmer under layer after lustrous
layer of strange images. Explosions in space. Half-drowned
worlds where bulbous islets glimmer like metal mush-
rooms. A house made of ice that stretches all the way
around a glowing red star, turning the sun's wan glow into
a hearth's tamed fire.

These and countless other sights waver before him. Each
clamors for attention, pretending to be a sincere reflection
of the past. But most images are illusions, he knows.

A phalanx of armored damsels brandishes whips of
forked lightning against fire-breathing dragons, whose
wounds bleed rainbows across the desert floor. Though
intrigued, he dismisses such scenes, collaborating with his
rewq to edit out the irrelevant, the fantastic, the easy.

What does that leave?

A lot, it seems.

From one nearby lava field, crystal particles reflect tart
sunbursts that his eye makes out as vast, distant explosions.
All sense of scale vanishes as mighty ships die in furious
battle before him. Squadrons rip each other. Fleet forma-
tions are scythed by moving folds of tortured space.

True.'

He knows this to be a real memory. Unforgettable. Too
exquisitely horrible to let go, this side of death.

So why was it lost?

Emerson labors to fashion words, using their rare power
to lock the recollection back where it belongs.

I . . . saw ... this . . . happen.

I . . . was . . . there.

He-turns for more. Over in that direction, amid a simple
boulder field, lay a galactic spiral, seen from above the

222 David B r i n

swirling wheel. Viewed from a shallow place where few
spatial tides ever churn. Mysteries lay in that place, undis-
turbed by waves of time.

Until someone finally came along, with more curiosity
than sense, intruding on the tomblike stillness.

Someone . . . ?

He chooses a better word.

. . . We . . .

Then, a better word, yet.

. . . Streaker!

A slight turn and he sees her, traced among the stony
layers of a nearby mesa. A slender caterpillar shape, 'stud-
ded by the spiky flanges meant to anchor a ship to this
universe ... a universe hostile to everything Streaker
stood for. He stares nostalgically at the vessel. Scarred and
patched, often by his own hand, the hull's beauty could
only be seen by those who loved her.

. . . loved her . . .

Words have power to shift the mind. He scans the hori-
zon, this time for a human face. One he adored, without
hope of anything but friendship in return. But her image
isn't found in the dazzling landscape.

Emerson sighs. For now, it is enough to sort through his
rediscoveries. A single correlation proves especially useful.
If it hurts, then it must be a real memory.

What could that fact mean?

The question, all by itself, seems to make his skull crack
with pain!

Could that be the intent? To prevent him from remember-
ing?

Stabbing sensations assail him. That question is worse! It
must never be asked!

Emerson clutches his head as the point is driven home
with hammerlike blows.

Never, ever, ever . . .

Rocking back, he lets out a howl. He bays like a
wounded animal, sending ululations over rocky outcrops.
The sound plummets like a stunned bird . . . then
catches itself just short of crashing.

In a steep, swooping turn, it comes streaking back . . .
as laughter'.

fi n r U ' s Shore 223

Emerson bellows.

He roars contempt.

He brays rebellious joy.

Through streaming tears, he asks the question and glo-
ries in the answer, knowing at last that he is no coward.
His amnesia is no hysterical retreat. No quailing from trau-
mas of the past.

What happened to his mind was no accident.

Hot lead seems to pour down his spine as programmed
inhibitions fight back. Emerson's heart pounds, threatening
to burst his chest. Yet he scarcely notices, facing the truth
head-on, with a kind of brutal elation.

Somebody . . . did . . . this. . . .

Before him, looming from the fractured mesa, comes an
image of cold eyes. Pale and milky. Mysterious, ancient,
deceitful. It might have been terrifying—to someone with
anything left to lose.

Somebody . . . did . . . this ... /o ... me!

With fists clenched and cheeks awash, Emerson sees the
colors melt as his eyes fill with liquid pain. But that does
not matter anymore.

Not what he sees.

Only what he knows.

The Stranger casts a single cry, merging with the timeless
hills.

A shout of defiance.

THEY SHOW COURAGE.
You were right about that, My rings.
We Jophur had not expected anyone to approach so
soon after the Polkjhy slashed an area of twenty korech
around our landing site. But now a delegation comes, wav-
ing a pale banner.

At first, the symbolism confuses our Polkjhy communica-
tions staff. But this stack's very own association rings relay

224 David B r i n

the appropriate memory of a human tradition—that of us-
ing a white flag to signify truce.

WE INFORM THE CAPTAIN LEADER. That exalted stack
appears pleased with our service. My rings, you are indeed
well informed about vermin! These worthless-seeming
toruses, left over from the former Asx, hold waxy expertise
about human ways that could prove useful to the Obeyer
Alliance, if a prophesied time of change truly has come
upon the Five Galaxies.

The Great Library proved frustratingly sparse regarding
the small clan from Earth. How ironic then, that we should
find proficient knowledge in such a rude, benighted world
as this Jijo. Knowledge that may help our goal of extin-
guishing the wolflings at long last.

What? You quiver at the prospect?

In joyful anticipation of service? In expectation that yet
another enemy of our clan shall meet extinction?

No. Instead you shudder, filling our core with mutinous
fumes!

My poor, polluted rings. Are you so infested with alien
notions that you actually hold affection for noisome bi-
peds? And for vermin g'Kek survivors we are sworn to
erase?

Perhaps the poison is too rife for you to be suitable,
even with useful expertise.

The Oailie were right. Without master rings, all a stack
can become is a pile of sentimental traeki.

THE TALL STAR LORD WAS NO LESS IMPOSING IN A
homespun shirt and trousers than in his old black-and-
silver uniform. Rann's massive arms and wedgelike torso
tempted one to imagine impossible things . . . like pitting
him against a fully grown hoon in a wrestling match.

That might take some of the starch out of him. Lark pon-
dered. There's nothing fundamentally superior about the
guy. Underlying Rann's physique and smug demeanor was

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 225

the same technology that had given Ling the beauty of a
goddess. / might be just as strong—and live three hundred
years—if I weren't born in a forlorn wilderness.

Rann spoke Anglic in the sharp Danik accent, with bur-
ring undertones like his Rothen overlords.

"The favor you ask is both risky and impertinent. Can
you offer one good reason why I should cooperate?"

Watched by militia guards, the star lord sat cross-legged
in a cave overlooking Dooden Mesa, where camouflaged
ramps blended with the surrounding forest under tarpau-
lins of cunning blur cloth. Beyond the g'Kek settlement,
distant ridges seemed to ripple as vast stands of boo bent
their giant stems before the wind. In the grotto's immediate
vicinity, steam rose from geothermal vents, concealing the
captive from Galactic instruments—or so the sages hoped.

Before Rann lay a stack of data lozenges bearing the sigil
of the Galactic Library, the same brown slabs Lark and
Uthen found in the wrecked Danik station.

"I could give several reasons," Lark growled. "Half the
qheuens I know are sick or dying from some filthy bug you
bastards released—"

Rann waved a dismissive hand.

"Your supposition. One that I deny."

Lark's throat strangled in anger. Despite every point of
damning evidence, Rann obstinately rejected the possibility
of Rothen-designed genocidal germs. "What you suggest is
quite preposterous, " he said earlier. "It is contrary to our
lords' kindly natures."

Lark's first response was amazement. Kindly nature?
Wasn't Rann present when Bloor, the unlucky portraitist,
photographed a Rothen face without its mask, and Ro-
kenn reacted by unleashing fiery death on everyone in
sight?

It did Lark no good to recite the same point-by-point
indictment he had laid out for Ling. The big man was too
contemptuous of anything Jijoan to heed a logical argu-
ment.

Or else he was involved all along, and now sees denial
as his best defense.

Ling sat miserably on a stalagmite stump, unable to meet
her erstwhile leader in the eye. They had come seeking

226 David B r i n

Rann's help only after she failed to read the reclaimed

archives with her own data plaque.

"All right," Lark resumed. "If justice and mercy won't

persuade you, maybe threats will!"

Harsh laughter from the big man.

"How many hostages can you spare, young barbarian?
You have just three of us to stave off fire from above. Your

intimidation lacks conviction."

Lark felt like a bush lemming confronting a ligger. Still,

he leaned closer.

"Things have changed, Rann. Before, we hoped to trade

you back to the Rothen ship for concessions. Now, that
ship and your mates are sealed in a bubble. It's the Jophur
we'll negotiate with. I suspect they'll care less about visible
wear and tear on your person, when we hand you over."

Rann's face was utterly blank. Lark found it an improve-
ment.

Ling broke in.

"Please. This approach is pointless." She stood and ap-
proached her Danik colleague. "Rann, we may have to
spend the rest of our lives with these people, or share
whatever fate the Jophur dish out. A cure may help square
things with the Six. Their sages promise to absolve us, if

we find a treatment soon."

Rann's silent grimace required no rewq interpretation.

He did not savor the absolution of savages.

"Then there are the photograms," Ling said. "You are of
the Danik Inner Circle, so you may have seen the true
Rothen face before. But I found it a shock. Clearly, those
photographic images give Jijo's natives some leverage. In
loyalty to our mast ... to the Rothen, you must consider

that."

"And who would they show their pictures to?" Rann

chuckled. Then he glanced at Lark and his expression
changed. "You would not actually—"

"Hand them over to the Jophur? Why bother? They can
crack open your starship any time they wish, and dissect
your masters down to their nucleic acids. Face it, Rann, the
disguise is no good anymore. The Jophur have their mulch
rings wrapped tightly around your overlords."

"Around the beloved patrons of all humanity!"

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 227

Lark shrugged. "True or not, that changes nothing. If the
Jophur choose, they .can have the Rothen declared anath-
ema across the Five Galaxies. The fines may be calami-
tous."

"And what of your Six Races?" Rann answered hotly.
"Each of you are criminals, as well. You all face punish-
ment—not just the humans and others living here, but the
home branches of each species, elsewhere in space!"

"Ah." Lark nodded. "But this we have always known.
We grow up discussing the dour odds. The guilt. It colors
our distinctly pleasant outlook on life." He smiled sardoni-
cally. "But I wonder if an optimistic fellow like yourself,
seeing himself part of a grand destiny, can be as resigned
to losing all he knows and loves."

At last, the Danik's expression turned dark.

"Rann," Ling urged. "We have to make common cause."

He glared at her archly. "Without Ro-kenn's approval?"

"They've taken him far away from here. Even Lark
doesn't know where. Anyway, I'm now convinced we must
consider what's best for humanity ... for Earth ... in-
dependent of the Rothen."

"There cannot be one without the other!"

She shrugged. "Pragmatism, then. If we help these peo-
ple, perhaps they can do the same for us."

The big man snorted skepticism. But after several duras,
he brushed the stack of data lozenges with his toe. "Well, I
am curious. These aren't from the station Library. I'd recog-
nize the color glyphs. You already tried to gain access?"

Ling nodded.

"Then maybe I had better have a crack at it."

He looked at Lark again.

"You know the risk, as soon as I turn my reader on?"

Lark nodded. Lester Cambel had already explained. In
all probability, the digital cognizance given off by a tiny
info unit would be masked by the geysers and micro-
quakes forever popping under the Rimmers.

Yet, to be safe, every founding colony, from g'Keks and
glavers to urs and humans, sent their sneakships down to
the Midden. Not a single computer was kept. Our ancestors
must have thought the danger very real.

"You needn't lecture a sooner about risk," he told the big

228 David B rIn

man. "Our lives are the floating tumble of Ifhi's dice. We
know it's not a matter of winning.

"Our aim is to put off losing for as long as we can."

They were brought meals by Jimi, one of the blessed who
dwelled in the redemption sanctuary—a cheerful young
man, nearly as large as Rann but with a far gentler manner.
Jimi also delivered a note from Sage Cambel. The embassy
to the Jophur had arrived at Festival Glade, hoping to con-
tact the latest intruders.

The handwritten letter had a coda:

Any progress?

Lark grimaced. He had no way of telling what "progress"
meant in this case, though he doubted much was being

made.

Ling helped load beige slabs into Rann's data plaque—
returned for this purpose. Together, the Daniks puzzled
over a maze of sparkling symbols.

Books from pre-Tabernacle days described what it was
like to range the digital world—a realm of countless di-
mensions, capabilities, and correlations, where any simula-
tion might take on palpable reality. Of course mere
descriptions could not make up for lack of experience. But
I'm not like some fabled islander, befuddled by Captain
Cook's rifle and compass. I have concepts, some math, a
notion of what's possible.

At least, he hoped so.

Then he worried—might the Daniks be putting on an
act? Pretending to have difficulty while they stalled for

time?

There wasn't much left. Soon Uthen would die, then
other chitinous friends. Worse, new rumors from the coast
told of hoonish villagers snuffling and wheezing, their
throat sacs cracking from some strange ailment.

Come on/he urged silently. What's so hard about using
a fancy computer index to look something up?

Rann threw down a data slab, cursing guttural phonemes
of alien argot.

"It's encrypted!"

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 229

"I thought so," Ling said. "But I figured you, as a mem-
ber of the Inner—"

"Even we of the circle are not told everything. Still, I
know the outlines of a Rothen code, and this is different."
He frowned. "Yet familiar somehow."

"Can you break it?" Lark asked, peering at a maze of
floating symbols.

"Not using this crude reader. We'd need something big-
ger. A real computer."

Ling straightened, looking knowingly at Lark. But she
left the decision up to him.

Lark blew air through his cheeks.

"Hr-rm. I think that might be arranged." .

A mixed company of militia drilled under nearby trees,
looking brave in their fog-striped war paint. Lark saw only
a few burly qheuens, though—the five-clawed heavy ar-
mor of Jijoan military might.

As one of the few living Jijoans ever to fly aboard an
alien aircraft and see their tools firsthand, Lark knew what
a fluke the Battle of the Glade had been—where spears,
arbalests, and rifles prevailed against star-roaming gods.
That freak chance would not be repeated. Still, there were
reasons to continue training. It keeps the volunteers busy,
and helps prevent a rekindling of old-time feuds. Whatever
happens—whether we submit with bowed heads to final
judgment, or go down fighting—we can't afford disunion.

Lester Cambel greeted them under a tent beside a bub-
bling hot spring.

"We're taking a risk doing this," the elderly sage said.

"What choice do we have?"

In Lester's eyes, Lark read his answer.

We can let Uthen and countless qheuens die, if that's the
price it takes for others to live.

Lark hated being a sage. He loathed the way he was
expected to think—contemplating trade-offs that left you
damned, either way you turned.

Cambel sighed. "Might as well make the attempt. I doubt
the artifact will even turn on."

At a rough log table, Cambel's human and urrish aides

230 David B rIn

compared several gleaming objects with ancient illustra-
tions. Rann stared in amazement at the articles, which had
been carried here from the shore of a far-off caustic lake.

"But I thought you discarded all your digital—"

"We did. Our ancestors did. These items are leftovers.
Relics of the Buyur."

"Impossible. The Buyur withdrew half a million years
ago!"

Lark told an abbreviated version of the story—about a
crazy mule spider with a collecting fetish. A creature fash-
ioned for destruction, who spent millennia sealing trea-
sures in cocoons of congealed time.

Laboring day and night, traeki alchemists had found a
formula to dissolve the golden preservation shells, spilling
the contents back into the real world. Lucky for us these
experts happened to be in the area, Lark thought. The tired-
looking traekis stood just outside, venting yellow vapor
from chem-synth rings.

Rann stroked one reclaimed object, a black trapezoid,
evidently a larger cousin to his portable data plaque.

"The power crystals look negentropic and undamaged.
Do you know if it still works?"

Lark shrugged. "You're familiar with the type?"

"Galactic technology is fairly standard, though humans
didn't exist, as such, when this thing was made. It is a
higher-level model than I've used, but . . ." The sky hu-
man sat down before the ancient artifact, pressing one of
its jutting bulges.

The device abruptly burst forth streams of light that
reached nearly to the canopy. The High Sage and his team
scrambled back. Urrish smiths snorted, coiling their long
necks while human techs made furtive gestures to ward off
evil.

Even among Cambel's personal acolytes—his book-
weaned "experts"—our sophistication is thin enough to
scratch with a fingernail.

"The Buyur mostly spoke Galactic Three," Rann said.
"But GalTwo is close to universal, so we'll try it first."

He switched' to that syncopated code, uttering clicks,
pops, and groans so rapidly that Lark was soon lost, unable
to follow the arcane dialect of computer commands. The

I n f i n I r i| ' s Shore 231

star lord's hands also moved, darting among floating im-
ages. Ling joined the effort, reaching in to seize ersatz ob-
jects that had no meaning to Lark, tossing away any she
deemed irrelevant, giving Rann working room. Soon the
area was clear but for a set of floating dodecahedrons, with
rippling symbols coursing each twelve-sided form.

"The Buyur were good programmers," Rann com-
mented, lapsing into GalSix. "Though their greatest passion
went to biological inventions, they were not slackers in the
digital arts."

Lark glanced at Lester, who had gone to the far end of
the table to lay a pyramidal stack of sensor stones, like a hill
of gleaming opals. Tapping one foot nervously, the sage
kept wary vigil, alert for any spark of warning fire.

Turning farther, Lark found the mountain cleft deserted.
The militia company had departed.

No one with sense would remain while this is going on.

Rann muttered a curse.

"/ had hoped the machine would recognize idiosyncra-
sies in the encryption, if it is a standard commercial cy-
pher used widely in the Five Galaxies. Or there may be
quirks specific to some race or alliance.

"Alas, the computer says it does not recognize the crypto-
graphic approach used in these memory slabs. It calls the
coding technique . . . innovative."

Lark knew the term was considered mildly insulting
among the great old star clans.

"Could it be a pattern developed since the Buyur left
Jijo?"

Rann nodded. "Half an eon is a while, even by Galactic
standards."

Ling spoke, eagerly. "Perhaps it's Terran."

The big man stared at her, then nodded, switching to
Anglic.

"That might explain the vague familiarity. But why
would any Rothen use an Earther code? You know what
they think of wolfling technology. Especially anything pro-
duced by those unbelieving Terragens—"

"Rann," Ling cut in, her voice grown hushed. "These
slabs may not have belonged to Ro-kenn or Ro-pol."

232 David B r i n

"Who then? You deny ever seeing them before. Neither
have I. That leaves ..."

He blinked, then pounded a heavy fist on the wooden
slats. "We must crack this thing! Ling, let us commence
unleashing the unit's entire power on finding the key."

Lark stepped forward. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"You seek disease cures for your fellow savages? Well,
the Jophur ship squats on the ruins of our station, and our
ship is held captive. This may be your only chance."

Clearly, Rann had another reason for his sudden zeal.
Still, everyone apparently wanted the same thing—for
now.

Lester looked unhappy, but he gave permission with a
nod, returning to his vigil over the sensor stones.

We're doing it for you, Uthen, Lark thought.

Moments later, he had to retreat'several more steps as
space above the prehistoric computer grew crowded. In-
numerable glyphs and signs collided like snowflakes in an
arctic blizzard. The Buyur machine was applying prodi-
gious force of digital intellect to solving a complex puzzle.

As Rann worked—hands darting in and out of the pirou-
etting flurry—he wore an expression of simmering rage.
The kind of resentful anger that could only come from one
source.

Betrayal.

A midura passed before the relic computer announced pre-
liminary results. By then Lester Cambel was worn out. Per-
spiration stained his tunic and he wheezed each breath.
But Lester would let no one else take over watching the
sensor stones.

"It takes long training to sense the warning glows," he
explained. "Right now, if I relax my eyes in just the right
way, I can barely make out a soft glow in a gap between
two of the bottommost stones."

Long training? Lark wondered as he peered into the
fragile pyramid, quickly making out a faint iridescence, re-
sembling the muted'flame that licked the rim of a mulching
pan when a dead traeki was boiled, rendering the fatting
rings for return to Jijo's cycle.

Infinirii's Shore 233

Cambel went on describing, as if Lark did not already
see.

"Someday, if there's time, we'll teach you to perceive the
passive resonance, Lark. In this case it is evoked by the
Jophur battleship. Its great motors are now idling, forty
leagues from here. Unfortunately, even that creates enough
background noise to mask any new disturbance."

"Such as?"

"Such as another set of gravitic repulsors . . . moving
this way."

Lark nodded grimly. Like a rich urrish trader with two
husbands in her brood pouches, big starships carried
smaller ships—scrappy and swift—to launch on deadly er-
rands. That was the chief risk worrying Lester.

Lark considered going back to watch the two Daniks
work, invoking software demons in quest of a mathemati-
cal key. But what good would he do staring at the un-
fathomable? Instead, he bent close to the stones, knowing
each flicker to be an echo of titanic forces, like those that
drove the sun.

For a time he sensed no more than that soft bluish flame.
But then Lark began noticing another rhythm, matching the
mute shimmer, beat by beat. The source throbbed near his
rib cage, above his pounding heart.

He slid a hand into his tunic and grabbed his amulet—
a fragment of the Holy Egg that hung from a leather thong.
It was warm. The pulselike cadence seemed to build
with each passing dura, causing his arm to vibrate pain-
fully.

What could the Egg have in common with the engines of
a Galactic cruiser? Except that both seem bent on troubling
me till I die?

From far away, he heard Rann give an angry shout. The
big Danik pounded the table, nearly toppling the fragile
stones.

Cambel left to find out what Rann had learned. But Lark
could not follow. He felt pinned by a rigor that spread from
his fist on up his arm. It crossed his chest, then swarmed
down his crouched legs.

"Uh-huhnnn ..."

David B r i n

234

y-t    M u . . _

He tried to speak, but no words came. A kind of paraly-
sis robbed him of the will to move.

Year after year he had striven to achieve what came eas-
ily to some pilgrims, when members of all Six Races sought
communion with Jijo's gift—the Egg, that enigmatic won-
der. To some it gave a blessing—guidance patterns, pro-
found and moving. Consolation for the predicament of

exile.

But never to Lark. Never the sinner.

Until now.
But instead of transcendent peace, Lark tasted a bitter

tang, like molten metal in his mouth. His eardrums
scraped, as if some massive rock were being pushed
through a tube much too narrow. Amid his confusion, gaps
in the sensor array seemed like the vacuum abyss between
planets. The gemstones were moons, brushing each other

with ponderous grace.

Before his transfixed eyes, the silken flame grew a mi-
nuscule swelling, like a new shoot budding off a rosebush.
The new bulge moved, detaching from its parent, creeping
around the surface of one stone, crossing a gap, then mov-
ing gradually upward.

It was subtle. Without the heightened sensitivity of his

seizure, Lark might not have noticed.
Something's coming.

But he could only react with a cataleptic gurgle.
Behind Lark came more sounds of fury—Rann throwing
a tantrum over some discovery. Figures moved around the I
outraged alien . . . Lester and the militia guards. No one

paid Lark any mind.

Desperately, he sought the place where volition resides.

The center of will. The part that commands a foot to step,
an eye to shift, a voice to utter words. But his soul seemed
captive to the discolored knob of fire, moving languidly

this way.

Now that it had his attention, the flicker wasn't about to

let him go.

Is this your intent? he asked the Egg, half in prayer and

half censure.

You alert me to clanger . . . then won't let me cry a

warning?

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 235

Did another dura pass—or ten?—while the spark drifted
around the next stone? With a soft crackle it crossed an-
other gap. How many more must it traverse before reach-
ing the top? What sky-filling shadow would pass above
when that happened?

Suddenly, a huge silhouette did loom into Lark's field of
view. A giant, globelike shape, vast and blurry to his fixed,
unfocused gaze.

The intruding object spoke to him.

"Uh . . . Sage KoolKan? . . . You all right, sir?"

Lark mutely urged the intruder closer. That's it, Jimi. A
bit more to the left . . .

With welcome abruptness, the flame vanished, eclipsed
by the round face of Jimi the Blessed—Jimi the Simple-
ton—wearing a worried expression as he touched Lark's
sweat-soaked brow.

"Can I get ya somethin', Sage? A drink o' water mebbe?"

Freed of the hypnotic trap, Lark found volition at last
. . . waiting in the same place he always kept it.

"Uhhhh . . ."

Stale air vented as he took gasping breath. Pain erupted
up and down his crouched body, but he quashed it, forc-
ing all his will into Grafting two simple words.

". . . ever'body . . . out!"

E

THEY ACT QUICKLY ON THEIR PROMISES, DO THEY

not, my rings?

Do you see how soon the natives acquiesced to our

demands?

You seem surprised that they moved so swiftly to ap-
pease us, but /expected it. What other decision was possi-
ble, now that their so-called sages understand the way
things are?

Like you lesser rings, the purpose of other races is ulti-
mately to obey.

236 David B r in

HOW DID THIS COME ABOUT? you ask.

Yes, you have My permission to stroke old-fashioned
wax drippings, tracing recent memory. But I shall also re-
tell it in the more efficient Oailie way so that we may cele-
brate together an enterprise well concluded.

WE BEGIN with the arrival of emissaries—one from each
of the savage trib.es, entering this shattered valley on foot
and wheel, shambling like animals over the jagged
splinters that surround our proud Polkjhy.

Standing bravely beneath the overhanging curve of our
gleaming hull, they took turns shouting at the nearest open
hatch, making pretty speeches on behalf of their rustic
Commons. With surprising eloquence, they cited relevant
sections of Galactic law, accepting on behalf of their ances-
tors full responsibility for their presence on this world, and
requesting courteously that we in turn explain our purpose
coming here.

Are we official inspectors and judges from the Institute
of Migration? they asked. And if not, what excuse have we
for violating this world's peace?

Audacity! Among the crew of the Polkjhy, it most upset
our junior Priest-Stack, since now we seem obliged to jus-
tify ourselves to barbarians.

«Why Did We Not Simply Roast This Latest Embassy,
Like The One Before It?»

To this, our gracious Captain-Leader replied:

«It Costs Us Little To Vent Informative Steam In The
General Direction Of Half-Devolved Beings. And Do Not
Forget That There Are Data Gleanings We Desire, As Well!
Recall That The Scoundrel Entities Called Rothen Offered
To Sell Us Valuable Knowledge, Before We Righteously
Double-Crossed Them. Perhaps That Same Knowledge
Might Be Wrung From The Locals At A Much Smaller Price,
Saving Us The Time And Effort Of A Search.»

Did not the junior Priest-Stack then press its argument?

«Look Down At The Horrors! Abominations! They
Comingle In The Shadow Of Our Great Ship—Urrish Forms
Side By Side With Noons? Poor Misguided Traeki Cousins
Standing Close 'To Wolfling Humans? And There Among
Them, Worst Of All ... G'keks! What Can Be Gained By
Talking With Miscegenists? Blast Them Now!»

Infinilii's Shore 237

•     •     •

AH, MY RINGS, would not things be simpler for us/Me,
had the Captain-Leader given in, accepting the junior
priest's advice? Instead, our exalted commander bent
toward the senior Priest-Stack for further consultation.

That august entity stretched upward, a tower of fifty glo-
rious toruses, and declared—

«I/We Concede That It Is A Demeaning Task. But It
Harms Us Little To Observe The Appropriate Forms And
Rituals.

«So Let Us Leave The Chore To Ewasx. Let The Ewasx
Stack Converse With These Devolved Savages. Let Ewasx
Find Out What They Know About The Two Kinds Of Prey
We Seek»

So it was arranged. The job was assigned to this make-
shift, hybrid stack. An appointment to be a lowly agent. To
parley with half animals.

In this way, I/we learned the low esteem by which our
Jophur peers regard us.

BUT NEVER MIND THAT NOW. Do you recall how we
took on our apportioned task, with determined aplomb?
By gravity plate, we dropped down to the demolished for-
est, where the six envoys waited. Our ring of association
recognized two of them—Phwhoon-dau, stroking his
white hoonish beard, and Vubben, wisest of the g'Kek.
This pair shouted surprised gladness at first, believing they
beheld a lost comrade—Asx.

Then, realizing their mistake, all six quailed, emitting
varied noises of dismay. Especially the traeki in their
midst—our/your replacement among the High Sages?—
who seemed especially upset by our transformation. Oh,
how that stack of aboriginal toruses trembled to perceive
our Jophurication! Would its segmented union sunder on
the spot? Without a master ring to bind and guide them,
would the component rings tear their membranes and
crawl their separate ways, returning to the feral habits of
our ancestors?

Eventually the six representatives recovered enough to

238   D a v i d B r i n

listen. In simple terms, I explained Polkfhy's endeavor in
this far-off system.

WE ARE NOT OF THE MIGRATION INSTITUTE, I/we
told them, although we did invoke a clause of Galactic law
to self-deputize and arrest the Rothen gene raiders. There
will be few questions asked by an indifferent cosmos, if/
when we render judgment on them . . . or on criminal
colonists.

To whom will savages appeal?

BUT THAT NEED NOT BE OUR AIM.

This I added, soothingly. There are worse villains to pur-
sue than a hardscrabble pack of castaways, stranded on a
forbidden reef, seeking redemption the only way they can.

OUR CHIEF QUEST is for a missing vessel crewed by
Earthling dolphins. A ship sought by ten thousand Heels,
across all Five Galaxies. A ship carrying secrets, and per-
haps the key to a new age.

I told the emissaries that we might pay for data, if local
inhabitants help shorten our search.

(Yes, My rings—the Captain-Leader also promised to pay
those Rothen rascals, when their ship hailed ours in jump
space, offering vital clues. But those impatient fools gave
away too much in their eagerness. We made vague prom-
ises, dispatching them for more proof . . . then covertly
followed, before a final deal was signed! Once they led us
to this world, what further purpose did they serve? Rather
than pay, we seized their ship.

(True, they might have had more data morsels to sell.
But if the dolphin ship is in this system, we will find it soon
enough.)

(Yes, My rings, our memory core appears to hold no waxy
imprints of a "dolphin ship. "But others onJijo might know
something. Perhaps they kept data from their traeki sage.
Anyway, can we trust memories inherited from Asx, who
slyly remelted many core drippings?

InfiniM's Shore 239

(So we must query theJijoan envoys, using threats and
rewards.)

While the emissaries pondered the matter of the dolphin
ship, I proceeded to our second requirement. Our goal of
long-delayed justice!

YOU MAY FIND THIS ADDITIONAL REQUEST UN-
PLEASANT, OR DISLOYAL. BUT YOU HAVE NO CHOICE.
YOU MUST BEND TO THE IMPLACABILITY OF OUR
WILL. THE SACRIFICE WE DEMAND IS ESSENTIAL. DO
NOT THINK OF SHIRKING!

The boon sage boomed a deep umble, inflating his
throat sac. "We are unclear on your meaning. What must
we sacrifice?"

To this obvious attempt at dissembling, I replied deri-
sively, adding rippling emphasis shadows across our upper
rings.

YOU KNOW WHAT MUST BE GIVEN UP TO US. SOON
WE WILL EXPECT A TOKEN PORTION. A DOWN PAY-
MENT TO SHOW US THAT YOU UNDERSTAND.

With that, I commanded our ring-of-manipulators to aim
all our tendrils at the aged g'Kek.

Toward Vubben.

This time, their reactions showed comprehension. Some
former Asx rings shared their revulsion, but I clamped
down with electric jolts of discipline.

The intimidated barbarians retreated, taking with them
the word of heaven.

We did not expect to hear from the agonized sooners for a
day or two. Meanwhile, the Captain-Leader chose to send
our second corvette east to help the other unit whose self-
repairs go too slowly, stranded near a deepwater rift. (A
candidate hiding place for the missing Earthling ship!)

Once, we feared that dolphins had shot down our boat,
and Polkjhy itself must go on this errand. But our tactician
stack calculated that the Rothen scout simply got in a lucky
shot. It seems safe to dispatch a smaller vessel.

Then, just as our repair craft was about to launch, we

240 David B r i n

picked up a signal from these very mountains! What else
could it be, but the Jijoan envoys, responding to My/our
demands!

The corvette was diverted north, toward this new emis-
sion.

And lo! Now comes in its report. A g'Kek settlement—a
midget city of the demon wheels—hidden in the forest!

Oh, we would have found it anyway. Our mapping has
only just begun.

Still, this gesture is encouraging. It shows the Six (who
will soon be five) possess enough sapient ability to calcu-
late odds, to perceive the inevitable and minimize their
losses.

What, My rings? You are surprised? You expected greater
solidarity from your vaunted Commons? More loyalty?

Then live and learn, My waxy pretties. This is just the
beginning.

i^arl

TEARS COVERED THE CHEEKS OF THE AGED HUMAN
sage as he ran through the forest.
"It's my fault. . . ." he murmured between gasping
breaths. "All my fault,. . . I never should've allowed it
... so near the poor g'Kek. ..."

Lark heard Cambel's lament as they joined a stampede of
refugees, swarming down narrow aisles between colossal
shafts of boo. He had to catch Lester when the sage stum-
bled in grief over what they all had witnessed, only duras
ago. Lark caught the eye of a hoonish militiaman with a
huge sword slung down his back. The burly warrior swept
Lester into his arms, gently hauling the stricken sage to
safety.

For those fleeing beneath the boo, that word—safety—
might never be the same. For two thousand years, the ram-
parts of Dooden Mesa offered protection to the oldest and

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 241

weakest sooner race. Yet no defense could stand against
the sky cruiser that swept over that sheltered valley, too
soon after Lark's shouted warning. Some refugees—those
with enough nerve to glance back—would always carry
the image of that awful ship, hovering like a predator over
the graceful ramps, homes, and workshops.

It must have been drawn by the Buyur computer—by its
"digital resonance."

Once over the mountain, the aliens could not help notic-
ing the g'Kek settlement in the valley below.

". . . we were too near the poor g'Kek ..."

Driven by a need for answers—and a lifelong curiosity
about all things Galactic—Cambel had allowed Ling and
Rann to drive the machine at full force, deciphering the
mystery records. It was like waving a lure above this part
of the Rimmers, calling down an ill wind.

Some of those running through the forest seemed less
panicky. Fierce-eyed Jeni Shen kept herd on her militia
team, so Rann and Ling never had a chance to dodge left or
right, slipping away through the boo. As if either Danik
had any place to go. Their faces looked as dismayed as
anybody's.

Lark's ears still rang from when the Jophur ship cast
beams of aching brilliance, tearing apart the frail canopy of
blur cloth, laying Dooden Mesa bare under a cruel sun.
Teeming wheeled figures scurried futilely, like a colony of
hive mites in a collapsed den.

The beams stopped, and something even more dreadful
fell from the floating nemesis.

A golden haze. A flood of liquid light.

Lark's nerve had failed him at that point, as he, too,
plunged into the boo, fleeing a disaster he had helped
wreak.

You aren 't alone, Lester. You have company in hell.

D

wer

MUDFOOT SEEMED CRAZIER THAN EVER.
Blinking past a cloud of buzzing gnats, Dwer
watched the mad noor crouch over some helpless crea-
ture he had caught near the shore, gripping his prey in
both forepaws, brandishing sharp teeth toward whatever
doomed beast had unluckily strayed within reach. Mudfoot
showed no interest in two sooty spaceships that lay crip-
pled, just beyond the dune.

Why should he care? Dwer thought. Any Galactics who
glimpse him will just shrug of/another critter ofJijo. Enjoy
your meal, Mudfoot. No squatting under hot sand for you!

Dwer's hidey-hole was intensely uncomfortable. His legs
felt cramped and grit eagerly sought every body crevice,
Partial shade was offered by his tunic, propped up with
two arrows and covered with sand. But he had to share
that narrow shelter with Rety—an uncomfortable fit, to say
the least. Worse, there was a kind of midge, no larger than
a speck, that seemed to find human breath irresistible. One
by one, the insectoids drifted upslope to the makeshift cav-
ity where Dwer and Rety exposed their faces for air. The
bugs fluttered toward their mouths, inevitably being drawn
inside. Rety coughed, spat, and cursed in her Gray Hills
dialect, despite Dwer's pleas for silence.

She's not trained for this, he thought, trying for patience,
During his apprenticeship, Master Fallen used to leave him
in a hunting blind for days on end, then sneak back to i
observe. For each sound Dwer made, Fallen added an-
other midura, till Dwer learned the value of quiet.

"I wish he'd quit playin' with his food," Rety muttered,
glaring downslope at Mudfoot. "Or else, bring some up for

us."

Dwer's belly growled agreement. But he told her, "Don't
think about it. Try to sleep. We'll see about sneaking away
come nightfall."

For once, she seemed willing to take his advice. Some-

1 n f i n I r u ' s Shore 243

times, Rety seemed at her best when things were at their
worst.

At this rate, she'll be a saint before it's all over.
He glanced left, toward the swamp. Both alien ships lay
grounded in a seaside bog, just two arrowflights away. It
made the two humans easy targets if they budged. Nor had
he any guarantee this would change at night.

I hear tell that star gods have lenses that pick out a warm
body moving in the dark, and other kinds to track metal
and tools.

Getting away from here might not be easy, or even pos-
sible.

There wasn't much to say for the alternatives. It would
have been one thing to surrender to Kunn. As a Danik
adoptee, Rety might have swayed the human star pilot to
spare Dwer's life. Perhaps.

But the newcomers who shot down Kunn's little scout
. . . Dwer felt his hackles rise watching tapered stacks of
glistening doughnuts inspect their damaged ship, accom-
panied by hovering robots.

Why be afraid? They look like traeki, and traeki are
harmless, right?

Not when they come swooping from space, throwing
lightning.

Dwer wished he had listened more closely to holy ser-
vices as a child, instead of fidgeting when the Sacred
Scrolls were read. Some excerpts had been inserted by the
ringed ones, when their sneakship came—passages of
warning. Not all stacks of fatty rings were friendly, it
seemed. What was the name they used? Dwer tried to re-
call what word stood for a traeki that was no traeki, but he
came up blank.

Sometimes he wished he could be more like his brother
and sister—able to think deep thoughts, with vast stores of
book learning to call upon. Lark or Sara would surely make
better use of this time of forced inaction. They would be
weighing alternatives, listing possibilities, formulating
some plan.

But all I do is doze, thinking about food. Wishing I had
some way to scratch.

244 David B r

He wasn't yet desperate enough to walk toward that sil-
ver ship with hands raised. Anyway, the aliens and their
helpers were still fussing over the smoke-stained hull, mak-
ing repairs.

As he nodded in a drowsy torpor, he fought down one
itch in particular, a prickly sensation inside his head. The
feeling had grown ever since he first gave the Danik robot
a "ride" across a river, using his body to anchor its ground-
hugging fields. Each time he collapsed on the opposite
bank, waking up had felt like rising from a pit. The effect
grew stronger with every crossing.

At least I won't have to do that again. The robot now
cowered under a nearby dune, useless and impotent since
Kunn's ship was downed and its master taken.

Dwer's sleep was uneasy, disturbed first by a litany of
aching twinges, and later by disturbing dreams.

He had always dreamed. As a child, Dwer used to jerk
upright in the dark, screaming till the entire household
roused, from Nelo and Melina down to the lowest chimp
and manservant, gathering round to comfort him back to
sweet silence. He had no clear memory of what nightmares
used to terrify him so, but Dwer still had sleep visions of
startling vividness and clarity.

Never worth screaming over, though.

Unless you count One-of-a-Kind.

He recalled the old mule spider of the acid mountain
lake, who spoke words directly in his mind one fateful day,
during his first solo scouting trip over the Rimmer Range.

—the mad spider, unlike any other, who tried all kinds
of deceit to charm Dwer into its web, there to join its "col-
lection."

—the same spider who nearly caught Dwer that awful
night when Rety and her "bird" were trapped in its maze of
bitter vines . . . before that vine network exploded in a
mortal inferno.

Restlessly, he envisioned living cables, the spider's own
body, snaking across a tangled labyrinth, creeping ever
nearer, closing an unstoppable snare. From each twisting
rope there dripped heavy caustic vapors, or liquors that
would freeze your skin numb on contact.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 245

Around Dwer, the sand burrow felt like a ropy spiral of
nooses, drawing tight a snug embrace that was both cloy-
ing and loving, in a sick-sweet way.

No one else could ever appreciate you as much as I do,
crooned the serenely patient call of One-of-a-Kind. We
share a destiny, my precious, my treasure.

Dwer felt trapped, more by a languor of sleep than by
the enveloping sand. He mumbled.

"Yer just . . . my . . . 'magination. . . ."

A crooning, dreamlike laugh, and the mellifluous voice

rejoined—

So you always used to claim, though you cautiously
evaded my grasp, nonetheless. Until the night 1 almost had

you.

"The night you died!" Dwer answered. The words were

a mere rolling of his exhaled breath.

True. But do you honestly think that was an ending?
My kind is very old. I myself bad lived half a million
years, slowly etching and leaching the hard leavings of the
Buyur. Across those ages, thinking long thoughts, would I
not learn everything there is to know about mortality?

Dwer realized—all those times he helped the Danik
robot cross a stream, conducting its throbbing fields, some-
how must have changed him inside. Sensitized him. Or
else driven him mad. Either way, it explained this awful

dream.

His eyes opened a crack as he tried to waken, but fa-
tigue lay over Dwer like a shroud, and all he managed
was to peer through interleaved eyelashes at the swamp

below.

Till now, he had always stared at the two alien ships—
the larger shaped like a silvery cigar, and the smaller like a
bronze arrowhead. But now Dwer regarded the back-
ground. The swamp itself, and not the shiny intruders.

They are just dross, my precious. Ignore those passing
bits of "made stuff," the brief fancies of ephemeral beings.
The planet will absorb them, with some patient help from

my kindred.

Distracted by the ships, he had missed the telltale signs.
A nearby squarish mound whose symmetry was almost

246 David B r i n

hidden by rank vegetation. A series of depressions, like
grooves filled with algae scum, always the same distance
apart, one after another, extending into the distance.

It was an ancient Buyur site, of course. Perhaps a port or
seaside resort, long ago demolished, with the remnants left
for wind and rain to dissolve.

Aided by a wounded planet's friend, came the voice,
with renewed pride.

We who help erase the scars.

We who expedite time's rub.

Over there. Between the shadows of his own eyelashes,
Dwer made out slender shapes amid the marsh plants, like
threads woven among the roots and fronds, snaking
through the muddy shallows. Long, tubelike outlines,
whose movement was glacially slow. But he could track
the changes, with patience.

Oh, what patience you might have learned, if only you
joined me! We would be one with Time now, my pet, my
rare one.

It wasn't just his growing vexation with the irksome
dream voice—that he knew to be imagined, after all.
Dawning realization finally lent Dwer the will to shake off
sleep. He squeezed his eyelids shut hard enough to bring
tears and flush away the stickiness. Alert now, he reopened
them and stared again at the faint twisty patterns in the
water. They were real.

"It's a mule swamp," he muttered. "And it still lives."

Rety stirred, commenting testily.

"So? One more reason to get out of this crakky place."

But Dwer smiled. Emerging from the fretful nap, he
found his thoughts now taking a sharp turn, veering away
from a victim's apprehension.

In the distance, he still heard the noor beast bark and
growl while toying with his prey—a carnivore's privilege
under nature's law. Before, Mudfoot's behavior had irri-
tated Dwer. But now he took it as an omen.

All his setbacks and injuries—and simple common
sense—seemed to, demand that he flee this deadly place,
crawling on his belly, taking Rety with him to whatever
hideout they could find in a deadly world.

I n f i n i t u ' s Shore 247

But one idea had now crystallized, as clear as the nearby
waters of the Rift.

I'm not running away, he decided. I don't really know
how to do that.

A hunter—that was what he had been born and trained
to be.

Al.

vin

»LL RIGHT, SO THERE WE WERE, WATCHING FARAWAY
events through the phuvnthus' magical viewer, when
the camera eye suddenly went jerky and we found our-
selves staring into the grinning jaws of a giant noor! Hugely
magnified, it was the vista a fen mouse might see—its last
sight on its way to being a midday snack.

Huphu reacted with a sharp hiss. Her claws dug in my
shoulder.

The spinning voice, our host, seemed as surprised as we.
That whirling hologram-thing twisted like the neck of a
confused urs, nodding as if it were consulting someone out
of sight. I caught murmurs that might be hurried Anglic and
GalSeven.

When the voice next spoke aloud, we heard the words
twice, the second time delayed as it came back through the
drone's tiny pickups. The voice used accented GalSix, and
talked to the strange noor. Three words, so high-pitched I
barely understood.

"Brother, " the voice urged quickly. "Please stop."

And the strange noor did stop, turning its head to ex-
amine the drone from one side to the other.

True, we hoons employ noor beasts as helpers on our
boats, and those learn many words and simple commands.
But that is on the Slope, where they get sour balls and
sweet umbles as pay. How would a noor living east of the
Rimmers learn Galactic Six?

The voice tried again, changing pitch and timbre, almost
at the limit of my hearing range.

248 David B r i n

"Brother, will you speak to us, in the name of the Trick-
ster?"

Huck and I shared an amazed glance. What was the
voice trying to accomplish?

One of those half memories came back to me, from
when our ill-fated Wuphon 's Dream crashed into the open-
mawed phuvnthus whale ship. Me and my friends were
thrown gasping across a metal deck, and soon after I stared
through agonized haze as six-legged monsters tromped
about, smashing our homemade instruments underfoot,
waving lantern beams, exclaiming in a ratchety language I
didn't understand. The armored beings seemed cruel when
they blasted poor little Ziz, the five-stack traeki. Then they
appeared crazy upon spying Huphu. I recall them bending
metal legs to crouch before my pet, buzzing and popping,
as if trying to get her to speak.

And now here was more of the same! Did the voice hope
to talk a wild noor into releasing the remote-controlled
drone? Huck winked at me with two waving g'Kek eyes, a
semaphore of amused contempt. Star gods or no, our hosts
seemed prize fools to expect easy cooperation from a
noor.

So we were more surprised than anyone—even Pincer
and Ur-ronn—when the on-screen figure snapped its jaws,
frowning in concentration. Then, through gritted teeth
came a raspy squeak . , . answering in the same informal
tongue.

"In th' nam o' th' Trickst'er . . . who th' hell'r you.'1"

My healing spine crackled painfully as I straightened,
venting an umble of astonishment. Huck sighed and Pin-
cer's visor whirled faster than the agitated hologram. Only
Huphu seemed oblivious. She licked herself complacently,
as if she had not heard a blessed thing.

"What do you jeekee, Ifni-slucking turds think you're
doing!" Huck wailed. All four eyes tossed in agitation,
showing she wa&more angry than afraid. Two hulking, six-
legged phuvnthus escorted her, one on each side, carrying
her by the rims of her wheels.

Infiniru's Shore 249

The rest of us were more cooperative, though reluctant.
Pincer had to tilt his red chitin shell in order to pass
through some doorways, following as a pair of little am-
phibian creatures led us back to the whale ship that
brought us to this underwater sanctuary. Ur-ronn trotted
behind Pincer, her long neck folded low to the ground, a
pose of simmering dejection.

I hobbled on crutches behind Huck, staying out of reach
of her pusher leg, which flailed and banged against corri-
dor walls on either side.

"You promised to explain everything!" she cried out.
"You said we'd get to ask questions of the Library!"

Neither the phuvnthus nor the amphibians answered,
but I recalled what the spinning voice had said before
sending us away.

"We cannot justify any longer keeping four children un-
der conditions that put you all in danger. This location may
be bombed again, with greater fury. Also, you now know
much too much for your own good."

"What do we know?" Pincer had asked, in perplexity.
"That noors can talk-alk-alk?"

The hologram assented with a twisting nod. "And other
things. We can't keep you here, or send you home as we
originally intended, since that might prove disastrous for
ourselves and your families. Hence our decision to convey
you to another place. A goal mentioned in your diaries,
where you may be content for the necessary time."

"Wait!" Huck had insisted. "I'll bet you're not even in
charge. You're prob'ly just a computer ... a thing. I want
to talk to someone else! Let us see your boss!"

I swear, the whirling pattern seemed both surprised and
amused.

"Such astute young people. We had to revise many as-
sumptions since meeting the four of you. As I am pro-
grammed to find incongruity pleasant, let me thank you for
the experience, and sincerely wish you well."

I noticed, the voice never answered Huck's question.

Typical grown-up, I thought. Whether hoonish parents
or alien contraptions . . . they're all basically the same.

250   0 a v i d B f i n

Huck settled down once we left the curved hallway and
reentered the maze of reclaimed passages leading to the
whale ship. The phuvnthus let her down, and she rolled
along with the rest of us. My friend continued grumbling
remarks about the phuvnthus' physiology, habits, and an-
cestry, but I saw through her pose. Huck had that smug set
to her eyestalks.

Clearly, she felt she had accomplished something sneaky
and smart.

Once aboard the whale ship, we were given another room
with a porthole. Apparently the phuvnthus weren't worried
about us memorizing landmarks. That worried me, at first.

Are they going to stash us in another salvaged wreck,
under a different dross pile, in some far-off canyon of the
Midden? In that case, who'll come get us if they are de-
stroyed?

The voice mentioned sending us to a "safe" place. Call
me odd, but I hadn't felt safe since stepping off dry land at
Terminus Rock. What did the voice mean about it being a
site where we already "wanted to go"?

The whale ship slid slowly at first through its tunnel exit,
clearly a makeshift passage constructed out of the hulls of
ancient starcraft, braced with rods and improvised girders.
Ur-ronn said this fit what we already knew—the phuvnthus
were recent arrivals on Jijo, possibly refugees, like our an-
cestors, but with one big difference.

They hope to leave again.

I envied them. Not for the obvious danger they felt, pur-
sued by deadly foes, but for that one option they had, that
we did not. To go. To fly off to the stars, even if the way led
to certain doom. Was I naive to think freedom made it all
worthwhile? To know I'd trade places with them, if I could?

Maybe that thought laid the seeds for my later realiza-
tion. The moment when everything suddenly made sense.
But hold that thought.

Before the whale ship emerged from the tunnel, we
caught sight of figures moving in the darkness, where long
shadows stretched away from moving points of sharp, star-
like light. The patchiness of brilliance and pure darkness

Infinirii's Shore 251

made it hard, at first, to make out very much. Then Pincer
identified the shadowy shapes.

They were phuvnthus, the big six-legged creatures
whose stomping gait seemed so ungainly indoors. Now,
for the first time, we saw them in their element, swimming,
with the mechanical legs tucked away or used as flexible
work arms. The broad flaring at the back ends of their
bodies now made sense—it was a great big flipper that
propelled them gracefully through dark waters.

We had already speculated that they might not be purely
mechanical beings. Ur-ronn thought the heavy metal cara-
pace was worn like a suit of clothes, and the real creatures
lay inside horizontal shells.

They wear them indoors because their true bodies lack
legs, I thought, knowing also that the steel husks protected
their identities. But why, if they were born swimmers, did
they continue wearing the coverings outside?

We glimpsed light bursts of hurtful brilliance—underwa-
ter welding and cutting. Repairs, I thought. Were they in a
battle, before fleeing to Jijo? My mind filled with images
from those vivid space-opera books Mister Heinz used to
disapprove of, preferring that we kids broaden our tastes
with Keats and Basho. I yearned to get close and see the
combat scars . . . but then the sub entered a narrow
shaft, cutting off all sight of the phuvnthu vessel.

Soon, we emerged into the blackness of the Midden. A
deep chill seemed to penetrate the glass disk, and we
backed away . . . especially since the spotlights all
turned off, leaving the outside world vacant, but for an
occasional blue glimmer as some sea creature tried to lure
a mate.

I lay down on the metal deck to rest my back, feeling the
thrum of engines vibrate beneath me. It was like the rum-
bling song of some godlike hoon who never needed to
pause or take a breath. I filled my air sac and began to
umble counterpoint. Hoons think best when there is a
steady background cadence—a tone to serve as a fulcrum
for deliberation.

I had a lot to think about.

My friends eventually grew bored with staring at the
bleak desolation outside. Soon they were all gathered

252 David B r i n

around little Huphu, our noorish mascot, trying to get her
to speak. Pincer urged me to come over and use bosun
umbles to put her in a cooperative mood, but I declined.
I've known Huphu since she was a pup, and there's no
way she's been playing dumb all that time. Anyway, I had
seen a difference in that strange noor on the beach, the
one that spoke back to the spinning voice in fluent GalSix.
Huphu never had that glint in her eyes . . .

. . . though as I reflected, I felt sure I'd seen the look
before—in just a few noor who lounged on the piers in
Wuphon, or worked the sails of visiting ships. Strange
ones, a bit more aloof than normal. As silent as their breth-
ren, they nevertheless seemed more watchful somehow.
More evaluating. More amused by all the busy activity of
the Six Races.

I never gave them much thought before, since a devilish
attitude seems innate to all noor. But now perhaps I knew
what made them different.

Though noor are-often associated with hoons, they
didn't come to Jijo with us, the way chimps, lorniks, and
zookirs came with human, qheuen, and g'Kek sooners.
They were already here when we arrived and began build-
ing our first proud rafts. We always assumed they were
native beasts, either natural or else some adjusted species,
left behind by the Buyur as a practical joke on whoever
might follow. Though we get useful work out of them, we
hoon don't fool ourselves that they are ours.

Eventually, Huck gave up the effort, leaving Pincer and
Ur-ronn to continue coaxing our bored mascot. My g'Kek
buddy rolled over beside me, resting quietly for a time. But
she didn't fool me for a kidura.

"So tell me," I asked. "What'd you swipe?"

"What makes you think I took anything?" She feigned
innocence.

"Hr-rrm. How 'bout the fakey way you thrashed around,
back there in the hall—a tantrum like you used to throw
when you were a leg skeeter, till our folks caught on. After
we left the curvy hallway, you stopped all that, wearing a
look as if you'd snatched the crown jewels under old
Richelieu's nose."

Huck winced, a reflex coiling of eyestalks. Then she

Infinirii's Shore 253

chuckled. "Well, you got me there, d'Artagnan. Come on.
Have a look at what I got."

With some effort, I raised up on my middle stretch of
forearm while Huck rolled closer still. Excitement hummed
along her spokes.

"Used my pusher legs. Kept banging 'em against the wall
till I managed to snag one of these."

Her tendril-like arm unfolded. There, held delicately be-
tween the tips, hung a narrow, rectangular strip of what
looked like thick paper. I reached for it.

"Careful, it's sticky on one side. I think a book called it
adhesive tape. Got a bit crumpled when I yanked it off the
wall. Had to pry some gummy bits apart. I'm afraid there's
not much of an impression left, but if you look
closely . . ."

I peered at the strip—one of the coverings we had seen
pressed on the walls, always at the same height, to the left
of each doorway in the curved hall, surely masking label
signs in some unknown language.

"You wouldn't happen to've been looking when I ripped
it off, were you?" Huck asked. "Did you see what it said
underneath?"

"Hr-r. Wish I had. But I was too busy avoiding being
kicked."

"Well, never mind. Just look real carefully at this end.
What d'you see there?"

I didn't have Huck's sensitivity of vision, but hoons do
have good eyes. I peered at what seemed a circular pattern
with a gap and sharp jog on the right side. "Is it a symbol?"

"That's right. Now tell me—in what alphabet?"

I concentrated. Circles were basic ingredients in most
standard Galactic codes. But this particular shape seemed
unique.

"I'll tell you my yirrt impression, though it can't be right."

"Go on."

"Hr-rm ... it looks to me like an Anglic letter. A letter
G, to be specific."

Huck let a satisfied sigh escape her vent mouth. All four
eyestalks waved, as if in a happy breeze.

"That was my impression, too."

254 David B r i n

We clustered round the viewport when the hull began
creaking and popping, indicating a rapid change of pres-
sure. Soon the world outside began to brighten and we
knew the sub must be on final approach. Beyond the glass,
sunshine streamed through shallow water. We all felt a bit
giddy, from changing air density, I guess. Pincer-Tip let out
hissing shouts, glad to be back in a familiar world where
he would be at home. (Though lacking the comforts of his
clan rookery.) Soon water slid off the window in dripping
sheets and we saw our destination.

Tilted obelisks and sprawling concrete skeletons, ar-
rayed in great clusters along the shore.
Huck let out a warbling sigh.

Buyur ruins, I realized. These must be the scrublands
south of the Rift, where some city sites were left to be torn
down by wave and wind alone.

The voice read my journal and knew about our interest
in coming here. If we must be quarantined, this would be

the place.

The cluster of ancient sites had been Huck's special goal,
before we ever stepped aboard Wupbon's Dream. Now
she bounced on her rims, eager to get ashore and read the
wall inscriptions that were said to be abundant in this
place. Forgotten were her complaints over broken
phuvnthu promises. This was a more longstanding dream.

One of the six-limbed amphibians entered, gesturing for
us to move quickly. No doubt the phuvnthus were anxious
to get us ashore before they could be spotted by their ene-
mies. Huck rolled out after Pincer. Ur-ronn glanced at me,
her long head and neck shaking in an urrish shrug. At least
she must be looking forward to an end to all this water and
humidity. The countryside ahead looked pleasantly dry.

But it was not to be.

This time /was the mutinous one.

"No!" I planted my feet, and my throat sac boomed.

"I ain't movin'."

My friends turned and stared. They must have seen
hoonish obstinacy in the set of my limbs as I gripped the
crutches. The amphibian fluttered and squeaked distress.

"Forget it," I insisted. "We are not getting off!"

"Alvin, it's all right-ight," Pincer murmured. "They prom-

1 n f i n i r i) ' s Shore 255

ised to leave us lots of food, and I can hunt along the
shore—"

I shook my head.

"We are not going to be cast aside like this, exiled for
our own Ifni-slucking safety, like a bunch of helpless kids.
Sent away from where things are happening. Important
things!"

"What're you talking about?" asked Huck, rolling back
into the cabin, while the amphibian fluttered and waved its
four arms vainly. Finally, a pair of big phuvnthus came in,
their long horizontal bodies metal-clad and slung between
six stomping steel legs. But I refused to be intimidated. I
pointed at the nearest, with its pair of huge, black, glassy
eyes, one on each side of a tapered head.

"You call up the spinning voice and tell him. Tell him we
can help. But if you people turn us away, putting us ashore
here won't do any good. It won't shut us up, 'cause we'll
find a way back home, just as fast as we can. We'll head for
the Rift and signal friends on the other side. We'll tell 'em
the truth about you guys!"

Ur-ronn murmured, "What truth, Alvin?"

I let out a deep, rolling umble to accompany my words.

"That we know who these guys are."

S.

•ara

IN THE LODGE OF A HORSE CLAN YOU MIGHT EXPECT
to see lariats, bridles, and saddle blankets hanging on the
walls. Maybe a guitar or two. It seemed strange to find a
piano here in Xi.

An instrument much like the one back home in Dolo
Village, where Melina used to read to her children for
hours on end, choosing obscure books no one else
seemed eager to check out from the Biblos Archive—some
crinkly pages wafting aromas from the Great Printing, two
hundred years before. Especially books of written music
Melina would prop on the precious piano Nelo had made
for her as part of the marriage price.

256 David B r i n

Now, in the great hall of the Illias, Sara ran her hands
along white and black keys, stroking fine tooth traces left
by expert qheuen wood-carvers, picturing her mother as a
little girl, raised in this narrow realm of horses and mind-
scraping illusions. Leaving Xi must have been like going to
another planet. Did she feel relief from claustrophobic con-
finement, passing through the Buyur tunnel for a new life
in the snowy north? Or did Melina long in her heart for the
hidden glades? For the visceral thrill of bareback? For the
pastoral purity of life unconstrained by men?

Did she miss the colors that took each dream or night-
mare, and spread its secret panorama before your daylight
gaze?

Who taught you to play the piano, Mother? Sitting with
you on this very bench, the way you used to sit beside me,
trying to hide your disappointment in my awkward fin-
gers?

A folio of sheet music lay atop the piano's polished sur-
face. Sara flipped through it, recalling ancient compositions
that used to transfix her mother for duras at a stretch, rous-
ing young Sara's jealousy against those dots on a page.
Dots Melina transformed into glorious harmonies.

Later, Sara realized how magical the melodies truly were.
For they were repeatable. In a sense, written music was
immortal. It could never die.

The typical Jijoan ensemble—a sextet including mem-
bers from each sooner race—performed spontaneously. A
composition was never quite the same from one presenta-
tion to the next. That trait appealed especially to blue
qheuens* and hoons, who, according to legend, had no
freedom to innovate back in ordered Galactic society. They
expressed puzzlement when human partners sometimes
suggested recording a successful piece in traeki wax, or
writing it down.

Whateverfor?they asked. Each moment deserves its own
song.

A Jijoan way of looking at things, Sara acknowledged.

She laid her hands on the keys and ran through some
scales. Though out of practice, the exercise was like an old
friend. No wonder Emerson also drew comfort from tunes
recalling happier days.

Infiniru's Shore 257

Still, her mind churned as she switched to some simple
favorites, starting with "Fur Elise."

According to Biblos anthropology texts, most ancient
cultures on Earth used to play music that was impulsive,
just like a Jijoan sextet. But shortly before they made their
own way into space, humans also came up with written

forms.

We sought order and memory. It must have seemed a
refuge from the chaos that filled our dark lives.

Of course that was long ago, back when mathematics
also had its great age of discovery on Earth. Is that a com-
mon thread? Did I choose math for the same reason Melina
loved this instrument? Because it lends predictability amid
life's chaos?

A shadow fell across the wall. Sara drew back, half rising
to meet the brown eyes of Foruni, aged leader of the
horse-riding clan.

"Sorry to disturb you, dear." The gray-headed matriarch
motioned for Sara to sit. "But watching you, I could almost
believe it was Melina back home with us, playing as she
did, with such intensity."

"I'm afraid I don't look much like my mother. Nor do I
play half as well."

The old woman smiled. "A good parent wants her off-
spring to excel—to do what she could not. But a wise
parent lets the child select which excellence. You chose
realms of deep thought. I know she was very proud."

Sara acknowledged the kindness with a nod, but took
small comfort from aphorisms. If the choice really were
mine, don't you think I'd have been beautiful, like Melina?
A dark woman of mystery, who amazed people with many
graceful talents?

Mathematics chose me . . . it seized me with cool infin-
ities and hints at universal truth. Yet whom do I touch with
my equations? Who looks at my face and form with unre-
served delight?

Melina died young, but surrounded by those who loved
her. Who will weep over me, when I am gone?

The Illias leader must have misunderstood Sara's frown.

"Do my words disturb you?" Foruni asked. "Do I sound
like a heretic, for believing that generations can improve?

258 David B r i n

Does it seem an odd belief for a secret tribe that hides itself
even from a civilization of exiled refugees?"

Sara found it hard to answer.

Why were Melina's children so odd, byJijoan standards?
Although Lark's heresy seems opposite to mine, we share
one thread—rejecting the Path of Redemption.

The books Mother read to us often spoke of hope, drawn
from some act of rebellion.

To the Illias leader, she replied, "You and your urrish
friends rescued horses, back when they seemed doomed.
Your alliance foreshadowed that of Drake and Ur-Chown.
You are a society of dedicated women, who carefully
choose your male companions from the best Jijo has to
offer. Living in splendid isolation, you see humanity at its
best—seldom its more nasty side.

"No, it does not surprise me that the Illias are optimists
at heart."

Foruni nodded. "I am told that you, in your investiga-
tions of language theory, reached similar conclusions."

Sara shrugged. "I'm no optimist. Noj; personally. But for
a while, it seemed that I could see a pattern in the evolu-
tion of Jijo's dialects, and in all the new literary activity
taking place across the Slope. Not that it matters anymore,
now that aliens have come to—"

The old woman cut in. "You don't think we are destined
to be like glavers, winning our second chance by passing
through oblivion?"

"You mean what might have happened, if starships
never came? I argued with Dedinger about this. If Jijo had
been left alone, I felt there was the possibility of . . ."

Sara shook her head and changed the subject.

"Speaking of Dedinger, have you had any luck finding
him?"

Foruni winced unhappily. "It's been just a short while
since he broke out of the pen where he was kept. We
never imagined he would prove so resourceful, knowing
how to saddle and steal a horse."

"He had time to learn by observing."

"I see that we were naive. It's a long time since we kept
prisoners in XL

"Unfortunately, the tracks do not lead back to the tunnel,

I n f I n i r i) ' s Shore 259

where we might have trapped him in the narrow darkness.
Instead, the wily ligger spawn struck out across the Spec-
tral Flow."

Sara tried picturing a man alone on horseback, crossing
a vast desert of poison stone and cutting light. "Do you
think he can make it?"

"You mean can we catch him before he dies out there?"
It was Foruni's turn to shrug. "Fallen is not as spry as he
was, but he departed a midura ago with some of our most
able young riders. The fanatic should be back in care soon,
and we'll watch him more closely—"

Foruni stopped, midsentence, glancing down at her
hand. An insect had landed, and was sniffing at a vein. Sara
recognized a skeeter—a blood-sucking irritant familiar
across the Slope. Skeeters were slow and easily smacked,
but for some reason Foruni refrained. Instead, she let the
vampire wasp leisurely insert a narrow tube and take its
meal. When finished, it proceeded to perform a little
dance, one filled with jerky, beckoning motions.

Sara stared, fascinated. Skeeters seldom survived landing
on a human long enough to do this.

Come with me, it seemed to say with each swing of its
tiny abdomen and tail. Come with me now.

Sara realized, it must be another remnant servant beast
of the vanished Buyur. A useful messenger, if you knew
how to use it.

Foruni sighed. "Alas, dear cousin, it's time for you to go.
You and Kurt and the others must hurry to where you're
needed most."

Needed? S'3s?i wondered. In times like these, what could a
person like me possibly be needed for?

The journey south resumed, this time on horseback. They
used the ancient Buyur transit tunnel at first, where the
failed deconstructor left its demolition unfinished. But
soon it lay cracked open for stretches, like the spent larval
casing of a newly fledged qheuen, leaving a dusty cavity or
else a pit filled with water. Thereafter they had to ride in
the open, awash in the luminous tides of the Spectral Flow.
The Illias provided hooded cloaks. Still, it felt as if the

260   D a v I d B r i n

colors were probing the reflective garments for some gap
to worm their way inside.

Kurt andJomah rode ahead with Kepha, their guide. The
elderly exploser leaned forward in his saddle, as if that
might get them to their goal quicker. Then came Prity, on a
donkey more suited for her small form.

Emerson seemed strangely subdued, though he smiled
at Sara from time to time. He wore the rewq constantly,
though from his ever-turning head, Sara gathered the filmy
symbiont was doing more than just softening the colors. It
must be adjusting, translating them. Sometimes, the
starman stiffened in the saddle . . . though whether from
pain, surprise, or exaltation, Sara could never be quite
sure.

Taking up the rear was Uigor, the urrish traitor. Wisely,
she had not tried to break across the poison plain with her
erstwhile ally, Dedinger. Guarded by two of her own kind
from the Xi colony, Uigor swung her head in growing ea-
gerness as the party neared Mount Guenn. Urrish nostrils
flared at scents of smoke and molten rock, as the volcano
loomed to fill the southern sky.

Sara felt surprisingly good. The saddle was a tool her
body had mastered. When the going grew steep and riders
dismounted to lead the horses by hand, her legs were suf-
fused with waves of comfortable warmth, with strength still
in reserve.

So, a hermit math potato can manage to keep up, after
all. Or is this euphoria an early sign of altitude sickness?

They were mounting one of countless knee hills along
the sloping volcano, when suddenly all three urs bolted
forward, hissing excitement and trailing clouds of pumice,
forgetting their separate roles as they jostled toward the
next outlook. Outlined against the sky, their long heads
swept in unison, from left to right and back again.

Finally, winded from the climb, she and Emerson arrived
to find a mighty caldera spread before them . . . one of
many studding the immense volcano, which kept rising to
the southeast for many more leagues.

Yet this crater had the urs transfixed. Steamy exhalations
rose from vents that rimmed the craggy circle. Cautiously,
Sara removed her sunglasses. The basalt here was of a

I n f i n i r 11 ' s Shore 261

coarser, less gemlike variety. They had entered a different

realm.

"This was the site of the first forge," Uigor announced,
her voice tinged with awe. She tilted her muzzle to the
right, and Sara made out a tumble of stone blocks, too
poorly shaped to have been laser-cut by the Buyur, and
now long-abandoned. Such tumbled shelters were hand-
hewn by the earliest urrish seeker smiths who dared to
leave the plains pursuing lava-borne heat, hoping to learn
how to cast the fiery substance of Jijoan bronze and steel.
In its day, the venture was fiercely opposed by the Gray
Queens, who portrayed it as sacrilege—as when humans
much later performed the Great Printing.

In time, what had been profane became tradition.

"They must've found conditions better, on high," Jomah
commented, for the' trail continued steadily upslope. An
urrish guard nodded. "Vut it was fron this flace that early
urs exflorers discovered the secret way across the Sfectral
Flow. The Secret of Xi."

Sara nodded. That explained why one group of urs con-
spired to thwart another—the powerful Urunthai—in their
plan to make horses extinct when humanity was new on
Jijo. The smiths of those days cared little for power games
played by high aunties of the plains tribes. It did not matter
to them how Earthlings smelled, or what beasts they rode,
only that they possessed a treasure.

Those books the Earthlings printed. They have secrets of
metallurgy. We must share, or be left behind.

So it was not a purely idealistic move—to establish a
secret herd in Xi. There had been a price. Humans may be
Jijo's master engineers, but we stayed out ofsmithing, and
now I know why.

Even after growing up among them, Sara still found it
fascinating how varied urs could be. Their range of person-
alities and motives—from fanatics to pragmatic smiths—
was as broad as you'd find among human beings. One
more reason why stereotypes aren't just evil, but stupid.

Soon after they remounted, the trail followed a ridgeline
offering spectacular views. The Spectral Flow lay to their
left, an eerie realm, even dimmed to -sepia shades by dis-
tance and dark glasses. The maze of speckled canyons

262   D o v j d B f i n

spanned all the way to a band of blazing white—the Plain
of Sharp Sand. Dedinger's home, where the would-be
prophet was forging a nation of die-hard zealots out of
coarse desert folk. Sandmen who saw themselves as hu-
manity's vanguard on the Path of Redemption.

In the opposite direction, southwest through gaps in the
many-times-folded mountain, Sara glimpsed another won-
der. The vast ocean, where Jijo's promised life renewal was
fulfilled. Where Melina's ashes went after mulching. And
Joshu's. Where the planet erased sin by absorbing and
melting anything the universe sent it.

The Slope is so narrow, andJijo is so large. Will star gods
judge us harshly/or living quiet careful lives in one corner
of a forbidden world?

There was always hope the aliens might just finish their
business and go away, leaving the Six Races to proceed
along whatever path destiny laid out for them.

Yeah, she concluded. There are two chances that will
happen—fat and slim.

The trek continued, more often dismounted than not,
and the view grew more spectacular as they moved east,
encompassing the southern Rimmer Range. Again, Sara
noted skittishness among the urs. In spots the ground
vented steaming vapors, making the horses dance and
snort. Then she glimpsed a red glimmer, some distance
below the trail—a meandering stream of lava, flowing sev-
eral arrowflights downslope.

Perhaps it was fatigue, thin air, or the tricky terrain, but
as Sara looked away from the fiery trail, her unshielded
eyes crossed the mountains and were caught unready by a
stray flash of light. Sensitized by her time in Xi, the sharp
gleam made her cringe.

What is that?

The flash repeated at uneven intervals, almost as if the
distant mountaintop were speaking to her.

Then Sara caught another, quite different flicker of mo-
tion.

Now that must'be an illusion, she thought. It has to be
. . . yet it's so far from the Spectral Flow!

It seemed . . . she could almost swear . . . that she

Infinitii's Shore 263

saw the widespread wings of some titanic bird, or dragon,
wafting between—

It had been too long since she checked her footing. A
stone unexpectedly turned and Sara tripped. Throwing her
weight desperately the other way, she overcompensated,
losing her balance completely.

Uttering a cry, Sara fell.

The gritty trail took much of the initial impact, but then
she rolled over the edge, tumbling down a scree of pebbles
and jagged basalt flakes. Despite her tough leather gar-
ments, each jab lanced her with fierce pain as she desper-
ately covered her face and skull. A wailing sound
accompanied her plunge. In a terrified daze Sara realized
the screamer was not her, but Prity, shrieking dismay.

"Sara!" someone yelled. There were scrambling sounds
of distant, hopeless pursuit.

In midtumble, between one jarring collision and the
next, she glimpsed something between blood-streaked fin-
gers—a fast-approaching rivulet winding across the shat-
tered landscape. A liquid current that moved languidly,
with great viscosity and even greater heat. It was the same
color as her blood . . . and approaching fast.

Nel elo

HRIANA FOO SPENT THE RETURN BOAT JOURNEY
mulling over her sketches of the tiny space pod that had
brought the Stranger to Jijo. Meanwhile, Nelo fumed
over this foolish diversion. His workmen would surely not
have kept to schedule. Some minor foul-up would give
those louts an excuse to lie about like hoons at siesta time.

Commerce had lapsed during the crisis, and the ware-
house tree was full, but Nelo was determined to keep pro-
ducing paper. What would Dolo Village be without the
groaning waterwheel, the thump of the pulping hammer,
or the sweet aroma that wafted from fresh sheets drying in
the sun?

While the helmsman umbled cheerfully, keeping a

264 David B r i n

steady beat for the crew poling the little boat along, Nelo
held out a hand, feeling for rain. There had been drops a
little earlier, when disturbing thunder pealed to the south.

The marsh petered out as streamlets rejoined as a united
river once more. Soon the young people would switch to
oars and sweep onto the gentle lake behind Dolo Dam.

The helmsman's umble tapered, slowing to a worried
moan. Several of the crew leaned over, peering at the wa-
ter. A boy shouted as his pole was ripped out of his hands.
It does seem a bit fast, Nelo thought, as the last swamp
plants fell behind and trees began to pass by rapidly.

"All hands to oars!" shouted the young hoon in com-
mand. Her back spines, still fresh from recent fledging,
made uneasy frickles.
"Lock them down!"

Ariana met Nelo's eyes with a question. He answered
with a shrug.

The boat juttered, reminding him of the cataracts that lay
many leagues downriver, past Tarek Town, an inconve-
nience he only had to endure once, accompanying his
wife's dross casket to sea.

But there are no rapids here! They were erased when the
lake filled, centuries ago!

The boat veered, sending him crashing to the bilge. With
stinging hands, Nelo climbed back to take a seat next to
Ariana. The former High Sage clutched the bench, her pre-
cious folio of drawings zipped shut inside her jacket.

"Hold on!" screamed the young commander. In dazed
bewilderment, Nelo clutched the plank as they plunged
into a weird domain. A realm that should not be.

So Nelo thought, over and over, as they sped down a
narrow channel. On either side, the normal shoreline was
visible—where trees stopped and scummy water plants
took over. But the boat was already well below that level,
and dropping fast!

Spume crested the gunnels, drenching passengers and
crew. The latter rowed furiously to the hoon lieutenant's
shrill commands. Lacking a male's resonating sac, she still
made her wishes known.

"Backwater-left . . . backwater-left, you noor-bitten

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 265

ragmen! . . . Steady . . . Now all ahead! Pull for it, you
spineless croakers! For your lives, pull\"

Twin walls of stone rushed inward, threatening to crush
the boat from both sides. Glistening with oily algae, they
loomed like hammer and anvil as the crew rowed franti-
cally for the narrow slot between, marked by a fog of sting-
ing white spray. What lay beyond was a mystery Nelo only
prayed he'd live to see.

Voices of hoons, qheuen, and humans rose in despera-
tion as the boat struck one cliff a glancing blow, echoing
like a door knocker on the gateway to hell. Somehow the
hull survived to lunge down the funnel, drenched in spray.

We should be on the lake by now, Nelo complained,
hissing through gritted teeth. Where did the lake go!

They shot like a javelin onto a cascade where water
churned in utter confusion over scattered boulders, shifting
suddenly as fresh debris barricades built up or gave way. It
was an obstacle course to defy the best of pilots, but Nelo
had no eyes for the ongoing struggle, which would merely
decide whether he lived or died. His numbed gaze lifted
beyond, staring past the surrounding mud plain that had
been a lake bed, down whose center rushed the River Ro-
ney, no longer constrained. A river now free to roll on as it
had before Earthlings came.

The dam . . . The dam . . .

A moan lifted from the pair of blue qheuens, lent for this
journey by the local hive. A hive whose fisheries and
murky lobster pens used to stretch luxuriously behind the
dam wherein they made a prosperous home. Remnants of
the pens and algae farms lay strewn about as the boat
swept toward the maelstrom's center.

Nelo blinked, unable to express his dismay, even with a
moan.

The dam still stood along most of its length. But most
wasn't a word of much use to a dam. Nelo's heart almost
gave way when he saw the gap ripped at one end . . .
the side near his beloved mill.

"Hold on!" the pilot cried redundantly, as they plunged
for the opening. And the waterfall they all heard roaring
violently just ahead.

PflRT SIX

FROM THE NOTES
OF GILL1AN BASK1N

' MY DECISION may not be wholly rational.
;       For all 1 know/ Alvfn may tie blurting
i in order to avoid exile, lie may have no
I idea who we are.

I       Or perliaps he really Has surmised the
\ truth. yuter all/ dolphins are mentioned in
' many ol the tarth books hes read. L»ven
. wearing a mlly armored/ six-legged walker
unit/ a tins outline can be recognised it you
look in tne right way. Once tne idea oc-
i curred to him/ yUvins (ertile imagination
' would cover tne rest.

i       /\s a precaution/ we could Intern the
| kids much larther south/ or in a subsea
I habitat. 1 hat might keep them sale and silent.
, Isnt suggested as much/ before 1 ordered the
; lUKaM to turn around and bring them back.

1 admit !m biased. 1 miss /Win and
', nis pals. 11 only the fractious races ot the Five
' Oalaxtes could have a camaraderie like theirs.
'       /Vnyway/ they are grown-up enough
' to choose their own late.

Wfc,Vb had a report trom /Vlakanees nurse. On her
way by sled to check on a sick member 01 Kaas team/ Repoe
spotted two more piles ot Junked spacecratt/ smaller than this one/
but suitable should we have to move Streaker soon. Hannes
dispatched crews to start preparatory work.

/xgain/ we must rely on the same core group ot about liity
skilled crewten. I he reliable ones/ whose concentration remains
untlagged atter three stresslul years. Those who arent frightened
by superstitious rumors 01 sea monsters lurking amid the dead
Duyur machines.

/\J tor our pursuers——weve seen no more gravitic signatures or
Hying cratt/ east o( the mountains. That may be good news/ but
the respite makes me nervous. Iwo small spacecraft cant be the
whole story. Sensors detect some great brute of a ship/ about (ive
hundred klicks northwest. Is this vast cruiser related to the two
vessels that (ell near here?

1 hey must surely realise that this region is of interest.
It seems creepy they haven t followed up.
.As it they are confident they have all the time in the
world.

1 \~\L, INISS /Vlachine managed to exchange Just a few more
words with that so-called noor beast that our little drone en-
countered ashore. But the creature keeps us on tenterhooks/ treat-
ing the little scout robot like its private toy/ or a prey animal to
be teased with bites and scratches. )4t it also carries it about in
its mouth/ careful not to get tangled in the hber cable/ letting us
have briet/ tantalising views 01 the crashed sky boats.

We had assumed that noor were simply devolved versions
ot tytlal . . . ot little interest except as curiosities. But if some
retain the power 01 speech/ what else might they be capable or?
.At first I thought the Niss AAachine would be the one

oest qualthed to handle this contusing encounter. .Alter all/ the
noor is its cousin/ in a manner o( speaking.

But family connections can Involve sibling rivalry/ even con-
tempt. /Vlaybe the lymbrlmt machine is simply the wrong spokes-
man.

One more reason 1 m eager to bring /Win back.

AMID all this/ I had time to do a bit more research on Herbie.

1 wish there were some way to guess the isotopic input
profiles/ before he died/ but chemical raeemi?atlon analyses o(
samples taken from the ancient mummy appear to show consider-
ably less temporal span than was indicated by cosmic-ray track
llistories of the hull lorn boarded/ in the Shallow (cluster.

In other words/ Heroic seems younger than the vessel lorn
round him on.

I hat could mean a number 01 things.

AAlght Herb simply be the corpse 01 some previous grave
robber/ who slinked aboard Just a few million years ago/ Instead
ot one to two billion'

Or could the discrepancy be an enect o( those strange Holds
we (ound in the Shallow (cluster/ surrounding that Heet 01
ghostly starcraft/ rendering them nearly invisible7 lerhaps the outer
hulls of those huge/ silent ships experienced time dinerently than
their contents.

It makes me wonder about poor Lieutenant /achapa-Jean/
who was killed by those same fields/ and whose body had to be
lett behind. AAight some future expedition someday recover the
well-preserved corpse of a dolphin and go rushing around the
universe thinking they have the recovered relic 01 a progenitor'

yVllstaking the youngest sapient race tor the oldest. What
a Joke that would be.

7\ Joke on them/ and a Joke on us.

llerbie never changes. Yet 1 swear 1 sometimes catch him
grinning.

OUR stolen Oalactic Library unit gets queer and opaque at
times. It I werent in disguise/ the big cube probably woutdnt tell
me anything at all. L,ven decked out as a 1 hennanin admiral/ 1
itnd the l_lbrary evasive when shown those symbols that lorn
copied aboard the derelict ship.

One glyph lool<s lil<e the emblem worn by every Library
unit in known space——a great spiral wheel. Only/ instead or hve
swirling arms rotating around a common center/ this one has nine:

7\nd eight concentric ovals overlie the stylized galactic helix/
making it resemble a bulls-eye target.

1 never saw anything like it before.
when 1 press tor answers/ our purloined archive says the
symbol ... is very old . . . and that its use is ... memet-
ically discouraged.

Whatever that means.

/\t risk ot humanising a machine/ the unit seems to get
grumpy/ as it it dislikes being contused. Ive seen this before.
lerragens researchers rind that certain subject areas make libraries
touchy/ as ii they hate having to work hard by digging in older
riles. . . . Or maylie thats an excuse to avoid admitting there
are things they dont know.

It reminds me 01 discussions lorn and 1 used to have with
Jake l-)emwa/ when wed all sit up late trying to make sense 01
the universe.

Jake had a theory—that Oalactic history/ which purports
to go back more than a billion years/ is actually only accurate to
about one hundred and titty million.

With each eon you go lurther back than that/ he said/
what were told has an ever-increasing Havor ot a carerutly
concocted (able.

Oh/ there s evidence that oxygen-breathing stanarers have
t>een around ten times as long. Jurely some 01 the ancient events

recorded in oiiicial annals must be authentic. But much has also
been painted over.

It s a chilling notion. 1 he great Institutes are supposed to be
dedicated to truth and continuity, tlow/ then/ can valid tniorma-
tlon be memetically discouraged:

Yes/ this seems a rather abstract obsession/ at a time when
Streaker——and now Jijo——races dire and immediate threats. Yet 1
can t help thinking it all comes together here at the bottom ot a
planetary graveyard/ where tectonic plates melt history Into ore.

We are caught in the slowly grinding gears ol a machine
more vast than we imagined.

Marines

ftT TIMES HANNES SUESSI ACUTELY MISSED HIS
nyoung friend Emerson, whose uncanny skills helped
11 make Streaker purr like a compact leopard, prowling
the trails of space.

Of course Hannes admired the able fins of his engine-
room gang—amiable, hardworking crew mates without a
hint of regression in the bunch. But dolphins tend to visu-
alize objects as sonic shapes, and often set their calibra-
, tions intuitively, based on the way motor vibrations
sounded. A helpful technique, but not always reliable.

Emerson D'Anite, on the other hand—

Hannes never knew anyone with a better gut under-
standing of quantum probability shunts. Not the arcane
hyperdimensional theory, but the practical nuts and bolts
of wresting movement from contortions of wrinkled space-
time. Emerson was also fluent in Tursiops Trinary . . .
better than Hannes at conveying complex ideas in neo-
dolphins' own hybrid language. A useful knack on this tub.

Alas, just one human now remained belowdecks, to help
tend abused motors long past due for overhaul.

274 David B r i n

That is—if one could even call Hannes Suessi human
anymore.

Am I more than I was? Or less?

He now had "eyes" all over the engine room—remote
pickups linked directly to his ceramic-encased brain. Using
portable drones, Hannes could supervise Karkaett and
Chuchki far across the wide chamber ... or even small
crews working on alien vessels elsewhere in the great un-
derwater scrap yard. In this way he could offer advice and
comfort when they grew nervous, or when their bodies
screamed with cetacean claustrophobia.

Unfortunately, cyborg abilities did nothing to prevent
loneliness.

You should never have left me here alone, Hannes
chided Emerson's absent spirit. You were an engineer, not
a secret agent or star pilot! You had no business traipsing
off, doing heroic deeds.

There were specialists for such tasks. Streaker had been
assigned several "heroes" when she first set out—individu-
als with the right training and personalities, equipping
them to face dangerous challenges and improvise their
way through any situation.

Unfortunately, those qualified ones were gone—Captain
Creideiki, Tom Orley, Lieutenant Hikahi, and even the
young midshipman Toshio—all used up in that costly es-
cape from Kithrup.

/ guess someone had to fill in after that, Hannes con-
ceded.

In fact, Emerson pulled off one daring coup on Oakka,
the green world, when the Obeyer Alliance sprang a trap
while Gillian tried to negotiate a peaceful surrender to offi-
cials of the Navigation Institute.

Not even the suspicious Niss Machine reckoned that
neutral Galactic bureaucrats might betray their oaths and
violate Streaker's truce pennant. It wasn't supposed to be
possible. If not for Emerson's daring trek across Oakka's
jungle, taking out a Jophur field-emitter station, Streaker
would have fallen into the clutches of a single fanatic
clan—the one thing the Terragens Council said must not
occur, at any cost.

I n f I n i r u ' s Shore 275

But you let one success go to your head, eh? What were
you thinking? That you were another Tom Orley?

A few months later you pulled that crazy stunt, veering a
jury-rigged Thennanin fighter through the Fractal System,
firing recklessly to "cover" our escape. What did that ac-
complish, except getting yourself killed?

He recalled the view from Streaker's bridge, looking
across the inner cavity of a vast, frosty structure the size of
a solar system, built of condensed primal matter. A jagged,
frothy structure with a pale star in its heart. Emerson's
fighter swerved amid the spiky reaches of that enormous
artifact, spraying bright but useless rays while claws of hy-
drogen ice converged around it.

Foolish heroism. The Old Ones could have stopped
Streaker just as easily as they stopped you, if they really
wanted to.

They meant to let us get away.

He winced, recalling how Emerson's brave, futile "diver-
sion" ended in a burst of painful light, a flicker against the
immense, luminous fractal dome. Then Streaker fled down
a tunnel between dimensions, thread-gliding all the way to
forbidden Galaxy Four. Once there, her twisty path skirted
the trade winds of a hydrogen-breathing civilization, then
plunged past a sooty supergiant whose eruption might at
last cover the Earthship's trail.

Others came toJijo in secret before us, letting Izmunuti
erase their tracks.

It should have worked for us, too. '

But Hannes knew what was different, this time.

Those others didn't already have a huge price on their
heads. You could buy half a spiral arm with the bounty
that's been offered for Streaker, by several rich, terrified
patron lines.

Hannes sighed. The recent depth-charge attack had
been imprecise, so the hunters only suspected a general
area of sea bottom. But the chase was on again. And Han-
nes had work to do.

At least I have an excuse to avoid another damned meet-
ing of the ship's council. It's a farce, anyway, since we
always wind up doing whatever Gillian decides. We'd be
crazy not to.

T

276 David B r i n

Karkaett signaled that the motivator array was aligned.
Hannes used a cyborg arm to adjust calibration dials on the
master control, trying to imitate Emerson's deft touch. The
biomechanical extensions that replaced his hands were
marvelous gifts, extending both ability and life span—
though he still missed the tactile pleasure of fingertips.

The Old Ones were generous . . . then they robbed us
and drove us out. They gave life and took it. They might
have betrayed us for the reward ... or else sheltered us
in their measureless world. Yet they did neither.

Their agenda ran deeper than mere humans could
fathom. Perhaps everything that happened afterward was
part of some enigmatic plan.

Sometimes I think humanity would've been better off just
staying in bed.

Tsk't

SHE TOLD GILLIAN BASKIN WHAT SHE THOUGHT OF
the decision.

"I still do not agree with bringing those young soon-
ers back here."

The blond woman looked back at Tsh't with tired eyes.
Soft lines at the corners had not been there when Streaker
started this voyage. It was easy to age during a mission like
this.

"Exile did seem best, for their own good. But they may
be more useful here."

"Yesss . . . assuming they're telling the truth about
boons and Jophur sitting around with humans and urs,
reading paper books and quoting Mark Twain!"

Gillian nodded. "Farfetched, I know. But—"

"Think of the coincidence! No sooner does our scout sub
find an old urrish cache than these so-called kids and their
toy bathysphere drop in."

"They would have died, if the Hikahi didn't snatch them
up," pointed out the ship's physician, Makanee.

"Perhaps. But consider, not long after they arrived here,

finiriJ's Shore 277

we sensed gravitic motors headed straight for this rift can-
yon. Then someone started bombing the abyssss! Was that
a fluke? Or did spies lead them here?"

"Calling bombs down on their own heads?" The dolphin
surgeon blew a raspberry. "A simpler explanation is that
one of our explorer robots got caught, and was traced to
this general area."

In fact, Tsh't knew the four sooner children hadn't
brought Galactics to the Rift. They had nothing to do with
it. She was herself responsible.

Back when Streaker was preparing to flee the Fractal
System, heading off on another of Gillian's brilliant, des-
perate ploys, Tsh't had impulsively sent a secret message.
A plea for help from the one source she felt sure of, re-
vealing the ship's destination and arranging a rendezvous
at Jijo.

Gillian will thank me later, she had thought at the time.
When our Rothen lords come to take care of us.

Only now, images from shore made clear how badly
things went wrong.

Two small sky ships, crashed in a swamp . . . the
larger revealing fierce, implacable Jophur.

Tsh't wondered how her well-meant plan could go so
badly. Did the Rothen allow themselves to be followed? Or
was my message intercepted?

Worry and guilt gnawed her gut.

Another voice entered the discussion. Mellifluous. Ema-
nating from a spiral of rotating lines that glowed at one end
of the conference table.

"So Alvin's bluff played no role in your decision, Dr.
Baskin?"

"Is he bluffing? These kids grew up reading Melville and
Bickerton. Maybe he recognized dolphin shapes under
those bulky ,exo-suits. Or we may have let hints slip, during
conversation."

"Only the Niss spoke to them directly," Tsh't pointed
out, thrusting her jaw toward the whirling hologram.

It replied with unusual contrition.

"Going over recordings, I concede having used terms
such as kilometer and hour . . . out of shipboard habit.
Alvin and his friends might have correlated this with their

278 David B r i n

extensive knowledge ofAnglic, since Galactics would not
use wolfling measurements."

"You mean a Tymbrimi computer ccan make mis-
takesss?" Tsh't asked, tauntingly.

The spinning motif emitted a low humm they all now
recognized as the philosophical umbling sound of a reflec-
tive hoon.

"Flexible beings exhibit an ability to learn new ways,"
the Niss explained. "My creators donated me to serve
aboard this ship for that reason. It is why the Tymbrimi
befriended you Earthling rapscallions, in the first place."

The remark was relatively gentle teasing, compared with
the machine's normal, biting wit.

"Anyway," Gillian continued, "it wasn't Alvin's bluff that
swayed me."

"Then what-t?" Makanee asked.

The Niss hologram whirled with flashing speckles, and
answered for Gillian.

"It is the small matter of the tytlal . . . the noor beast
who speaks. It has proved uncooperative and uninforma-
tive, despite our urgent need to understand its presence
here.

"Dr. Baskin and I now agree.

"We need the children for that reason. Alvin, above all.

"To help persuade it to talk to us."

Sooners

E

merson

HE BLAMES HIMSELF. HIS MIND HAD BEEN ON FAR-
away places and times. Distracted, he was slow reacting
when Sara fell.

Till that moment, Emerson was making progress in the
struggle to put his past in order, one piece at a time. No
easy task with part of his brain missing—the part that once
offered words to lubricate any thought or need.

Hard-planted inhibitions fight his effort to remember, pun-
ishing every attempt with savagery that makes him grunt
and sweat. But the peculiar panoramas help for a while.
Ricocheting colors and half-liquid landscapes jar some of
the niches where chained memories lie.

One recollection erupts whole. An old one, from child-
hood. Some neighbors had a big German shepherd who
loved to hunt bees.

The dog used to stalk his quarry in a very uncanine man-
ner, crouching and twitching like some ridiculous ungainly
cat, pursuing the unsuspecting insect through flower beds

280 David   r i n

and tall grass. Then he pounced, snapping powerful jaws
around the outmatched prey.

As a boy, Emerson would stare in amazed delight while
outraged buzzing echoed behind the shepherd's bared
teeth, followed by a vivid instant when the bee gave up
protesting and lashed with its stinger. The dog would
snort, grimace, and sneeze. Yet, brief pain came mixed
with evident triumph. Bee hunting gave meaning to his
gelded suburban life.

Emerson wonders, why does this metaphor resonate so
strongly? Is he the dog, overriding agony to snatch one
defiant memory after another?

Or is he the beef

Emerson recalls just fragments about the haughty entities
who reamed his mind, then sent his body plummeting to
Jijo in fiery ruin. But he knows how they regarded his
kind—like insects.

He pictures himself with a sharp stinger, wishing for a
chance to make the Old Ones sneeze. He dreams of teach-
ing them to hate the taste of bees.

Emerson lays hard-won memories in a chain. A necklace
with far more gaps than pearls. Easiest come events from
childhood, adolescence, and years of training for the Ter-
ragens Survey Service. . . .

Even when the horse caravan departs the land of stab-
bing colors to climb a steep mountain trail, he has other
tools to work with—music, math, and hand signs that he
trades with Prity, sharing jokes of ultimate crudity. During
rest breaks, his sketchpad helps tap the subconscious, us-
ing impatient slashes and curves to draw free-form images
from the dark time.

Streaker . . .

The ship takes form, almost drawing itself—a lovingly
rendered cylinder with hornlike flanges arrayed in circuits
along its length. He draws her underwater-—surrounded
by drifting seaweed—abnormal for a vessel of deep space,
but it makes sense as other memories fill in.

Kithrup . . .

That awful worid where the Streaker came seeking shel-
ter after barely escaping a surprise ambush, learning that a
hundred fleets were at war over the right to capture her.

I n f i n i r M ' s Shore 281

Kitbrup. A planet whose oceans were poison . . . but a
useful place to make repairs, since just half a dozen crew
members had legs to stand on. The rest—bright, tempera-
mental dolphins—needed a watery realm to work in. Be-
sides, it seemed a good place to hide after the disaster
at ...

Morgran . . .

A transfer point. Safest of the fifteen ways to travel from
star to star. Simply dive toward one at the right slope and
distance, and you'd exit at some other point, far across the
stellar wheel. Even the Earthling slowboat Vesarius had
managed it, though quite by accident, before humanity ac-
quired the techniques of Galactic science.

Thinking of Morgran brings Keepiru to mind, the finest
pilot Emerson ever knew—the show-off!—steering
Streaker out of danger with flamboyance that shocked the
ambushers, plunging her back into the maelstrom, away
from the brewing space battle . . .

. . . like the other battle that developed weeks later,
over Kithrup. Fine, glistening fleets, the wealth of noble
clans, tearing at each other, destroying in moments the
pride of many worlds. Emerson's hand flies as he draws
exploding arcs across a sheet of native paper, ripping it as
he jabs, frustrated by inability to render the gorgeous sav-
agery he once witnessed with his own eyes. . . .

Emerson folds the drawings away when the party re-
mounts, glad that his flowing tears are concealed by the
rewq.

Later, when they face a steaming volcano caldera, he
abruptly recalls another basin, this one made of folded
space . . . the Shallow Cluster ... Streaker's last survey
site before heading for Morgran—a place empty of any-
thing worth noting, said the Galactic Library.

Then what intelligence or premonition provoked Cap-
tain Creideiki to head for such an unpromising site?

Surely, in all the eons, someone else must have stumbled
on the armada of derelict ships Streaker discovered there—
cause of all her troubles. He can envision those silent arks

282 David B r

now, vast as moons but almost transparent, as if they could
not quite decide to be.

This memory hurts in a different way. Claw marks lie
across it, as if some outside force once pored over it in
detail—perhaps seeking to read patterns in the back-
ground stars. Retracing Streaker's path to a single point in
space.

Emerson figures they probably failed. Constellations
were never his specialty.

I n f i n I r u ' s Shore 283

His intrigued detachment is cut short by a frightened
yell. Yet, for an instant Emerson remains too distant, too
slow to turn. He does not see Sara tumble off the path. But
Prity's scream tears through him like a torch thrust into
cobwebs.

Sara's name pours from his throat with involuntary clar-
ity. His body finally acts, leaping in pursuit.

Hurtling down the jagged talus slope, he flings eloquent
curses at the universe, defying it—daring it—to take an-
other friend.

"Emerson, you don't have to go."

His head jerks as those words peel from a memory more
recent than Morgran or Kithrup, by many months.

Emerson pans the land of fevered colors, now seen from
high above. At last he finds her face in rippling glimmers. A
worried face, burdened with a hundred lives and vital
secrets to preserve. Again she speaks, and the words come
whole, because he never stored them in parts of the brain
meant for mundane conversation.

Because everything she said to him had always seemed
like music.

"We need you here. Let's find another way."

But there was no other way. Not even Gillian's sarcastic
Tymbrimi computer could suggest one before Emerson
climbed aboard a salvaged Thennanin fighter, embarking
on a desperate gamble.

Looking back in time, he hopes to see in Gillian's eyes
the same expression she used to have when bidding Tom
farewell on some perilous venture.

He sees worried concern, even affection. But it's not the
same.

Emerson frees his gaze from the torment-colored desert,
turning east toward less disturbing vistas. Far-off moun-
tains offer respite with natural undulating shapes, softened
by verdant green forests.

Then, from one^tall peak, there comes a glittering flash!
Several more gleam in series. A rhythm that seems to
speak. . . .

L^an

THE SERGEANT'S FACE WAS STREAKED WITH CAMOU-
flage. Her black hair still bore flecks of loam and grass
from worming through crevices and peering between
brambles. Yet Lark had never seen Jeni Shen look better.

People thrive doing the thing they were born/or. InJeni's
case, that's being a warrior. She'd rather have lived when
the elder and younger Drakes were fashioning the Great
Peace out of blood and fire than during the peace itself.

"So far, so good," the young militia scout reported. Blur-
cloth overalls made it hard to trace her outline amid stark
lantern shadows.

"I got close enough to watch the emissaries reenter the
valley, bringing the sages' reply to the Jophur. A couple of
guard robots swooped in to look them over, especially
poor Vubben, sniffing him from wheel rims to eyestalks.
Then all six ambassadors headed down to the Glade, with
the bots in escort." Jeni made slanting downward motions
with her hands. "That leaves just one or two drones patrol-
ling this section of perimeter! Seems we couldn't ask for a
better chance to make our move."

"Can there be any question?" added Rann. The tall
starfarer leaned against a limestone wall with arms folded.
The Danik was unarmed, but otherwise Rann acted as if
this were his expedition. "Of course we shall proceed.
There is no other option."

284 David B r i n

Despite Rann's poised assurance, the plan was actually
Lark's. So was the decision whether to continue. His would
be the responsibility, if three-score brave lives were lost in
the endeavor ... or if their act provoked the Jophur into
spasms of vengeful destruction.

We might undermine the High Sages at the very moment
when they have the Galactic untraekis calmed down.

On the other hand, how could the Six Races possibly
pay the price the Jophur were demanding? While the sages
tried to negotiate a lower cost, someone had to see if there
was a better way. A way not to pay at all.

Anxious eyes regarded him from all corners of the
grotto—one of countless steamy warrens that laced these
hills. Ling's gaze was among the most relentless, standing
far apart from Rann. The two star lords had been at odds
since they worked to decode those cryptic data slabs—that
awful afternoon when Rann cried "treason!" then a dread
gold mist fell on Dooden Mesa. Each sky human had a
different reason to help this desperate mission.

Lark found little cheer in Jeni's report. Only one or two
drones left. According to Lester Cambel's aides, the remain-
ing robots could still probe some distance underground, on
guard against approaching threats. On the plus side, this
terrain was a muddle of steam vents and juttering quakes.
Then there were the subtle patterning songs put out by the
Holy Egg—emanations that set Lark's stone amulet trem-
bling against his chest.

They all watched, awaiting his decision—human, urs,
and hoon volunteers, plus some qheuens who weren't yet
sick.

"All right." Lark nodded. "Let's do it."

A terse, decisive command. Grinning, Jeni spun about to
forge deeper into the cavern, followed by lantern bearers.

What Lark had meant to say was, Hell no! Let's get out of
here. I'll buy a round of drinks so everyone can raise a
glass for poor Uthen.

But if he mentioned his friend's name, he might sob the
wrenching grief inside. So Lark took his place along the
twisty column of figures stooping and shuffling through
the dim passage, lit by glow patches stuck to the walls.

His thoughts caromed as he walked. For instance, he

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 285

found himself wondering where on the Slope all six races
could drink the same toast at the same time? Not many inns
served both alcohol and fresh simla blood, since humans
and urs disdained each other's feeding habits. And most
traeki politely refrained from eating in front of other races.

/ do know one bar in Tarek Town . . . that is, if Tarek
hasn't already been smothered by a downpour of golden
rain. After Dooden, the Jophur may go for the bigger towns,
where so many g'Kek live.

It makes you wonder why the g'Kek came toJijo in the
first place. They can only travel the Path of Redemption if it
is paved.

Lark shook his head.

Trivia. Minutiae. Brain synapses keep firing, even when
your sole concern is following the man in front of you
. . . and not slamming your skull on a stalactite.

When they glanced at him, his followers saw a calm,
assertive pose. But within, Lark endured a run-on babble
of words, forever filling his unquiet mind.

/ should be mourning my friend, right now.

I should be hiring a traeki undertaker, arranging a lav-
ish mulching ceremony, so Uthen's polished carapace can
go in style to join the bones and spindles ofhisforemothers,
lying under the Great Midden.

It's my duty to pay a formal visit to the Gray Queens, in
that dusty hall where they once dominated most of the
Slope. The Chamber of Ninety Tooth-Carved Pillars, where
they still make pretenses at regal glory. But how could I
explain to those qheuen matrons how two of their brightest
sons died—Harullen, sliced apart by alien lasers, and
Uthen, slain by pestilence?

Can I tell those ashen empresses their other children may
be next?

Uthen had been his greatest friend, the colleague who
shared his fascination with the ebb and flow ofJijo's fragile
ecosystem. Though never joining Lark in heresy, Uthen
was the one other person who understood why sooner
races should never have come to this world. The one to
comprehend why some Galactic laws were good.

/ let you down, old pal. But if I can't perform all those

286 David B r i n

other duties, maybe I can arrange something to compen-
sate.
Justice.

Debris littered the floor of the last large cavern, strewn
there during the Zealots' Plot, when a cabal of young
rebels used these same corridors to sneak explosives under
the Danik research station, incinerating Ling's friend Besh
and one of the Rothen star lords. Repercussions still spread
from that event, like ripples after a large stone strikes a
pond.

The Jophur battleship now lay atop the station wreck-
age, yet no one suggested using the same method of attack
a second time. Assuming a mighty starcraft could be blown
up, it would take such massive amounts of exploser paste
that Lark's team would still be hauling barrels by next
Founders' Day. Anyway, there were no volunteers to ap-
proach the deadly space behemoth. Lark's plan meant
coming no closer than several arrowflights. Even so, the
going would be hard and fraught with peril.

"From here on, the way's too close for grays," Jeni said.

Urrish partisans peered down a passage that narrowed
considerably, coiling their long necks in unison, sniffing an
aroma their kind disliked.

The gray qheuens squatted while others unstrapped sup-
plies from their chitin backs. Given enough time, the big
fellows might widen the corridor with their digging claws
and diamond-like teeth, but Lark felt better sending them
back. Who knew how much time they had, with plague
spreading on Jijo's winds? Was it a genocide bug? Ling had
found supporting evidence on decoded data wafers,
though Rann still denied it could be of Rothen origin.

The glowering starman was obsessed with a different
wafer-gleaned fact.

There had been a spy among the station's staff of outlaw
gene raiders. Someone who kept a careful diary, recording
every misdemeanor performed by the Rothen and their hu-
man servants.

An agent of the Terragens Council!

f i n i r i| ' s  Shore   287

Apparently, Earth's ruling body had an informant among
the clan of human fanatics who worshiped Rothen lords.

He wanted badly to quiz Ling, but there was no time for
their old question game. Not since they fled the Dooden
disaster along with Lester Cambel's panicky aides, plung-
ing through a maze of towering boo. New trails and fresh-
cut trunks had flustered the breathless fugitives until they
spilled into an uncharted clearing, surprising a phalanx of
traeki who stood in a long row, venting noxious vapors
like hissing kettles.

Galloping squads of urrish militia then swarmed in to
protect the busy traeki, nipping at ankles, as if the humans
were stampeding simlas, driving Cambel's team away from
the clearing, diverting them toward havens to the west and
south.

Even after finally reaching a campsite refuge, there had
been no respite to discuss far-off Galactic affairs. Ling
spent her time with the medics, relating what little she had
learned from the spy's notes about the qheuen plague.

Meanwhile, Lark found himself surrounded by furious
activity, commanding an ever-growing entourage of fol-
lowers.

It goes to show, desperate people will follow anyone with
a plan.

Even one as loony as mine.

Hoonish bearers took up the grays' burdens, and the
caravan was off again. Half a dozen blue qheuens took up
the rear, so young their shells were still moist from larval
fledging. Though small for their kind, they still needed
help from men with hammers and crowbars, chiseling
away limestone obstructions. Lark's scheme counted on
these adolescent volunteers.

He hoped his farfetched plan wasn't the only one at
work.

There is always prayer.

Lark fondled his amulet. It felt cool. For now the Egg
was quiescent.

At a junction the earlier zealot cabal had veered left,
carrying barrels of exploser paste to a cave beneath the
Rothen station. But Lark's group turned right. They had
less distance to cover, but their way was more hazardous.

T

288 David   r i n

Jimi the Blessed was among the burly men helping
widen the path, attacking an obstruction with such fury
Lark had to intervene.

"Easy, Jimi! You'll wake the recycled dead!"

That brought laughter from the sweaty laborers, and
booming umbles from several hoonish porters. Brave
hoons. Lark recalled how their kind disliked closed places.
The urs, normally comfortable underground, grew more
nervous with each sign of approaching water.

None of them were happy to be approaching the giant
star cruiser.

The Six Races had spent centuries cowering against The
Day when ships of the Institutes would come judge their
crimes. Yet, when great vessels came, they did not bear
high-minded magistrates, but thieves, and then brutal kill-
ers. Where the Rothen and their human stooges seemed
crafty and manipulative, the Jophur were chilling.

They demand what we cannot give.

We don't know anything about the "dolphin ship" they
seek. And we'd rather be damned than hand over our
g'Kek brothers.

So Lark, who had spent his life hoping Galactics would
come end the illegal colony on Jijo, now led a desperate
bid to battle star gods.

Human literature has been so influential since the Great
Printing. It's full of forlorn causes. Endeavors that no ra-
tional person would entertain.

He and Ling were helping each other descend a lime-
stone chute, glistening with seepage and slippery lichen,
when word arrived from the forward scouts.

"Water just ahead."

That was the message, sent back by Jeni Shen.

So, Lark thought. I was right.

Then he added—

So far.

The liquid was oily and cold. It gave off a musty aroma.
None of which stopped two eager young blues from
creeping straight into the black pool, trailing mule-fiber
line from a spool. Hoons with hand pumps kept busy in-

1 n f I n i r i| ' s Shore 289

dating air bladders while Lark steeled himself to enter that
dark, wet place.

Having second thoughts?

Jeni checked his protective suit of skink membranes. It
might ward off the chill, but that was the least- of Lark's
worries.

I can take cold. But there bad better be enough air.

The bladders were an untested innovation. Each was a
traeki ring, thick-ribbed to hold gas under pressure. Jeni
affixed one to his back, and showed him how to breathe
through its fleshy protrusion—a rubbery tentacle that
would provide fresh air and scrub the old.

You grow up depending on traeki-secreted chemicals to
make native foods edible, and traeki-distilled alcohol to
liven celebrations. A traeki pharmacist makes your medi-
cine in a chem-synth ring. Yet you're revolted by the
thought of putting one of these things in your mouth.

It tasted like a slimy tallow candle.

Across the narrow chamber, Ling and Rann adjusted
quickly to thisJijoan novelty. Of course they had no history
to overcome, associating traekis with mulch and rotting
garbage.

"Come on," Jeni chided in a low voice that burned his
ears. "Don't gag on me, man. You're a sage now. Others
are watchin'!"

He nodded—two quick head jerks—and tried again. Fit-
ting his teeth around the tube, Lark bit down as she had
taught. The burst of air did not stink as bad as expected.
Perhaps it contained a mild relaxant. The pharmacist de-
signers were clever about such things.

Let's hope their star-god cousins don't think of this, as
well.

That assumption underlay Lark's plan. Jophur com-
manders might be wary against direct subterranean assault.
But where the buried route combined with water, the in-
vaders might not expect trouble.

The Rothen underestimated us. By Ifni and the Egg, the
Jophur may do the same.

Each diver also wore a rewq symbiont to protect the
eyes and help them see by the dim light Of hand-carried

290 David B r i n

phosphors. Webbed gloves and booties completed the en-
semble.

Ling's tripping laughter made him turn around, and Lark
saw she was pointing at him as she guffawed.

"You should talk," he retorted at the ungainly creature
she had become, more monstrous than an unmasked
Rothen. Hoons paused from laying down cargo by the wa-
terline, and joined in the mirth, umbling good-naturedly
while their pet noors grinned with needlelike teeth.

Lark pictured the scene up above, past overlying layers
of rock, in the world of light. The Jophur dreadnought
squatted astride the mountain glen, thwarting the glade
stream in its normal seaward rush. The resulting lake now
stretched more than a league uphill.

Water seeks its own level. We must now be several arrow-
flights from shore. That's a long way to swim before we get
to the lake itself.

It couldn't be helped. Their goal was hard to reach, in
more ways than one.

Bubbles in the pool. One qheuen cupola broached the
surface, followed by another. The young blues crawled
ashore, breathing heavily through multiple leg vents, re-
porting in excited GalSix.

"The way to open water—it is clear. Good time—this we
made. To the target—we shall now escort you."

Cheers lifted from the hoons and urs, but Lark felt no
stirring.  -

They weren't the ones who would have to go the rest of
the way.

Water transformed the cavities and grottoes. Flippers
kicked up clouds of silt, filling the phosphor beams with a
myriad of distracting speckles. Lark's trusty rewq pulled
tricks with polarization, transforming the haze to partial
clarity. Still, it took concentration to avoid colliding with
jagged limestone outcrops. The guide rope saved him from
getting lost.

Cave diving felt a lot like being a junior sage of the
Commons—an experience he never sought or foresaw in
his former life as a scientist heretic.

I n f i n i r ij ' s Shore 291

How ungainly swimming humans appeared next to the
graceful young qheuens, who seized the rugged walls with
flashing claws, propelling themselves with uncanny agility,
nearly as at-home in freshwater as on solid ground.

His skin grew numb where the skink coverings pulled
loose. Other parts grew hot from exertion. More upsetting
was the squirmy traeki tentacle in his mouth, anticipating
his needs in unnerving ways. It would not let him hold his
breath, as a man might do while concentrating on some
near-term problem, but tickled his throat to provoke an
exhalation. The first time it happened, he nearly retched.
(What if he chucked up breakfast? Would he and the ring
both asphyxiate? Or would it take his gift as a tasty,
predigested bonus?)

Lark was so focused on the guide rope that he missed
the transition from stony catacombs to a murky plain of
sodden meadows, drowned trees, and drifting debris. But
soon the silty margins fell behind as daylight transformed
the Glade of Gathering—now the bottom of an upland
lake—giving commonplace shapes macabre unfamiliarity.

The guide rope passed near a stand of lesser boo whose
surviving stems were tall enough to reach the surface, far
overhead. Qheuens gathered around one tube, sucking
down drafts of air. When sated, they spiraled around Lark
and the humans, nudging them toward the next stretch of
guide rope.

Long before details loomed through the silty haze, he
made out their target by its glow. Rann and Ling thrashed
flippers, passing Jeni in their haste. By the time Lark caught
up, they were pressing hands against a giant slick sarcoph-
agus, the hue of yellow moonrise. Within lay a cigar-
shaped vessel, the Rothen ship, their home away from
home, now sealed in a deadly trap.

The two starfarers split up, he swimming right and she
left. By silent agreement, Jeni accompanied the big man—
despite their size difference, she was the one more quali-
fied to keep an eye on Rann. Lark kept near Ling, watching
as she moved along the golden wall.

Though he had more experience than other Sixers with
Galactic god machines, it was his first time near this inter-
loper whose dramatic coming so rudely shattered Gather-

292   D a v i d B r i n

ing Festival, many weeks ago. So magnificent and terrible it
had seemed! Daunting and invincible. Yet now it was help-
less. Dead or implacably imprisoned.

Tentatively, Lark identified some features, like the jutting
anchors that held a ship against quantum probability fluc-
tuations . . . whatever that meant. The self-styled techies
who worked for Lester Cambel were hesitant about even
the basics of starcraft design. As for the High Sage himself,
Lester had taken no part in Lark's briefing, choosing in-
stead to brood in his tent, guilt-ridden over the doom he

helped bring on Dooden Mesa.

Despite the crowding sense of danger, Lark. discovered a
kind of spooky beauty, swimming in this realm where sun-
light slanted in long rippling shafts, filled with sparkling
motes—a silent, strangely contemplative world.

Besides, even wrapped in skink membranes, Ling's ath-
letic body was a sight to behold.

They rounded the star cruiser's rim, where a sharp
shadow abruptly cut off the sun. It might be a cloud, or the
edge of a mountain. Then he realized—

It's the fophur ship.

Though blurred by murky water, the domelike outline
sent shivers down his back. Towering mightily at the lake's
edge, it could have swallowed the Rothen vessel whole.

A strange thought struck him.

First the Rothen awed us. Then we saw their "majesty"
cut down by real power. What if it happens again? What
kind of newcomer might overwhelm the fophur''A hovering
mountain range? One that throws the whole Slope into

night?
He pictured successive waves of "ships," each vaster

than before, matching first the moons, then all Jijo, and—
why not?—the sun or even mighty Izmunuti!

Imagination is the most amazing thing. It lets a ground-
hugging savage fill his mind with fantastic unlikelihoods.

Churning bubbles nearly tore the rewq off his face as
Ling sped up, kicking urgently. Lark hurried after . . .
only to arrest himself moments later, staring.

Just ahead, Ling traced the golden barrier with one hand,
just meters from a gaping opening. A hatchway, backlit by
a radiant interior. Several figures stood in the portal—three

Infinifu's Shore 293

humans and a Rothen lord, wearing his appealing symbi-
otic mask. The quartet surveyed their all-enclosing golden
prison with instruments, wearing expressions of concern.

Yet, all four bipeds seemed frozen, embedded in crystal
time.

Up close, the yellow cocoon resembled the preservation
beads left by that alpine mule spider, the one whose mad
collecting fetish nearly cost Dwer and Rety their lives,
months back. But this trap was no well-shaped ovoid. It
resembled a partly melted candle, with overlapping golden
puddles slumped around its base. The Jophur had been
generous in their gift of frozen temporality, pouring
enough to coat the ship thoroughly.

Like at Dooden Mesa, Lark thought.

It seemed an ideal way to slay one's enemies without
using destructive fire. Maybe the Jophur can't risk damag-
ing Jijo's ecospbere. That would be a major crime before
the great Institutes, like gene raiding and illegal settlement.

On the other hand, the untraeki invaders hadn't been so
scrupulous in scything the forest around their ship. So per-
haps the golden trap had another purpose. To capture,
rather than kill? Perhaps the g'Kek denizens of Dooden
Mesa might yet be rescued from their shimmering tomb.

That had been Lark's initial thought, three days ago. In
hurried experiments, more mule-spider relics were thawed
out, using the new traeki solvents. Some of the preserved
items had once been alive, birds and bush creepers that
long ago fell into the spider's snare.

All emerged from their cocoons quite dead.

Perhaps the Jophur have better revival methods, Lark
thought at the time. Or else they don't mean to restore their
victims, only to preserve them as timeless trophies.

Then, night before last, an idea came to Lark in the form
of a dream.

The hivvern lays its eggs beneath deep snow, which melts
in the spring, letting each egg sink in slushy mud, which
then hardens all around. Yet the ground softens again,
when rainy season comes. Then the bivvern larva emerges,
swimming free.

294 David B r i n

When he wakened, the idea was there, entire.

A spaceship has a sealed metal shell, like the hivvern egg.
The Rothen ship may be trapped, but its crew were never
touched.

Those within may yet live.

And now proof stood before him. The four in the hatch-
way were clearly aware of the golden barrier surrounding
their ship, examining it with tools at hand.

Just one problem—they did not move. Nor was there
any sign they knew? they were being observed from just a
hoon's length away.

Treading water, Ling scrawled on her wax-covered note
board and raised it for Lark to see.

TIME DIFFERENT INSIDE.

He fumbled with his own board, tethered to his waist.

TIME SLOWER?

Her answer was confusing.
PERHAPS.

OR ELSE QUANTIZED.
FRAME-SHIFTED.

His perplexed look conveyed more than written words.
Ling wiped the board and scratched again.

DO EXACTLY AS I DO.

He nodded, watching her carefully. Ling swished her
arms and legs to turn away from the ship. Imitating her,
Lark found himself looking across the poor wounded
Glade. All the trees had been shattered by ravening beams,
left to submerge under the rising lake. Turbid water made
everything hazy, but Lark thought he saw? bones mixed
among the splinters. Urrish ribs and hoonish spines, jum-
bled with grinning human skulls. Not the way bodies
ought to be drossed. Not respectful of the dead, or Jijo.

Perhaps theJophur will let us seed a mule spider in this
new lake, he mused. Something ought to be done to clean
up the mess.

He was jarred by Ling's nudge. TURN BACK NOW, her wax
board said. Lark copied her maneuver again . . . and
stared in surprise for a second time.

They had moved!'

As before, statues stood in the hatchway. Only now their
poses were all changed! One human pointed outward

Infinilii's Shore 295

wearing an amazed look. Another seemed to peer straight

at Lark, as if frozen in midrealization.

They did all this while we were turned away?
Time's flow within the golden shell was stranger than he

could begin to comprehend.

THIS MAY TAKE SOME DOING, Ling Wrote.

Lark met her eyes, noting they held tense, hopeful irony.

He nodded.

You could say that again.

I SPENT MOST OF THE RETURN TRIP WITH MY NOSE
buried in my journal, reviewing all the things that I've
seen and heard since Wupbon's Dream plunged below
Terminus Rock. Pincer kindly chewed my pencil to a point
for me. Then I lay down and wrote down the section be-
fore this one.

What began as a guess grew into reinforced conviction.

Concentration also diverted attention from nervous an-
ticipation and the pain in my slowly healing spine. My
friends tried wheedling me, but I lapsed into hoonish stub-
bornness, refusing to confide in them. After all, the
phuvnthus had gone to great lengths to hide their identity.

The spinning voice said it was to protect us. Maybe that
was just patronizing glaver dreck. Typical from grown-ups.
But what if he told the truth? How can I risk my friends?

When the time comes, I'll confront the voice alone.

SHE DRIFTED IN A CLOUD OF MATHEMATICS.
All around her floated arcs and conic sections, glow-
ing, as though made of enduring fire. Meteors streaked
past, coruscating along paths smoothly ordained by grav-
ity.

Then more stately shapes joined the frolicking figures
and she guessed they might be planets whose routes were
elliptical, not parabolic. Each had its own reference frame,
around which all other masses seemed to move.

Rising, falling ...

Rising, falling ...

The dance spoke of a lost science she had studied once,
in an obscure text from the Biblos Archive. Its name floated
through her delirium—orbital mechanics—as if managing
the ponderous gyres of suns and moons were no more
complex than maintaining a windmill or waterwheel.

Dimly, Sara knew physical pain. But it came to her as if
through a swaddling of musty clothes, like something un-
pleasant tucked in a bottom pantry drawer. The strong
scent of traeki unguents filled her nostrils, dulling every
agony except one . . . the uneasy knowledge—I've been
harmed.

Sometimes she roused enough to hear speech . . . sev-
eral lisping urrish voices . . . the gruff terseness of Kurt
the Exploser ... and one whose stiff, pedantic brilliance
she knew from happier days.

Purofsky. Sage of mysteries . . .

But what is he doing here?

. . . and where is here? •

At one point she managed to crack her eyelids in hopes
of solving the riddle. But Sara quickly decided she must
still be dreaming. For no place could exist like the one she
witnessed through a blurry haze—a world of spinning
glass. A universe of translucent saucers, disks and wheels,
tilting and rolling against each other at odd angles, reflect-
ing shafts of light in rhythmic bursts.

It was all too dizzying. She closed her eyes against the
maelstrom, yet it continued in her mind, persisting in the
form of abstractions.

A sinusoidal wave filled her mental foreground, but no
longer the static shape she knew from inked figures in
books. Instead, this one undulated like ripples on a pond,
with time the apparent free variable.

Soon the first wave was joined by a second, with twice
the frequency, then a third with the peaks and troughs
compressed yet again. New cycles merged, one after an-

Infinitu's Shore 297

other, combining in an endless series—a transform—
whose sum built toward a new complex figure, an entity
with jagged peaks and valleys, like a mountain range.

Out of order . . . chaos . . .

Mountains brought to mind the last thing Sara had seen,
before spilling off the volcano's narrow path, tumbling
over sharp stones toward a river of fire.

Flashes from a distant peak . . . long-short, short-long,
medium-short-short . . .

Coded speech, conveyed by a language of light, not un-
like GalTwo . . .

Words of urgency, of stealth and battle . . .

Her mind's fevered random walk was broken now and
then by soft contact on her brow—a warm cloth, or else a
gentle touch. She recognized the long, slender shape of
Prity's fingers, but there was another texture as well, a
mans contact on her arm, her cheek, or just holding her
hand.

When he sang to her, she knew it was the Stranger . . .
Emerson ... by his odd accent and the way the lyrics
flowed, smoothly from memory, as a liquid stream, without
thought to any particular word or phrase. Yet the song was
no oddly syncopated Earthling ballad, but a Jijoan folk bal-
lad, familiar as a lullaby. Sara's mother sang it to her, when-
ever she was ill—as Sara used to murmur it to the man
from space, soon after he crashed onJijo, barely clinging to
life.

"One comes from an umbling sac, a

song for you to keep,
Two is for a pair of hands, to spin you

happy sleep,
Three fat rings will huff and puff out

clouds of happy steam,
Four eyes wave and dance about, to

watch over your dream,

"Five claws will carve your new hope
box, all without a seam,

r

298 David B r i n

Six will bring you flashing hooves to

cross the prairie plain,
Seven is for hidden thoughts, waiting

in the deep,
But eight comes from a giant stone,

whose patterns gently creep."

Even half-conscious, she knew something important. He
could not sing unless the words were stored deep within,
beyond the scarred part of his brain. It meant she must
have touched him, when their roles were reversed.

Not all the unguents in the world—nor the cool beauty
of mathematics—could do as much for Sara. What finally
called her back was knowing someone missed her, when
she was gone.

wasx

n f i n i r ij ' s Shor     299

many days the important work that originally brought us
here, even though it means leaving our comrades to make
their own repairs in that eastern swamp, while our remain-
ing corvette tours the Slope, photographing and recording
evidence. It also gives us an opportunity to demonstrate
the irresistible majesty of our power. We did this by de-
stroying egregious structures that sooners should not use, if
their goal truly is racial redemption.

IT IS NOTED THAT YOU WERE NOT MUCH HELP IN
THIS WORK, MY RINGS. (Accept these reproaching jolts,
as tokens of loving guidance.) Asx melted many memories,
before capture and conversion, yet we/I did recall certain
abominations. We gained credit, for instance, by helping
target the Bibur River steamboats, and a refinery tower in
Tarek Town, an edifice called the Palace of Stinks.

DON'T WORRY. In time, we of the Polkjhy will find all
pathetic objects-of-sin prized by headstrong sooners. We
shall help erase the flagrant hypocrisy of tool use among
those who chose the Downward Path!

THERE WAS AN ENJOYABLE SENSE OF IMPORTANCE TO
our task, was there not, My rings? There we stood, this
stack of shabby-looking, retread toruses, deputized with
a noble job—explaining to envoys of six races the new
order of life on this world.

FIRST—they should not hope for great judges to come
from those Institutes who mediate among ten thousand
starfaring races. Passions run too high, throughout the Five
Galaxies. Institute forces have withdrawn, along with
timid, so-called moderate clans, a dithering, ineffectual ma-
jority. Only great religious alliances show nerve nowadays,
battling over which way the Galactic wheels shall turn dur-
ing a time of changes.

WE ARE YOUR JUDGES, I told the ambassadors. Out of
kindness, we the Polkjhy crew have volunteered to serve
as both posse and jury, chastening the seven races who
invaded this world's fallow peace.

To demonstrate this benevolence, we have delayed by

SECOND comes our unstoppable demand for justice. The
High Sages showed surprising good sense by swiftly emit-
ting a call, soon after our last meeting. A flicker of com-
puter cognizance, leading our corvette to Dooden Mesa.
But this token gesture will not suffice for long. We want
every living member of the g'Kek race accounted for. That
should not be too hard. Stranded on a roadless planet, they
are singulariy immobile beings.

"Please do not destroy our wheeled brethren," the en-
voys entreat. "Let the g'Kek seek holy shelter down Re-
demption's Path. For is it not said that all debts and
vendettas stop, once innocence is resumed?"

At first we see this as yet more lawyerly blather. But
then, surprisingly, our senior Priest-Stack agrees! Moreover,
that august pile makes an unusual, innovative suggestion—

HERE IS THE QUESTION posed by the Priest-Stack:

What kind of revenge on the g'Kek would transcend
even extinction?

ANSWER: to see the g'Kek race become once again eligi-
ble for adoption, and for their new patrons to be Jophur\

300 David B ri n

In their second sequence of uplift, we might transform
them as we see fit—into creatures their former selves
would have disdained!

Vengeance is best when executed with imagination. This
justifies bringing a priest along. Indeed, that stack variety
has uses.

Of course this daring plan carries complications. It
means refraining from informing the Five Galaxies about
this sooner infestation. Instead, our Jophur clan must keep
it secret, tending Jijo like our own private garden.

SO WE BECOME CRIMINALS, under Galactic law. But
that hardly matters. For those laws will change, once our
alliance assumes leadership during the next phase of his-
tory.

Especially if the Progenitors have indeed returned.

THIRD comes opportunity for profit. Perhaps the Rothen
gene raiders were onto something. Jijo seems exception-
ally rich for a fallow world. (The Buyur were good caretak-
ers who left the planet filled with biopossibilities.) Might
the Rothen have discovered a likely presentient race al-
ready? One ripe for uplift? Should we have bought off the
gene raiders so we might have access to their data, instead
of sealing them away in time?

REJECT THE NOTION. They are known blackmailers
and double-crossers. We will bring in our own biologists to
survey Jijo.

AND WHO KNOWS? Perhaps we might accelerate the
sooner races along the path they seek! Glavers are already
far progressed toward innocence. Hoons, urs, and qheuens
have living star cousins who might object if we adopt too
soon. But that may change as battle fires burn across the
galaxies. As for human wolflings, at last word their
homeworld was under siege, in desperate straits.

Perhaps those on Jijo are already the sole remnant of
their kind.

THAT LEAVES OUR TRAEKI RELATIVES TO CONSIDER.
The rebel stacks who came here sought to reject the gift of

finirii's Shore 301

the Oailie—the specialized rings that give us purpose and
destiny. It is wrenching to see traeki stumbling about like
our pathetic ancestors. Such ungainly beings, so placid and
unambitious! We should at once commence a program to
create master rings in large quantities. Once converted, our
cousins will be ideal instruments of dominance and con-
trol, able to knowledgeably run this planet for us without
further cost to the clan.

ALL THESE CONCERNS SEEMED PARAMOUNT. Yet from
the start, some members of the crew chafed at talk of ven-
geance, or profit, or redemption. Even the fate of local
traeki seemed unimportant, compared with .the matter that
brought the Polkjhy here in the first place.

Hints by the Rothen that they knew the whereabouts of
the missing prey ship.

The prey ship carrying news of the Progenitors' return.

DROP ALL OTHER CONCERNS AT ONCE! these stacks
insisted. Send the remaining corvette east! Do not wait for
the first boat's crew to make repairs on their own. Fetch
and interrogate the human-slaves-of-Rothen. Search deep-
water places where the prey ship might be hiding. Delay
no longer!

But our Captain-Leader and Priest-Stack agreed that a
few more days would not matter. Our hold on this world is
total. The prey cannot escape.

PALE DAYLIGHT PENETRATED THE LAKE TO WHERE A
few drowned trees wafted their branches, as if to a gust-
ing breeze. The rewq over his eyes helped him see, am-
plifying the dim glow, but Lark found the resulting
shadows creepy, adding to a feeling that none of this could
possibly be real.

Working underwater alongside Rann and Ling, he took
part in an odd ritual, communicating with the trapped in-

302 David B r i n

habitants of the preservation bubble. Since the process be-
gan, the hatchway of the imprisoned ship had filled with
humans and Rothen, pressing eagerly against the gold bar-
rier. Yet, from the outside no motion was seen. Those
within were as still as statues, like wax effigies, depicting
people with worried expressions.

Only when Lark and the other swimmers turned away,
averting their gaze, did the "statues" change, shifting posi-
tions at incredible speed.

According to Ling's terse explanation, scribbled on her
wax board, the captives lived in a QUANTUM SEPARATED WORLD.
She added something about COGNIZANCE INTERFERENCE BY OR-
GANIC OBSERVERS and seemed to think that explained it. But
Lark failed to see why not-looking should make any differ-
ence. No doubt Sara would understand better than her
brother, the backwoods biologist. I used to tease her that
the books she loved best were filled with useless abstrac-
tions. Concepts noJijoan would need again. Guess it just
shows how little I knew.

To Lark the whole thing smacked of a particularly incon-
venient kind of magic, as if the capricious goddess, Ifni,
had invented the gold barrier to test the patience of
mortals.

Fortunately, their micro-traeki rings provided the human
swimmers with all the air they needed. When pressurized
supplies ran out, the little toruses unfolded great feathery
fans that waved through the lake water like lazy wings,
sieving fresh oxygen for Lark and the others to breathe.
Another impressive feature of the ever-adaptable ringed
ones. Combined with the skink-skin wet suits and rewqs, it
made the swimmers look like bizarre sea monsters to those
inside the bubble. Finally, though, the prisoners set up an
electronic message plaque that flashed words through the
translucent barrier in shining Anglic letters.

WE MUST MAKE COMMON CAUSE, they sent.

So far, Lark's idea had been fruitful. Unlike at tragic
Dooden Mesa, these prisoners had been sealed within an
airtight hull that, kept the golden liquor from swamping
their bodies and life-support machinery. Moreover, the
chill lake carried away enough heat so their idle engines

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 303

did not broil them. They were surrounded, enmeshed in
strange time. But they were alive.

When Lark stared at one of the Rothen masters, he easily
made out the creature's facade. Rewq-generated colors di-
vided its charismatic features, so noble in human terms,
into two parts, each with its own aura. Across the upper
half lay a fleshy symbiont beast, shaped to provide the
regal brow, high cheeks and trademark stately nose. A gray
deadness told that some kind of synthetic lens insert lay
over the Rothen's eyeballs, and the fine white teeth were
artificially capped.

It's an impressive disguise, he thought. Yet even without
masks the Rothen were remarkably humanoid, a resem-
blance that no doubt originally spurred their cunning plan
to win over some impressionable Earthlings back in the
frantic, naive days soon after contact, turning those con-
verts into a select tribe of loyal aides—the Daniks. If han-
dled right, it would let the Rothen pull quite a few capers
using human intermediaries to do the dirty work. And if
Daniks were caught in the act, Earth would get the blame.

All told, those inside the trapped ship had a destiny they
deserved. Lark might have voted to leave them till Jijo re-
claimed their dross. Only now an even greater danger
loomed, and there was no other place to turn for allies
against the Jophur.

The captives inside the shell seemed eager enough. The
last line of their message expressed this.

GET US OUT OF HERE!

Floating in the gentle current, Lark saw Rann, the tall
Danik leader, write on his wax board.

WE MAY HAVE A WAY.
YOU MUST PREPARE A FORMULA.

Lark grabbed for the board, but Ling got there first,
snatching the stylus right out of Rann's meaty hand. Sur-
prise, then anger, flared across the part of his face visible
between the rewq and breathing ring. But the big man was
outnumbered, and knew that Jeni Shen had lethal darts in
her underwater crossbow. The militia sergeant watched
from a vantage point where her vigilance would not inter-
fere with the time-jerked conversation.

304 David B r i n

Ling replaced Rann's message with another.

HOW DO YOU SUGGEST WE DO THAT?

She slung the sign's strap over her neck so the board
rested against her back, message outward. At her nodded
signal, Rann and Lark joined her turning around. A spooky
feeling swarmed Lark's spine as he imagined a flurry of
activity taking place behind them. Without observers peer-
ing at them, the Rothen-Danik crew were liberated from
frozen time, free to read Ling's message, deliberate, and
shape a reply.

/ never read much physics, Lark thought. But something
feels awful screwy about how this works.

The swimmers let momentum carry them around. Only a
few duras passed before they faced the hatch once more,
but most of the Rothen and human figures had moved in
that narrow moment. The electric placard now glimmered
with new writing.

PREFERRED METHOD: DESTROY THE JOPHUR.

Bubbles burst past Lark's breathing tube as he choked
back a guffaw. Ling glanced his way, conveying agreement
with a shake of her head. The second half of the message
was more serious.

OTHER POSSIBILITY: OFFER JOPHUR WHAT THEY WANT.

BUY OUR FREEDOM!

Lark scanned the crowded statues, where many human
faces wore expressions of desperation. He could not help
feeling moved as they pleaded for their lives. In a way it's
not their fault. Their ancestors made a stupid deal on their
behalf, just as mine did. People must have been both
crazed and gullible in those days, right after Earthlings
first met Galactic culture.

It took effort to harden his heart, but Lark knew he must.
Again, Rann tried for the big writing tablet, but Ling
wrote fiercely.

WHAT CAN YOU OFFER US, IN RETURN?

On seeing her message, Lark and Rann both stared at
her. But Ling seemed unaware that her words carried a
personal as well as general meaning. They turned again,
giving the prisoners a chance to read and react to Ling's
demand. While sweeping the slow circle, Lark glanced

n f i n i r u ' s Shore 305

toward her, but living goggles made direct eye contact im-
possible. Her rewq-mediated aura conveyed grim resolve.

Lark expected to find the captives in turmoil, upset by
Ling's implied secession. Then he realized. They only see us
when our backs are turned. They may not even know it's
Rann and Ling out here, after all!

WHATEVER WE HAVE.

That was the frank answer, arrayed in shining letters.
Ling's next message was as straight to the point.

RO-KENN RELEASED QHEUEN AND HOON PLAGUES.
MAYBE OTHERS.
CURE THEM, OR ROT.

At this resumed accusation, Rann nearly exploded. Stran-
gled anger echoed in his pharynx, escaping as bubbles that
Lark feared might carry his curses all the way to the far
surface of the lake. The starman tried to grab the message
board, briefly struggling with Ling. But when Lark made
slashing motions across his throat, Rann glanced back as
Jeni approached from the ship's curved flank, brandishing
her deadly bow, accompanied by two strong young
qheuens.

Rann's shoulders slumped. He went through the next
turning time sweep mechanically. Lark heard a low, grating
sound, and knew the big Danik was grinding his teeth.

Lark expected protestations of innocence from the im-
prisoned starfarers, and sure enough, when they next
looked, the signboard proclaimed—

PLAGUES/ WE KNOW NOTHING OF SUCH.

But Ling was adamant to a degree that clearly surprised
Rann. Using forceful language, she told the captives—her
former friends and comrades—to answer truthfully next
time, or be abandoned to their fate.

That brought grudging admission, at last.

RO-KENN HAD OPTIONS,

HIS CHOICE TO USE SUCH MEANS.

GET US OUT.

WE CAN PROVIDE CURES.

Lark stared at the woman next to him, awed by the blaz-
ing intensity of her rewq aura. Till that moment, she must
have held a slim hope that it was all a mistake . . . that

306 David B r i n

Lark's indictment of her Rothen gods had a flaw in it some-
where. That there was some alternative explanation.

Now every complicating what-if vanished. The flame of
her anger made Rann's seem like a pale thing.

While both Daniks fumed, each for different reasons,
Lark took the wax board, wiped it, and wrote a reply.

PREPARE CURES AT ONCE.

BUT THERE IS MORE.

•WE MUST HAVE ONE MORE THING.

It made sense that the Jophur used this weird weapon—
pouring chemically synthesized time-stuff over their ene-
mies. It suited their racial genius for manipulating organic
materials. But in their contempt, the master rings had for-
gotten something.

They have cousins on Jijo, who are loyal to the Six.

True, local traekis lacked ambitious natures, and were
unschooled in advanced Galactic science. Regardless, a
team of talented local pharmacists had analyzed the sub-
stance—a viscous, quasi-living tissue—by taste alone.
Without understanding its arcane temporal effects, they
managed to secrete a counteragent from their gifted
glands.

Unfortunately, it was no simple matter of applying the
formula, then rubbing away the golden cocoon surround-
ing the Rothen ship. For one thing, the antidote was misci-
ble with water. Applying it under a lake presented
problems.

But there was a possible way. At Dooden Mesa, they
found that the old mule spider's preservation beads could
be pushed against the golden wall and made to merge with
it, flowing into the barrier like stones sinking in soft clay.

Lark had more beads brought from the ancient treasure
hoard of the being Dwer called One-of-a-Kind. Agile, five-
clawed blues pushed several egg-shaped objects against
the section of wall he indicated, opposite the hatch. These
beads had been hollowed out and turned into bottles, stop-
pered at one end with plugs of traeki wax. Within each
could be seen machines and other relics of the Buyur era,

I n f i n I r u ' s S ft o r e   307

gleaming like insects caught in amber. Only now those
relics seemed to float inside, sloshing in a frothy foam.

At first there were few visible results to the qheuens'
effort. The water resonated with bumps and clanks, but no
merging occurred. Lark scribbled a command.

EVERYBODY DON'T LOOK!

Ling nodded vigorously. When earlier experiments were
performed at the devastated g'Kek settlement, there had
not been observers on the inside. No living ones, that is.
Here, the scene was being watched, in a weird alternating
manner, by people on both sides of the enclosure. Perhaps
the unsymmetrical quantum effects meant that nothing
would happen while people observed.

It took a while to make those within the ship understand
that they should turn around, as well. But soon all the
Rothen and humans on both sides swiveled away. Young
qheuens pushed blindly, with vision cupolas drawn inside
their horny shells. This has got to be the strangest way to get
anything done, Lark thought, staring across a suffocated
landscape, once the Festival Glade of the Commons of Six
Races. All his life, teachers and leaders said if you want a
job to go well, pay attention to what you are doing. But this
reversed way of acting—where inattention was a virtue—
reminded him how some Nihanese mystics in the Vale
practiced "Zen arts" such as archery while blindfolded, cul-
tivating detachment and readiness for the Path of Redemp-
tion.

Again he glanced at Ling, the star-voyaging biologist.
Her aura still seethed, though now in cooler shades. She's
declared an end to her old allegiance. Does she have a new
one yet? Other than revenge, that is? He wished they could
go somewhere private—and dry—to talk, without the
guarded gamesmanship of their earlier conversations. But
Lark wasn't sure she'd want the same thing. Just because
his allegations had proved right, that did not mean she
should bless him for smashing her childhood idols.

After counting a long interval. Ling nodded and they
turned around again.

Rann grunted satisfaction, and Lark felt his heart race.

The beads had penetrated most of the way into the
glowing cage! Hardworking blues bubbled satisfaction,

308 David B r f i n i r u's Shore 309

then hurried toward the boo grove, fetching air from their
makeshift snorkel.

Lark wrote a message to those inside the Rothen airlock.

EVERYBODY CLEAR OUT
BUT 2 SMALL HUMANS.
WEAR AIR SUPPLY.
BRING CURES!

When next he and his companions turned back toward
the lock, it was nearly empty. Two women stood on the
other side. Petite, though even through their swim-
coverings he saw well-developed figures—buxom and
wasp-waisted. Clearly, they must have taken advantage of
the same cosmetic biosculpting that had made Ling, and
the late Besh, so striking. It's a different universe out there,
where you can design yourself like a god.

Lark swam to where the tip of a mule capsule protruded
from the Jophur barrier. Most of the bead lay deep inside.
At its far end the makeshift bottle's hole was plugged by a
thick wax seal.

From his thigh pouch Lark drew a tool provided by one
of Lester Cambel's techie assistants. A can opener the fel-
low called it.

"Our problem is to deliver dissolving fluid into contact
with the barrier, but not lake water," the tech had ex-
plained. "Our answer is to use the new traeki fluid to hol-
low out some mule beads. Then we coat these cavities with
neutral wax, and refill them with more of the antidote
fluid. The hole is plugged, so we have a sealed vessel—"

"I see you left an old Buyur machine inside," Lark had
observed.

"The fluid won't affect it, and we need the machine in-
side. It doesn't matter what it did in Buyur days, so long as
we can signal-activate it to move again, pulling a string
attached to the plug. When the plug goes pop!—the con-
tents pour into contact with the Jophur wall.' It's foolproof."

Lark wasn't so sure. There was no telling if clever, home-
made electrical devices would work underwater, sur-
rounded by time-warped fields. Here goes everything, he
thought, squeezing the activator.

To his relief, the Buyur device began moving right away

. . . unfolding an appendage, all coiled and springy like a
shambler's tail.

/ wonder what you used to do. he pondered, watching
the machine writhe and gyre. Arc you aware enough to
puzzle over where you are? Where your masters have gone?
Do you have an internal clock, to know half a million
years have passed? Or did time stop for you inside the
bead?

The coiled arm flailed as the machine sought to right
itself, yanking a cord attached to the stopper at the far end.
The plug slipped, caught, then slipped some more.

It was hard to follow events in the region of "quantum
separated time." Things seemed to happen in fits and
starts. Sometimes effect seemed to precede cause, or he
saw the far side of a rotating object while closer parts re-
mained somehow obscured. It was a strange, sideways
manner of seeing that reminded Lark of "Cubist" artworks,
depicted in an ancient book his mother loved borrowing
from the Biblos Archive.

Finally, the stopper slid free. At once reddish foam
spread from the nozzle of the makeshift bottle, where its
contents met the golden wall. Lark's heart pounded, and
he felt his amulet, the fragment of the Holy Egg, react with
growing heat. His left hand clawed at the skink-skin wrap-
pers, but could not gain entry to grab the vibrating stone.
So, like an itch that could not be scratched, he endured the
palpitation as his breastbone was rubbed from both sides.

Grunts of satisfaction escaped Rann as the foamy stain
spread, eroding the Jophur barrier from within. The widen-
ing hole soon met a neighboring "bottle," embedded in the
wall near the first. In moments, fresh supplies of dissolving
fluid gushed. The material of the barrier seemed to shiver,
as if it were alive. As though in pain. Waves of color rip-
pled around the growing cavity, as his rewq tried reading
strange emotions.

So fixed was everyone on the process, for long intervals
no one looked beyond, to the airlock and its two inhabit-
ants, until a stray current tugged Lark aside. Lacking out-
side observers, the Danik women must have experienced
time's passage in a somewhat linear fashion. They looked
tense, hunching away from the red foam, crouching near

310  D a v Id B r I n

the airlock's sealed inner door as the bubble slowly ap-
proached. Fear showed through their transparent face
masks. No one knew what would happen when the hissing
effervescence broke through.

It was also getting closer to Lark's side of the wall. He
backpedaled toward the others . . . only to find they had
retreated farther still. Ling grabbed his arm.

Apparently, if they succeeded in making a tunnel, it
would be wide in the middle but awfully narrow at both
ends. Also, the wall material wasn't solid, but a very vis-
cous liquid. Fresh toporgic could already be seen slumping
toward the wound. Any passage was bound to be tempo-
rary.

If we didn 't estimate right . . . if the two ends open in
the wrong order . . . we might have to start all over
again. There are more bottles of fluid, back at the cave.
But how many times can we try?

Yet he could not talk himself out of feeling pride.

We're not helpless. Faced with overwhelming power, we
innovate. We persevere.

The realization was ironic confirmation of the heresy he
had maintained all his adult life.

We aren't meant for the Path of Redemption. No matter
how hard we try, we'll never tread its road to innocence.

That is why our kind should never have come to Jijo.

We're meant for the stars. We simply don't belong here.

THE OLD MAN DID NOT KNOW WHICH WAS THE SAD-
dest sight.

At times he wished the boat had capsized during that
wretched, pell-mell running of the rapids so he would not
have lived to see such things.

It took half a day of hard labor at the oars to climb back
upstream to Dolo Village. By the time they reached the
timber pile that had been the town dock, all the young
rowers were exhausted. Villagers rushed down a muddy

I n f i n I r i) ' s Shore 311

bank to help them drag the boat ashore, and carried Ariana
Foo to dry ground. A stout hoon ignored Nelo's protests,
picking him up like a baby, until he stood safely by the
roots of a mighty garu tree.

Many survivors milled listlessly, though others had
formed work gangs whose first task was collecting dross.
Especially bodies. Those must be gathered quickly and
mulched, as required by sacred law.

Nelo saw corpses gathered in a long row—mostly hu-
man, of course. Numbly he noted the master carpenter and
Jobee the Plumber. Quite a few craft workers lay muddy
and broken along a sodden patch of loam, and many more
were missing, carried downstream when the lake came
crashing through the millrace and workshops. Tree farm-
ers, in contrast, had suffered hardly a loss. Their life on the
branch tops did not expose them when the dam gave way.

No one spoke, though stares followed the papermaker
as Nelo moved down the line, allowing a wince or a grunt
when he recognized the face of an- employee, an appren-
tice, or a lifelong friend. When he reached the end, he did
not turn but kept walking in the same direction, toward
what had been the center of his life.

The lake was low. Maybe the flood didn't destroy every-
thing.

Disorientation greeted Nelo, for it seemed at first he was
transported far from the village of his birth. Where placid
water once glistened, mudflats now stretched for most of a
league. A river poured through the near side of his beloved
dam.

To local qheuens, dam and home were one and the
same. Now the hive lay sliced open, in cross section. The
collapse had sheared the larva room in half. Teams of
stunned blue adults struggled to move their surviving
grubs to safety, out of the harsh sunlight.

With reluctant dread, Nelo dropped his gaze to where
the famed paper mill had been, next to a graceful power
wheel.

Of his house, his workshops, and pulp vats, nothing
more remained than foundation stumps.

The sight tore his heart, but averting his gaze did not
help. Just a short distance downstream Nelo saw more blue

312 David B r i n

qheuens working listlessly by the shore, trying to extricate
one of their own from a net of some kind. By their lack of
haste, one knew the victim must be dead, perhaps trapped
in the shallows and drowned.

Unhappily, he recognized the corpse, an older female—
Log Biter herself-—by markings on her shell. Another lost
friend, and a blow to everyone along the upper Roney who
valued her good wisdom.

Then he recognized the trap that had pinned her down
long enough to smother even a blue qheuen. It was a tan-
gle of wood and metal wires. Something from Nelo's own
home.

Melina 's precious piano, that I ordered built at great cost.

A moan escaped his throat, at last. In all the world, he
had but one thing left to live for—the hope, frail as it was,
that his children were safe somewhere, and would not
have to see such things.

But where was somewhere? What place could possibly
be safe, when starships could plunge from the sky, blasting
five generations' work in a single instant?

Words jarred him from dour thoughts of suicide.

"/ didn't do this, Nelo."

He turned to see another human standing nearby. A fel-
low craftsman, almost his own age. Henrik the Exploser,
whose young son had accompanied Sara and the Stranger
on their journey to far lands. At first, Henrik's words con-
fused Nelo. He had to swallow before finding the strength
to reply.

"Of course you didn't do it. They say a skyship came—"

The exploser shook his head. "Fools or liars. Either they
have no sense of timing, or else they were in on it."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, a ship passed overhead all right, and gave us a
look-over. Then it went on its way. 'Twas most of a midura
later that a gang of 'em came down, farmers mostly. They
knocked the seals off some of my charges, under one of
the piers of the dam, and laid a torch against it."

Nelo blinked. "What did you say?" He stared, then
blinked again. "But who . . . ?"

Henrik had a one-word answer.

"Jop."

i^arj-

THE EXPLORERS EMERGED TRIUMPHANT, RESURFAC-
ing from the chill lake into the cave, having brought
back almost everything they sought. But bad news
awaited them.

Fatigue lay heavily on Lark, while helpers stripped the
diving gear and toweled him off.

Tense sadness filled the voice of the human corporal,
reporting what had happened in Lark's absence.

"It hit our grays all at once—wheezing up lots of bubbly
phlegm. Then a couple of young blues got it, too. We sent
'em to a pharmacist topside, but word says the plague is
getting worse up there. There may not be much time."

Attention turned to the Danik women who had just
barely escaped from the trapped ship. They still looked
woozy from their experience—starting with a blast of high-
pressure water that had burst into the airlock when the
fissure broke through at last. After that came a hurried,
nightmarish squeeze through the briefly dilated opening,
squirming desperately before the tunnel could close and
immure their bodies in liquid time like the poor g'Keks of
Dooden Mesa.

Watching quantum-shifted images of that tight passage
nearly unnerved Lark. Instead of two human figures, they
looked like jumbled body parts, writhing through a tube
that kept shifting around them. One woman he briefly saw
with her insides on the outside, offering unwanted knowl-
edge about her latest meal.

Yet here they were, alive in front of him. Overcoming
residual nausea, the two escapees kept their side of the
bargain, setting to work right away on a small machine
they had brought along. In exchange for a cure, Jijoans
would help more of their crew mates break out of the
trapped ship, then coordinate joint action against the
Jophur—no doubt something quite desperate, calling for a
pooling of both groups' slim knowledge and resources,
plus a generous dollop of Ifni's luck.

314 David B r I n

This whole enterprise had been Lark's idea . . . and he
gave it the same odds as a ribbit walking unscathed
through a ligger's den.

"Symptoms?" asked the first woman, with hair a shade of
red Lark had never seen on any Jijoan.

"Don't you know already what bug it is?" Jeni Shen de-
manded.

"A variety of pathogens were kept in stock aboard the
research station," answered the other one, a stately bru-
nette who seemed older than any other Danik Lark had
seen. She looked a statuesque forty, and might be two
centuries old.

"If Ro-kenn did release an organism from that supply,"
she continued, "we must pin down which one."

Even having stripped off his rewq, he had no trouble
reading fatalistic reluctance in her voice. By helping solve
the plague, she was in effect confessing that Ro-kenn had
attempted genocide . . . and that their ship routinely car-
ried the means for such a crime. Perhaps, like Ling, she had
been in the dark about all that till now. Only utter helpless-
ness would have forced the Rothen to reveal so much to
their human servants, as well as to the sooners of Jijo.

From the look on Rann's face, the tall star warrior dis-
agreed with the decision, and Lark knew why.

It goes beyond mere morality and crimes against Galac-
tic law. Our local qheuens and boons have relatives out
there, among the stars. If word of this gets out, those home
populations might declare vendettas against the Rothen. Or
else, with this evidence, Earth might file suit to reclaim the
Danik population group that the Rothen have kept secreted
away for two centuries.

Of course that assumes Earth still lives. And there's still
law in the Five Galaxies.

Rann clearly felt the risk too great. Ship and crew should
have been sacrificed to keep the secret.

Tough luck, Rann, Lark thought. Apparently your fellow
spacers would rather live.

While Ling described the disease that ravaged Uthen be-
fore her eyes, Lark overheard Rann whisper impatiently to

Toy.; Cho*^

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 315

"If we are to get the others out, it must be a complete
job! There are weapons to transfer, and supplies. The
traeki formula must be duplicated aboard ship, in order to
make a durable passageway—"

Jeni interrupted sharply.

"After we verify a cure, starman. Or else your compadres
and their master race can sit in their own dung till Jijo
grows cold, for all we care."

Colorful, Lark thought, smiling grimly.

Soon the machine was programmed with all the relevant
facts.

"Many hoons are showing signs of a new sickness, too,"
Ling reminded.

"We'll get to that," said the redhead. "This will take a
min or two."

Lark watched symbols flash across the tiny screen. More
computers, he mulled unhappily. Of course it was a
much smaller unit than the big processor they used near
Dooden Mesa. This "digital cognizance" might be shielded
by geologic activity in the area, plus fifty meters of solid
rock.

But can we be sure?

The device issued a high-pitched chime.

"Synthesis complete," said the older Danik, taking a
small, clear vial from its side, containing a greenish fluid.
"This is just two or three doses, but that should suffice to
test it. We can mass-produce more aboard the ship. Which
means we'll need a permanent channel through the barrier,
of course."

Clearly, she felt her side now had a major bargaining
chip. Holding up the tube with three fingers, she went on.
"Now might be a good time to discuss how each group will
help the other, your side with manpower and sheer num-
bers, and our side providing—"

Her voice cut off when Ling snatched the capsule from
her grasp, swiveling to put it in Jeni Shen's hand.

"Run, " was all Ling said.

Jeni took off with a pair of excited noor beasts yapping
at her heels.

•       •       •

316 David B r i n

Any return to the imprisoned ship would have to wait for
dawn. Even a well-tuned rewq could not amplify light that
was not there.

Ling wanted to keep the two rescued Daniks busy pro-
ducing antidotes against every pathogen listed in the little
Library, in case other plagues were loose that no one knew
about, but Lark vetoed the idea. Since the Dooden disaster,;

all computers made him nervous. He wanted this one
turned on as little as possible. Let the Rothen produce extra
vaccines inside their vessel and bring them out along with ?
other supplies, he said, if and when a new tunnel wasj
made. Ling seemed about to argue the point, but then her|
lips pressed hard and she shrugged. Taking one of the I
lanterns, she retreated to a corner of the cave, far from
Rann and her former comrades.                       .

Lark spent some time composing a report to the High!,
Sages, requesting more bottles of the traeki dissolving fluid'
and describing the preliminary outlines of an alliance be-f
tween the Six Races and their former enemies. Not that he,
had much confidence in such a coalition.

They promise weapons and other help, he wrote. But I
urge caution. Given Phwhoon-dau's description of the
Rothen as Galactic "petty criminals, " and the relative ease
with which they were overwhelmed, we should prefer al-
most any advantageous deal that can be worked out with
the Jophur, short of letting them commit mass murder.

Insurrection ought to be considered a last resort.

The sages might find his recommendation odd, since his
own plan made the Rothen alliance possible in the first
place. But Lark saw no contradiction. Unlocking a door did
not mean you had to walk through it. He just believed in
exploring alternatives.

There was little to do then but wait, hoping news from
the medics would be happy and swift. The party could not
even light a fire in the dank cavern.

"It's cold," Ling commented when Lark passed near her
niche. He had been looking for a place to unroll his sleep-
ing bag . . . not so close he'd seem intrusive, yet nearby
in case she called. Now he paused, wondering what she
meant.

Was that an invitation? Or an accusation?

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 317

The latter seemed more likely. Ling might have been
much better off remaining forever in the warmth of high-
tech habitats, basking in the glow of a messianic faith.

"It is that," he murmured. "Cold."

It was hard to move closer. Hard to expect anything but
rejection. For months, their relationship had been based on
a consensual game, a tense battle of wits that was part
inquisition and part one-upmanship . . . with moments
of intense, semierotic flirting stirred in. Eventually he won
that game, but not through any credit of his own. The sins
of her Rothen gods gave him a weapon out of proportion
to personal traits either of them possessed, leaving him just
one option—to lay waste to all her beliefs. Ever since, they
had labored together toward shared goals without once
trading a private word.

In effect, he had conquered her to become Jijo's ally,
only to lose what they had before.

Lark did not feel like a conqueror.

"I can see why they call you a heretic," Ling said, break-
ing the uncomfortable silence.

Either out of shyness or diffidence, Lark had not looked
at her directly. Now he saw she had a book open on her
lap, with one page illuminated by the faint beam of her
glow lamp. It was the Jijoan biology text he had written
with Uthen. His life's work.

"I ... tried not to let it interfere with the research," he
answered.

"How could it not interfere? Your use of cladistic taxon-
omy clashes with the way Galactic science has defined and
organized species for a billion years."

Lark saw what she was doing, and felt gladdened by it.
Their shared love of biology was neutral ground where
issues of guilt or shame needn't interfere. He moved closer
to sit on a stony outcrop.

"I thought you were talking about my Jijoan heresy. I
used to be part of a movement"—he winced, remembering
his friend Harullen—"whose goal was to persuade the Six
Races to end our illegal colony ... by voluntary means."

She nodded. "A virtuous stance, by Galactic standards.
Though not easy for organic beings, who are programmed
for sex and propagation."

318 David B r i n

Lark felt his face flush, and was grateful for the dim light.

"Well, the question is out of our hands now," he said.
"Even if Ro-kenn's plagues are cured, the Jophur can wipe
us out if they like. Or else they'll hand us over to the Insti-
tutes, and we'll have the Judgment Day described in the
Sacred Scrolls. That might come as a relief, after the last
few months. At least it's how we always imagined things
would end."

"Though your people hoped it wouldn't happen till
you'd been redeemed. Yes, I know that's yourJijoan ortho-
doxy. But I was talking about a heresy of science—the way
you and Uthen organized animal types in your work—by
species, genus, phylum, and so on. You use the old cladis-
tic system of pre-contact Earthling taxonomy."

He nodded. "We do have a few texts explaining Galactic
nomenclature. But most of our books came from Earth
archives. Few human biologists had changed over to Ga-
lactic systematics by the time the Tabernacle took off."

"I never saw cladistics used in a real ecosystem," Ling
commented. "You present a strong argument for it."

"Well, in our case it's making a virtue out of necessity.
We're trying to understand Jijo's past and present by study-
ing a single slice of time—the one we're living in. For evi-
dence, all we have to go on are the common traits of living
animals . . . and the fossils we dig up. That's comparable
to mapping the history of a continent by studying layers of
rocks. Earthlings did a lot of that kind of science before
contact, like piecing together evidence of a crime, long
after the body has grown cold. Galactics never needed
those interpolative techniques. Over the course of eons
they simply watch and record the rise and fall of moun-
tains, and the divergence of species. Or else they make
new species through gene-splicing and uplift."

Ling nodded, considering this. "We're taught contempt
for wolfling science. I suppose it affected the way I treated
you, back when . . . well, you know."

If that was an apology, Lark accepted it gladly.

"I wasn't exactly honest with you either, as I recall."

She laughed dryly. "No, you weren't."

Another silence stretched. Lark was about to talk some
more about biology, when he realized that was exactly the

I n f i n i r i|' s Shore 319

wrong thing to do. What had earlier served to bridge an
uncomfortable silence would now only maintain a reserve,
a neutrality he did not want anymore. Awkwardly, he
moved to change the subject.

"What kind of . . ." He swallowed and tried again. "I
have a brother, and a sister. I may have mentioned them
before. Do you have family . . . back at ..."

He let the question hang, and for a moment Lark worried
he had dredged a subject too painful and personal. But her
relieved look showed Ling, too, wanted to move on.

"I had a baby brother," she said. "And a share daughter,
whose up-parents were very nice. I miss them all very
much."

For the next midura, Lark listened in confusion to the
complex Danik way of life on far-off Poria Outpost. Mostly,
he let Ling pour out her sadness, now that even her liber-
ated crew mates were like aliens to her, and nothing would
ever be the same.

Later, it seemed wholly natural to stretch his sleeping
bag next to hers. Divided by layers of cloth and fluffy torg,
their bodies shared warmth without touching. Yet, in his
heart, Lark felt a comfort he had lacked till now.

She doesn 't hate me.

It was a good place to start.

The second dive seemed to go quicker, at first. They had a
better knack for underwater travel now, though several hu-
man volunteers had to fill in for blue qheuens who were
sick.

About the illness, recent word from topside was encour-
aging. The vaccine samples seemed to help the first few
victims. Better yet, the molecules could be traeki-synthe-
sized. Still, it was too soon for cheers. Even in the event of
a complete cure, there were problems of distribution.
Could cures reach all the far-flung communities before
whole populations of qheuens and hoons were devastated?

Back at the Rothen ship, they found the airlock already
occupied by crew members wearing diving gear—three
humans and a Rothen—along with slim crates of supplies.
Like wax figures, they stood immobile while Lark and Ling

320 v i d B r i n

trained new assistants in the strange art they had learned
the day before. Then it was time to begin making another
tunnel through the golden time-stuff.

Again, they went through turnaround sweeps, letting
those inside the hatch prepare. Again, volunteers swam
close with mule preservation beads that had been hol-
lowed and turned into bottles for the special dissolving
fluid. Once more, the actual act of embedding had to take
place in a shroud of nescience, without anyone watching
directly. Nothing happened the first few tries . . . until
Jeni caught one of the new helpers peeking, out of curios-
ity. Despite watery resistance, she smacked him so hard
the sound traveled as a sharp crack.

Finally, they got the hang of it. Six beads lay in place, at
varying distances inside the barrier. As yesterday, Lark ap-
plied the "can opener," turning on an ancient Buyur ma-
chine, which in turn pulled a wax plug, setting in motion a
chain reaction to eat a gap through the viscous material. He
backed up, fascinated again by creepy visions as the red
foam spread and a cavity began to form.

Someone abruptly tapped his shoulder.

It was Jeni, the young militia sergeant, urgently holding a
wax board.

WHERE IS RANN?

He blinked, then joined Ling in a shrug. The tall Danik
leader had been nearby till a moment ago. Jeni's expres-
sion was anguished. Lark wrote on his own board.

WE'RE NOT NEEDED NOW.
LING AND I WILL LOOK NORTH.
SEND OTHERS SOUTH, EAST.
YOU STAY.

Grudgingly, Jeni accepted the logic. Lark's job was
largely done. If the tunnel opened as planned, another
batch of escapees would wriggle through and Jeni must
coordinate moving them and their baggage back to the
caves.

With a nod, Ling assented. They headed off together,
kicking hard. United, they should be a match for Rann if he
put up a fight. Anyway, where would the big man go? It
wasn't as if he had much choice, these days.

Still, Lark worried. With a head start, Rann might reach

I n f i n i r u ' s S ti o r e   321

the lakeshore and make good an escape. He could cause
mischief, or worse, be caught and questioned by the
Jophur. Rann was tough, but how long could he hold out
against Galactic interrogation techniques?

Ling caught his arm. Lark turned to follow her jabbing
motion up toward the surface of the lake. There he saw a
pair of nippers, waving slowly at the end of two strong

j ^

What's he doing up there? Lark wondered as they pro-
pelled after the absconded Danik. Getting close, they saw
Rann had actually broached the surface! His head and
shoulders were out of the water. Is he taking a look at the
[Jophur ship? We all want to, but no one dared.
\ Lark felt acutely the shadow of the giant vessel as they
kicked upward. For the first time, he got a sense of its
| roughly globular shape and mammoth dimensions, com-
Ipletely blocking the narrow Festival Glade, creating this
'lake with its bulk. Having grown up next to a dam, Lark
had a sense of the pressure all this water exerted. There
would be an awful flood when the ship took off, returning
to its home among the stars.

The tube in his mouth squirmed disconcertingly. The
traeki air ring struggled as they rose upward, hissing and
throbbing to adapt to changing pressure. But Lark was
more worried about Rann being spotted by the Jophur.

With luck, the skink skins will make him look like apiece
of flotsam . . . which is what he'll feel like once I'm
through with him! Lark felt a powerful wrath build as he
reached to seize the big man's ankle.

The leg gave a startled twitch . . . then kicked sav-
agely, knocking his hand away.

Ling tugged Lark's other arm, pointing a second time.

Rann had an object in front of him—the Rothen mini-
computer! He was tapping away at the controls, even as he
tread water.

Bastard! Lark thrust toward the surface, grabbing for the
device, no longer caring if his mere body happened to be
visible from afar. Rann might as well have been waving a
searchlight while beating a drum!

As soon as Lark broke through, the starman aimed a
punch at him—no doubt a well-trained, expert blow, if

322 David B r i n

delivered on dry land. Here, watery reaction threw Rann
off balance and the clout glanced stingingly off Lark's ear,

Amid a shock of pain, he sensed Ling erupt behind her
former colleague, throwing her arms around his neck. Lark
took advantage of the distraction, planting his feet against
Rann's chest and hauling back until the computer popped
free of the big man's grasp.

Alas, that wasn't enough to end the danger. The screen
was still lit. He cried to Ling: "I don't know how to turn the
damned thing off!"

She had troubles of her own, with Rann's powerful arms
reaching around to pummel and yank at her. Lark realized
the Danik must be put out of commission, and quickly. So
with both hands he raised the computer as high as he
could—and brought it down hard on Rann's crew cut.

Without leverage, it struck less forcefully than he hoped,
but the blow pulled Rann's attention away from Ling.

The second impact was better, giving a resounding
smack. Rann groaned, slumping in the water.

Unfortunately, the jolt did not break the durable com-
puter, which kept shining, even after Lark landed a final
blow.

Rann floated, arms spread wide, breathing shallowly but'
noisily from his traeki ring. Ling thrashed toward Lark,
gasping as she threw an arm over his shoulder for support.
Finally, she reached out to stroke a precise spot on the
computer's case, turning it off.

That's better . . . though it's said. Galactics can trace
digital cognizance, even when a machine is unpowered.

Lark closed the cover, letting the machine drop from his
grasp. He needed both hands to hold Ling.

Especially when a new, umbral shadow fell across them
causing her body to stiffen in his arms.

Suddenly, things felt very cold.

Tremulously, they turned together, looking up to see
what had come for them.

D

wer

THAT NIGHT WAS AMONG THE STRANGEST OF
Dwer's life, though it started in the most natural way—
bickering with Rety.

"I ain't goin' there!" She swore.

"No one asked you to. When I start downhill, you'll take
off the other way. Go half a league west, to that forested
rise we passed on the way here. I saw good game signs.
You can set snares, or look for clamette bubbles on the
beach. They're best roasted, but you oughtn't trust a fire—"

"I'm supposed to wait for you, I s'pose? Have a nice
meal ready for the great hunter, after he finishes takin' on
the whole dam' universe, single-handed?"

Her biting sarcasm failed to mask tremors of real fear.
Dwer didn't flatter himself that Rety worried about him. No
doubt she hated to face being alone.

Dusk fell on the dunes and mudflats, and mountains so
distant they were but a jagged horizon cutting the bloated
sun. Failing light gave the two of them a chance at last to
worm out from the sand, then slither beyond sight of the
crashed ships. Once safely over the verge, they brushed
grit out of clothes and body crevices while arguing in
heated whispers.

"I'm telling you, we don't haveta do anything! I'm sure
Kunn had time to holler for help before he went down.
The Rothen ship was due back soon, and musta heard him.
Any dura now it's gonna swoop down, rescue Kunn, and
pick up its prize. All we gotta do then is stand and shout."

Rety had been thinking during the long, uncomfortable
wait. She held that the fighter craft full of untraeki rings
was the very target Kunn had been looking for, dropping
depth bombs to flush his prey out of hiding. By that logic,
the brief sky battle was a desperate lashing out by a cor-
nered foe. But Kunn got his own licks in, and now the
quarry lay helpless in the swamp, where frantic efforts at
repair had so far failed to dislodge it.

Soon, by Rety's reasoning, the Rothen lords would come

324 David B r i n

to complete the job, taking the untraeki into custody. The
Rothen would surely be pleased at this success. Enough to
overlook Dwer's earlier mistakes. And hers.

It was a neat theory. But then, why did the untraeki ship
attack from the west, instead of rising out of the water
where Kunn dropped his bombs? Dwer was no expert on
the way star gods brawled among themselves, but instinct
said Kunn had been caught with his pants down.

"In that case, what I'm about to try should put me in
good with your friends," he told Rety.

"If you survive till they come, which I doubt! Those var-
mints down there will spot you, soon as you go back over
the dune."

"Maybe. But I've been watching. Remember when a
herd of bog stompers sloshed by, munching tubers torn up
by the crash? Large critters passed both hulls and were
ignored. I'm guessing the guard robots will take me for a
crude native beast—"

"You got that right," Rety muttered.

"—and leave me alone, at least till I'm real close."

"And then what? You gonna attack a starship with your
bow and arrows!"

Dwer held back from reminding Rety that his bow once
seemed a treasure to her—a prize worth risking her life to
steal.

"I'm leaving the arrows with you," he said. "They have
steel tips. If I take 'em, they'll know I'm not an animal."

"They should ask me. I'd tell 'em real fast that you're—"

"wife, enough!"

The reedy voice came from Rety's tiny urrish "husband,"
who had been grooming her, flicking sand grains with his
agile tongue.

"have sense, wife! brave boy make ship eyes look at him
so you and me can get away! all his other talk-talk is fake
stuff, nice-lies to make us go be safe. be good to brave boy-
man! least you can do!"

While Rety blinked at yee's rebuke, Dwer marveled. Did
all urrish males treat their wives this way, chiding them
from within the heavy folds of their brood pouches? Or
was yee special? Did some prior mate eject him for scold-
ing?

I n f i n I r u ' s Shore 325

"Iz' at true, Dwer?" Rety asked. "You'd sacr'fice yourself
for me?"

He tried reading her eyes, to judge which answer would
make her do as she was told. Fading light forced him to
guess.

"No, it's not true. I do have a plan. It's risky, but I want to
give it a try."

Rety watched him as carefully as he had scanned her.
Finally, she gave a curt laugh.

"What a liar. yee's right about you. Too dam' decent to
survive without someone to watch over you."

Huh? Dwer thought. He had tried telling the truth, hop-
ing it would convince her to go. Only Rety reacted in a way
he did not expect.

"It's decided then," she affirmed with a look of resolve
he knew too well. "I'm coming along, Dwer, whichever
way you head. So if you want to save me, we better both
get on west."

"This ain't west!" she whispered sharply, half a midura
later.

Dwer ignored Rety as he peered ahead through the
swampy gloom with water sloshing past his navel. Too bad
we had to leave yee behind with our gear, he thought. The
little urrish male provided his "wife" with a healthy dose of
prudence and good judgment. But he could not stand get-
ting wet.

Soon, Dwer hoped Rety's survival instincts would kick in
and she'd shut up on her own.

They were nearly naked, wading through the reedy
marsh toward a pair of rounded silhouettes, one larger—its
smooth flanks glistening except where a sooty stain marred
one side. The other lay beyond, crumpled and half-sunk
amidships. Both victor and vanquished were silent under
the pale yellow glow of Passen, Jijo's smallest moon.

Colonies of long-necked wallow swans nested in the
thickets, dozing after a hard day spent hunting through the
shallows and tending their broods. The nearest raised
spear-shaped heads to blink at the two humans, then low-
ered their snouts as Dwer and Rety waded on by.

326 David B r i n

Mud covered Dwer and the sooner girl from head to toe,
concealing some of their heat sign with steady evapora-
tion. According to ancient lore, that should make the pa-
trolling guard machine see them as smaller than they really
were. Dwer also took a slow, meandering route, to foster
the impression of foraging beasts.

Slender shapes with luminous scales darted below the
water's surface, brushing Dwer's thighs with their flicking
tails. A distant burst of splashing told of some nocturnal
hunter at work among the clumps of sword-edged grass.
Hungry things moved about in this wet jungle. Rety seemed
to grasp this, and did not speak again for some time.

If only she knew how vague Dwer's plan was, Rety
might howl loud enough to send all the sleeping waterfowl
flapping for the sky. In fact, he was working from a hunch.
He wanted to have a closer look at the untraeki ship . . .
and to check out his impression of this swamp. In order to
test his idea, he needed to attain a particular frame of mind.

What was I thinking about, that day when I first con-
tacted—or hallucinated—the voice of One-of-a-Kind?

It happened some years ago. He had been on his first
solo trek over the Rimmers, excited to be promoted from
apprentice to master hunter, rilled with a spirit of freedom
and adventure, for now he was one of the few Sixers li-
censed to roam wherever he wished, even far beyond the
settled Slope. The world had seemed boundless.

And yet ...                             -

And yet, he still vividly recalled the moment, emerging
from a narrow trail through the boo forest—a cathedral
aisle as narrow as a man and seemingly high as a moon.
Suddenly, the boo just stopped, spilling him onto a bowl-
shaped rocky expanse, under a vast blue sky. Before Dwer
lay a mule lake, nestled in the mountain's flank, sur-
rounded by fields of broken stone.

What he felt during that moment of disorienting transi-
tion was much more than welcome release from a closed
space. A sense of opening up seemed to fill his mind,
briefly expanding his ability to see—especially the tumulus
of Buyur ruins. Abruptly, he beheld the ancient towers as
they must have stood long ago, shimmering and proud.
And for an instant, Dwer had felt strangely at home.

I n f I n i f u ' s Shore 327

That was when he first heard the spider's voice, whisper-
ing, cajoling, urging him to accept a deal. A fair trade. With
its help, Dwer might cease living, but he would never die.
He could become one with the glorious past, and join the
spider on a voyage into time.

Now, while sloshing under starlight through a murky
bog, Dwer tried again for that feeling, that opening sensa-
tion. He could tell from the texture of this place—from its
smell and feel—that mighty spires had also pierced the
sky, only here they were much grander than at any moun-
tain site. The job of demolition was far advanced—little
remained to tear down or erase. Yet somehow he knew
what stood where, and when.

Here a row of pure-white obelisks once greeted the sun,
both mystical and pragmatic in their mathematically pre-
cise alignment.

Over there, Buyur legs once ponderously strode down a
shopping arcade, filled with exotic goods.

Near that translucent fountain, contemplative Buyur
minds occupied themselves with a multitude of tasks be-
yond his reckoning. And through the sky passed com-
merce from ten thousand worlds.

Down the avenues were heard voices . . . not just of
Buyur, but a myriad of other types of thinking beings.

Surely it was a glorious time, though also fatiguing for
any planet whose flesh must feed such an eager, busy civi-
lization. After a million years of heavy use, Jijo badly
needed rest. And the forces of wisdom granted it. All the
busy voices moved on. The towers tumbled and a different
kind of life took over here, one dedicated to erasing
scars—a more patient, less frenzied type of being. . . .

Yes?
Who . . . goes . . . ?

Words slithered through Dwer's mind, hesitantly at first.

Who calls ... rousing me from . . .
drowsy musing?

328 David B r i n

Dwer's first urge was to dismiss it as merely his imagina-
tion. Had not his nervous system been palped and bruised
from carrying the robot across icy streams? Delusions
would be normal after that battering, followed by days of
near starvation. Anyway, his habitual defense against One-
of-a-Kind had been to dismiss the mule spider's voice as a
phantasm.

Who is a phantasm?
I, a being who serenely outlasts empires?
Or you, a mayfly, living and dying in the
time it takes for me to dream a dream?

Dwer held off acknowledging the voice, even casually.
First he wanted to be sure. Wading cautiously, he sought
some of the vines he had glimpsed earlier, from the dune
heights. A nearby hummock seemed likely. Despite cov-
ering vegetation, it had the orderly outlines of some
ruined structure. Sure enough, Dwer soon found his way
blocked by cables, some as thick as his wrist, all converg-
ing on the ancient building site. His nose twitched at the
scent of dilute corrosive fluids, carried by the twisted
vines.

"Hey, this is a mule swamp! We're walkin' right into a
spider!"

Dwer nodded, acknowledging Rety's comment without
words. If she wanted to leave, she knew the way back.

Spiders were common enough on the Slope. Youngsters
went exploring through mule dens, though you risked get-
ting acid burns if you weren't careful. Now and then, some
village child died of a foolish mistake while venturing too
deep, yet the attraction held. High-quality Buyur relics
were often found where vine beasts slowly etched the re-
mains of bygone days.

Folk legends flourished about the creatures, whose bod-
ies were made up by the vines themselves. Some described
them talking to rare members of the Six, though Dwer had
never met anyone else who admitted that it happened to
them. He especially never heard of another mule spider
like One-of-a-Kind, who actively lured living prey into its

Infiniru's Shore 329

web, sealing "unique" treasures away in coffins of harden-
ing jell.

You met that one? The mad spider of the
heights?

You actually shared thoughts with it? And es-
caped?

How exceptionally interesting.

Your mind patterns are very clear for an
ephemeral.

That is rare, as mayflies go. . . .
How singular you are.

Yes, that was the way One-of-a-Kind used to speak to
him. This creature was consistent. Or else Dwer's imagina-
tion was.

The words returned, carrying a note of pique.

You flatter yourself to think you could imag-
ine an entity as sublime as myself! Though I
admit, you are intriguing, for a transitory be-
ing.

So you need verification of my objective real-
ity? How might I prove myself?

Rather than answer directly, Dwer kept his thoughts re-
served. Languidly, he contemplated that it would be inter-
esting to see the vines in front of him move.

As if at your command? An amusing con-
cept.

But why not?

Come back in just five days. In that brief
time, you will find all of them shifted to new
locales!

Dwer chuckled contemptuously, under his breath.

Not quickly enough, my wanton friend? You
have seen a mule being move faster?

330 David B r i n

Ah, but that one was crazed, driven mad by
isolation, high altitude, and a diet of psi-
drenched stone. It grew unwholesomely ob-
sessed with mortality and the nature of time.
Surely you do not expect such undignified haste
from me?

Like One-of-a-Kind, this spider could somehow tap
Dwer's human memory, using it to make better sen-
tences—more articulate speech—than he ever managed on!
his own. But Dwer knew better than to bandy words. In-
stead, he willed himself to turn around.                I

Wait! You intrigue me. The conversations our
kind share among ourselves are so languid.
Torpid, you might say, featuring endless com-
parisons of the varied dross we eat. The slow-
talk grows ever more tedious as we age. . . .

Tell me, are you from one of the frantic races
who have lately settled down to a skittering life
beyond the mountains? The ones who talk and
talk, but almost never build?

Behind Dwer, Rety murmured, "What's goin' on!" But he
only motioned for her to follow him away from the mule
cords.

All right! On a whim, I'll do it. I shall move

for you!

I'll move as I have not done in ages.
Watch me, small flickering life-form. Watch

this!

Dwer glanced back, and saw several vines tremble. The
tremors strengthened, dura after dura, tightening and re-
leasing till several of the largest bunched in a knotty tangle.
More duras passed . . . then one loop popped up out of
the water, rising high, dripping like some amphibious be-
ing, emerging from its watery home.

It was confirmation, not only of the spider's mental real-
ity, but of Dwer's own sane perception. Yet he quashed

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 331

all sense of acknowledgment or relief. Rather, Dwer let a
feeling of disappointment How across his surface
thoughts.

A fresh shoot of lesser boo moves that much, in the
course of a day's growth, he pondered, without bothering
to project the thought at the spider.

You compare me to boo?

Boo?

Insolent bug! It is you who are a figment of
my imagination! You may be nothing but an
undigested bit of concrete, or a piece of bad
steel, perturbing my dreams. . . .

No, wait! Don't leave yet. I sense there is
something that would convince you.

Tell me what it is. Tell me what would make
you acknowledge me, and talk awhile.

Dwer felt an impulse to speak directly. To make his
wishes known in the form of a request. But no. His experi-
ence with One-of-a-Kind had taught him. That mule beast
might have been mad, but it clearly shared some properties
of personality with its kind.

Dwer knew the game to play was "hard to get." So he let
his idea leak out in the form of a fantasy ... a daydream.
When Rety tried to interrupt again, he made a slashing
motion for quiet while he went on picturing what a spider
might do to convince him it was real. The sort of thing
Dwer would find impressive.

The mule being's next message seemed intrigued.

Truly?

And why not?

The new dross to which you refer already
had me concerned. Those great heaps of refined
metal and volatile organic poisons—I have not
dealt with such purified essences in a very long
time.

Now you worry that the dross might fly away
again, to pollute some part ofJijo beyond reach

332 David B r i n

of any mule being? You fear it may never be
properly disposed of?

Then worry no more, my responsible little
ephemeral! It will be taken care of.

Just leave it to me.

/uvin

I WAS RIGHT! THE PHUVNTHUS ARE EARTHLINGS!
I haven't figured out the little amphibians yet, but the
big six-legged creatures? They are dolphins. Just like the
ones in King of the Sea or The Shining Shore . . . only
these talk and drive spaceships! How uttergloss.

And there are humans.

Sky humans!

Well, a couple of them, anyway.

I met the woman in charge—Gillian is her name. Among
other things, she said some nice words about my journal.
In fact, if they ever succeed in getting away from here, and
returning to Earth, she promises to find an agent for me
and get it published.

Imagine that. I can't wait to tell Huck.

There's just one favor Gillian wants in return.

E.

wasx

OH, HOW THEY PREVARICATE! •
Is this what it means to take the Downward Path?
Sometimes a citizen race decides to change course,
rejecting the destiny mapped out for it by patron and clan.
The Civilization of the Five Galaxies allows several tradi-
tional avenues of appeal, but if all other measures fail, one
shelter remains available to all—the road that leads back,
from starfaring sapience to animal nature. The route to a
second chance. To start over again with a new patron guid-
ing your way.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 333

This much I/we can understand. But must that path have
an intermediate phase, between citizen and dumb beast? A
phase in which the half-devolved species becomes law-
yers'.

Their envoys stand before us now, citing points of Ga-
lactic law that were handed down in sacred lore. Especially
verbose is the g'Kek emissary. Yes, My rings, you identify
this g'Kek as Vubben—a "friend and colleague" from your
days as Asx the traeki. Oh, how that sage-among-sooners
nimbly contorts logic, contending that his folk are not re-
sponsible for the debt his kind owes our clan, by rule of
vendetta. A debt of extinction.

The senior Priest-Stack aboard our ship insists we must
listen to this nonsense, for form's sake, before continuing
our righteous vengeance. But most of the Polkjhy crew
stacks side with our Captain-Leader, whose impatience-
with-drivel steams with each throbbing pulse of an angry
mulching core. Finally, the Captain-Leader transmits a ter-
mination signal to Me/us. To faithful Ewasx.

"ENOUGH!" I interrupt Vubben in loud tones of Oailie
decisiveness. All four of his eyestalks quail in surprise at
my harsh resonance.

"YOUR CONTENTIOUS REASONINGS ARE BASED ON
INVALID ASSUMPTIONS."

They stand before us/Me, frozen silent by our rebuke. A
silence more appropriate to half animals than all that use-
less jabber. Finally, the qheuen sage, Knife-Bright Insight,
bows her blue-green carapace and inquires:

"Might we ask what assumptions you refer to?"

Our second cognition ring performs a writhing twitch
that I must overcome with savage pain jolts, preventing the
rebellious ring's color cells from flashing visibly. Be thou
restrained, I command, enforcing authority over our com-
ponent selves. Do not try to signal your erstwhile com-
rades. The effort will accomplish nothing.

The minirebellion robs Me of resources to maintain a
pontifical voice. So when I next speak aloud, it is in more
normal tones. Yet the message is no less severe.

"Your faulty assumptions are threefold," I answer the
thoughtful blue qheuen.

334 David B r I n

"You assume that law still reigns in the Five Galaxies.
"You assume that we should feel restrained by proce-
dures and precedents from the last ten million years.
"But above all, your most defective assumption is that

we should care."

D

wer

IT WAS NOT ENOUGH SIMPLY TO COAX THE MULC
beast. Dwer had to creep close and supervise, for the
spider had no clear concept of haste.

Dwer could sense its concentration, shifting fluids and
gathering forces from a periphery that stretched league af-
ter league, along the Rift coast. The sheer size of the thing
was mind-boggling, far greater than the mad little alpine
spider that nearly consumed Dwer and Rety. This titan was
in the final stages of demolishing a vast city, the culmina-
tion of its purpose, and therefore its life. Millennia ago, it
might have ignored Dwer, as a busy workman disregards
the corner scratchings of a mouse. Now boredom made it
responsive to any new voice, offering relief from monu-
mental ennui.

Still, Dwer wondered.

Why was I able to communicate with One-of-a-Kind?
And now this spider, as well? We are so different—crea-
tures meant for opposite sides of a planet's cycle.

His sensitivity, if anything, had increased . . . perhaps
from letting the Danik robot conduct force fields down his
spine. But the original knack must be related to what made
him an exceptional hunter.

Empathy. An intuitive sense for the needs and desires of
living things.

The Sacred Scrolls spoke darkly of such powers. Psi-
talents. They were not recommended for the likes of the
Six, who must cringe away from the great theater of space.
So Dwer never mentioned it, not to Sara and Lark, or even
Fallen, though he figured the old chief scout must have
suspected.

n f i n i r u's Shore 335

Have I done this before? He mused on how he coaxed
the spider into action. 7 always thought my empathy was
passive. That I listened to animals, and hunted accord-
ingly.

But have I been subtly influencing them, all along?
When I shoot an arrow, is it my legendary aim that makes
it always strike home? Or do I also nudge the flight of the
bush quail so it dodges into the way of the shaft? Do I make
the taniger swerve left, just as my stone is about to strike?

It made him feel guilty. Unsporting.

Well? What about right now? You're famished. Why not
put out a call for nearby fish and fowl to gather round
your knees for plucking?

Somehow, Dwer knew it did not work that way.

He shook his head, clearing it for matters close at hand.
Just ahead, rounded silhouettes took uneven bites out of
the arching star field. Two sky boats, unmoving, yet myste-
rious and deadly as he drew near. He swished a finger
through the water and tasted, wincing at some nasty stuff
leaking into the fen from one or both fallen cruisers.

Now Dwer's sensitive ears picked up noise coming from
the larger vessel. Clankings and hammerings. No doubt the
crew was working around the clock to make repairs. De-
spite Rety's assurances, he had no faith that the new day
would see a Rothen starship looming overhead to claim
both its lost comrades and long-sought prey. The opposite
seemed rather more likely.

Either way, he had a job to do.

Till I hear otherwise from the sages, I've got to keep act-
ing on Danel Ozawa's orders.

He said we must defend Jijo.

Star gods don't belong here, any more than sooners do.
Less, in fact.

The cry of a mud wren made Dwer slide his torso lower
in the water.

Rety's mimicked call came from a lookout point on a
Buyur ruin near the dunes. He scanned above the reeds,
and caught sight of a glimmering shape—a patrol robot
sent out by the stranded untraekis, returning from its latest
search spiral.

336   0 a v i d B r i n

The mule spider read his concern and expressed curios-

ity.

More dross?

Maintaining aloof reserve, Dwer suggested the creature
concentrate on its present task, while he worried about
flying things.

Your memories assert one of these hovering
mechanisms slew my brother of the highlands.
Mad he may have been, but his job was left
undone by that untimely end. Now who will
finish it?

A fair enough question. This time, Dwer formed words.

If we survive this time of crisis, the sages will have a mule
bud planted in the old one's lake. It's our way. By helping
get rid ofBuyur remains, each generation of the Six leaves
Jijo a little cleaner, making up for the small harm we do.
The scrolls say it may ease our penance, when judges fi-
nally come.

But don't worry about this robot now. You have a goal to
focus on. Over there, in that hull of the larger ship, there is
a rip, an opening. ...

Dwer felt hairs on his neck prickle. He crouched low
while the unmistakable tingle of gravitic fields swept close.
Clearly this was a more powerful robot than the unit he
nearly defeated back at the sooner village. That one still
cowered in a hole under the sand, while he and Rety took
on its enemies.

He hunched like an animal, and even tried thinking like
one as the humming commotion passed, setting the tense
surface of the water trembling like a qheuen drum. Dwer
closed his eyes, but an onslaught of images assailed him.
Sparks flew from an urrish forge. Stinging spray jetted over
a drowned village. Starlight glinted off a strange fish whose
noorlike mouth opened in a wry grin. ...

The creepy force receded. He cracked his eyelids to
watch the slab-sided drone move east down a line of phos-
phorescent surf, then vanish among the dunes.

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 337

More vines now clustered and writhed around the base
of the larger sky boat, bunching to send shoots snaking
higher. This whole crazy idea counted on one assump-
tion—that the ship's defenses, already badly damaged,
would be on guard against "unnatural" things, like metals
or energy sources. Under normal conditions, mere plants
or beasts would pose no threat to a thick-hulled vessel.

In here?

The spider's query accompanied mental images of a
jagged recess, slashed in the side of the untraeki vessel
. . . the result of Kunn's riposte, even as his air boat
plunged in flames. The visual impression reaching Dwer
was tenuous as a daydream, lacking all but the most vague
visual details. Instead, he felt a powerful scent of sub-
stance. The spider would not know or care how Galactic
machines worked, only what they were made of—and
which concocted juices would most swiftly delete this in-
sult to Jijo's fallow peace.

Yes, in there, Dwer projected. And all over the outside,
as well.

Except the transparent viewing port, he added. No sense
warning the creatures by covering their windows with
slithering vines. Let them find out in the morning. By then,
with Ifni's luck, it would be too late.

Remember—he began. But the spider interrupted.

I know. I shall use my strongest cords.

Mule monofiber was the toughest substance known to
the Six. With his own eyes, Dwer had seen one rare loop of
reclaimed filament pull gondolas all the way to the heights
of Mount Guenn. Still, a crew of star gods would have tools
to cut even that staunch material. Unless they were dis-
tracted.

Time passed. By moonlight the marsh seemed alive with
movement—ripples and jerky slitherings—as more vines
converged on a growing mass surrounding the ship.
Snakelike cables squirmed by Dwer, yet he felt none of the
heartsick dread that used to come from contact with One-

338 David B r i n

of-a-Kind. Intent is everything. Somehow, he knew this
huge entity meant him no harm.

At uneven intervals, Rety used clever calls to warn him
of the guard robot's return. Dwer worried that it might find
the cowardly Danik machine, hiding under the sand. If so,
the alerted Jophur might emerge, filling the bog with blaz-
ing artificial light.

Dwer moved slowly around the vessel, taking its mea-
sure. But as he counted footsteps, his thoughts drifted to
the Gray Hills, where Lena Strong and Jenin Worley must
be busy right now, uniting Rety's old band with surviving
urrish sooners, forging a united tribe.

Not an easy task, but those two can do it, if anyone can.

Still, he felt sad for them. They must be lonely, with
Danel Ozawa gone. And me, carried off in the claws of a
Rotben machine. They must think I'm dead, too.

Jenin and Lena still had Ozawa's "legacy" of books and
tools, and an urrish sage to help them. They might make it,
if they were left alone. That was Dwer's job—to make sure
no one came across the sky to bother them.

He knew this scheme of his was farfetched. Lark would
surely have thought of something better, if he were here.

But I'm all there is. Dwer the Wild Boy. Tough luck for
Jijo.

The spider's voice caught him as he was checking the
other side of the grounded cruiser, where a long ramp led
to a closed hatch.

In here, as well?

His mind filled with another image of the vessel's dam-
aged recess. Moonlight shone through a jagged rent in the
hull. The clutter of sooty machinery seemed even more
crowded as vine after vine crammed through, already drip-
ping caustic nectars. But Dwer felt his attention drawn
deeper, to the opposite wall.

Dim light shone through a crack on that side. Not pale
illumination, but sharp, blue, and synthetic, coming from
some room beyond.

The ship probably isn't even airtight anymore.

Too bad this didn't happen high in the mountains. Traeki

I n f i n i r ii ' s Shore 339

hated cold weather, A glacier wind would be just the thing
to send whistling through here!

No, he answered the spider. Don't go into the lighted
space. Not yet.

The voice returned, pensively serious.

This light .
work?

it could interfere with my

Dwer assented. Yeah. The light would interfere, all right.
Then he thought no more of it, for at that moment a
trace of movement caught his eye, to the southeast. A dark
figure waded stealthily, skirting around the teeming
mound of mule vines.

Rety! But she's supposed to be on lookout duty.
This was no time for her impulsiveness. With a larger
moon due to rise in less than a midura, the two of them
had to start making their getaway before the untraeki woke
to what was happening.

With uncanny courtesy, mule cables slithered out of his
path as he hurried after the girl, trying not to splash too
noisily. Her apparent objective was the other crashed ship,
the once-mighty sky steed Kunn had used to drop bombs
into the Rift, chasing mysterious prey. From the dunes,
Dwer and Rety had seen the sleek dart overwhelmed and
sent plunging to the swamp, its two human passengers
taken captive.

That could happen to us, too. More than ever, Dwer re-
gretted leaving behind Rety's urrish "husband," her con-
science and voice of good sense.

About the interfering light.

I thought you would like to know.

It is being taken care of.

Dwer shrugged aside the spider's mind touch as he
crossed an open area, feeling exposed. Things improved
slightly when he detoured to take advantage of two reed-
covered hummocks, cutting off direct sight of the untraeki
ship. But the robot guardian still patrolled somewhere out

340 David B r i n

there. Lacking a lookout, Dwer had just his own wary
senses to warn him if it neared.

While wading though a deeper patch, floundering in wa-
ter up to his armpits, he felt a warning shiver.

I'm being watched.

Dwer slowly turned, expecting to see the glassy weap-
ons of a faceless killer. But no smooth-sided machine
hovered above the reedy mound. Instead, he found eyes
regarding him, perched at the knoll's highest point, a ledge
that might have been the wall of a Buyur home. Sharp
teeth grinned at Dwer.

Mudfoot.

The noor had done it again.

Someday, I'll get even/or the times you 've scared me half
to death.

Mudfoot had a companion this time, a smaller creature,
held between his paws. Some recent prey? It did not strug-
gle, but tiny greenish eyes seemed to glow with cool inter-
est. Mudfoot's grin invited Dwer to guess what this new
friend might be.

Dwer had no time for games. "Enjoy yourselves," he
muttered, and moved on, floundering up a muddy bank.
He was just rounding the far corner, seeking Rety in the
shadows of the Rothen wreck, when a clamor erupted
from behind. Loud bangs and thumps reverberated as
Dwer crouched, peering back at the large vessel.

This side appeared undamaged—a glossy chariot of
semidivine star gods, ready at an instant to leap into the
sky.

But then a rectangular crack seamed its flank above the
ramp, releasing clots of smoke, like foul ghosts charging
into the night.

The interference is taken care of.

The spider's mind touch seemed satisfied, even proud.
Dark figures spilled through the roiling soot, then down
the ramp, wheezing in agony. Dwer counted three untraeki
. . . then two shambling biped forms, leaning on each
other as they fled the noxious billows.

What followed nauseated Dwer—solitary doughnut

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 341

shapes, slithering traeki rings shorn from the waxy moor-
ings that once united them as sapient beings. One large
torus burst from the murk, galloping on pulsating legs
without guidance or direction, trailing mucus and silvery
fibers as it plunged off the ramp into deep water. Another
hapless circle bumped along unevenly,-staring in all direc-
tions with panicky eye patches until surging black vapors
overtook it.

/ have not acted thus—with such vigor and
decisiveness—since the early days, when still-
animate Buyur servant machines sometimes
tried to hide and reproduce amid the ruins, af-
ter their masters departed. Back then, we were
fierce, we mule agents of deconstruction, before
the long centuries of patient erosion set in.

Now do you see how efficient my kind can be,
when we feel a need? And when we have a wor-
thy audience? Now will you acknowledge me, 0
unique young ephemeral?

Dwer turned and fled, kicking spray as he ran.

The Rothen scout boat was a wreck, split in the middle,
its wings crumpled. He found an open hatch and clam-
bered inside. The metal deck felt chill and alien beneath
his bare feet.

The interior lacked even pale moonlight, so it took time
to find Rety in a far corner, taking treasures from a cabinet
and stuffing them in a bag. What's she looking for? Food?
After all the star-god poisons that've spilled here since the
crash?

"There's no time for that," he shouted. "We've got to get
out of here!"

"Gimme a dura," the girl replied. "I know it's here. Kunn
kept it on one o' these shelfs."

Dwer craned his head back through the hatch to look
outside. The robot guardian had reappeared, hovering
over the stricken untraeki vessel, shining stark light on the
survivors mired below. As the thick smoke spread out,

342 David B r i n

Dwer whiffed something that felt sweet in the front of his
mouth, yet made the back part gag.

Abmptly, a new thing impacted the senses—sound. A
series of twanging notes shook the air. Lines stretched
across the water as hundreds of cables tautened, surround-
ing the skycraft like the tent lines of a festival pavilion.
Some vines snapped under the strain, whipping across the
landscape. One whirling cord sliced through a surviving
stack-of-rings, flinging upper toruses into the swamp while
the lower half lurched blindly. Other survivors beat a hasty
retreat, deeper into the bog.

The robot descended, its spotlight narrowing to a slen-
der, cutting beam. One by one, straining mule cables
parted under the slashing attack. But it was too little, too
late. Something or somebody must already have under-
mined the muck beneath the ship, for it began sliding into
a slimy crypt, gurgling as a muddy slurry poured in
through the hatch.

"Found it!" Rety cried, rare happiness invading her
voice. She joined Dwer at the door, cradling her reclaimed
prize. Her metal bird. Since the first time he laid eyes on
it, the thing had gone through a lot of poking and prod-
ding, till it could hardly be mistaken for a real creature
anymore, even in dim light. Another damned robot, he
thought. The Ifni-cursed thing had caused Dwer more trou-
ble than he could count. Yet to the sooner girl it was an
emblem of hope. The first harbinger of freedom in her life.

"Come on," he muttered. "This wreck is the only shelter
hereabouts. The survivors'll be coming this way. We've got
to go."

Rety had only agreeable smiles descending back into the
swamp. She followed his every move with the happy com-
pliance of one who had no further need to rebel.

Dwer knew he ought to be pleased, as well. His plan
had worked beyond all expectation. Yet his sole emotion
was emptiness.

Maybe it's on account of I've been wounded, beat up,
exhausted, and starved till I'm too numb to care.

Or else, it's that I never really enjoyed one part of hunt-
ing.

The killing part.

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 343

They retreated from both ruined sky boats to the nearest
concealing thicket. Dwer was trying to select a good route
back to the dunes, when a voice spoke up.

"Hello. I think we ought to talk."

Dwer was grateful to the mule spider. He owed it the
conversation it desired, and acknowledgment of its might.
But, he felt too drained for the mental effort. Not now, he
projected. Later, I promise, if I survive the night.

But the voice was persistent. And Dwer soon realized—
the words weren't echoing inside his head, but in the air,
with a low, familiar quality and tone. They came from just
overhead.

"Hello? Humans in the swamp? Can you hear me?"

Then the voice went muffled, as if the speaker turned
aside to address someone else.

"Are you sure this thing is working?" it asked.

Bewildered, and against his better judgment, Dwer
found himself answering.

"How the hell should / know what's working, an' what
ain't? Who on Jijo are you?"

The words returned more clearly, with evident eager-
ness.

"Ah! Good. We're in contact, then. That's great."

Dwer finally saw where the words were coming from.
Mudfoot squatted just above, having followed to pester
him from this new perch. And the noor had his new com-
panion—the one with green eyes.

Rety gasped, and Dwer abruptly realized—the second
creature bore a family resemblance to Rety's bird!

"All right," Dwer growled, his patience wearing thin
with Mudfoot's endless games. "We're footprints, unless
you tell me what's goin' on."

The creature with green eyes emitted a low, rumbling
sound, surprising for one so small. Dwer blinked, startled
by the commonplace resonance of a hoonish umble.

"Hr-r-rm . . . Well, for starters, let me introduce my-
self.

"The formal name my folks gave me is Hph-wayuo—

"But you can call me Alvin."

PflflT SEVEN

A PARABLE

; "MASTER/" THE STUDENT ASKED. "The Uni-
'' verse is so complex/ surely trie creator could
, not have used volition alone to set it in
'• motion. In crarting His design/ and in com-
' manding the angels to carry out tlis will/
, tie must have used computers.

I        1 he great savant contemplated this (or
[ several spans belore replying in the negative.

YOU arc mistalcen. No reality can oE
'• modeled completely by a calculating engine
. that is contained within and partalcing 01
i that same reality. Ood did not use a com-
' puter to create the world. Me used mathe-
matics.

'       1 he student pondered this wisdom lor
i a long time/ then persisted in his argument.

I hat may have been the case when it
' came to envisioning and creating the world/
' A/laster——and to foreseeing (uture conse-
quences in revealed destiny——but what ol

maintenance' 1 he cosmos is a vast/ intricate

i

networl< oi decisions, (choices are made every

femtosecond/ and living beings win accord-

II       ii
ingly/ or else lose.

tlow can the creators assistants

carry out these myriad local branchings/ unless they use computer

models'

But once again/ the great savant turned his gaze away in

rebuke.

"It is Ifni/ the chief deputy/ who decides such things. But
she has no need for elaborate tools for deciding local events.

"In the Creator's name she runs the world by using dice.

K

aa

THE SUBSEA HABITAT FELT CROWDED AS FIVE DOL-
phins gathered before a small holo display, watching a
raid unfold in real time. Images of the distant assault
were blurry, yet they stirred the heart.

While Brookida, Zhaki, and Mopol jostled near Kaa's left
side, he felt more acutely aware of Peepoe on his right—
fanning water with her pectorals in order to keep one eye
aimed at the monitor. Her presence disturbed his mental
and hormonal equilibrium—especially whenever a stray
current brushed her against him. To Kaa, this ironically
proved the multiple nature of his sapient mind—that the
individual he most desired to see was the same one he
dreaded being near.

Fortunately, the on-screen spectacle offered distrac-
tion—transmitted by a slender fiber strand from a spy cam-
era located hundreds of kilometers away, on a sandy bluff
overlooking the Rift. Banks of heavy clouds glowered low,
making twilight out of day. But with enhanced contrast, an
observer could just make out shadows flicking beneath
blue water, approaching the shore.

348 David B r i n

Abruptly, the line of surf erupted armored figures—six- j
legged monsters with horizontal cylinders for bodies,
flared widely at the back—charging past the beach then
through a brackish swamp, firing lasers as they came.
Three slim flying robots accompanied the attackers, still
dripping seawater as they swooped toward the surprised

foe.

The enemy encampment was little more than a rude fab-
ric tent propped against the lee side of a shattered space-
ship. A single hovering guardian drone shrieked, rising
angrily as it sighted the new arrivals . . . then became a
smoldering cinder, toppling to douse in the frothy swamp.
Jophur survivors could only stand helpless as the onslaught
swept over them. Eye cells throbbed unhappily atop
tapered sap rings, staring in dazed wonder, unable to grasp
this humiliation. August beings, taken prisoner by mere

dolphins.

By the youngest race of the wolfling clari of Terra.
Kaa felt good, watching his crew mates turn the tables
on those hateful stacks of greasy doughnuts. The Jophur
alliance had been relentless in pursuing Streaker across the
star lanes. This small victory was almost as satisfying as that
other raid, on Oakka World, where resolute action took an
enemy base from behind, releasing Streaker from yet an-
other trap.

Only that time I didn't have to watch from afar. I piloted
the boat to pick up Engineer D'Anite, dodging fire all the

way.

In those days, he had still been "Lucky" Kaa.

Alongside Peepoe and the others, he watched Lieutenant
Tsh't gesture right and left with the metal arms of her
walker unit, ordering members of the raiding party to herd
their captives toward the shore, where a whalelike behe-
moth erupted from the surf, spreading mighty jaws.

Despite thick clouds, the raiders had to make this phase
brief to avoid detection.

One Jophur captive stumbled in the surf. Its component
rings throbbed, threatening to split their mucusy bindings.
Mopol chittered delight at the enemy's discomfiture,
thrashing his flukes to splatter the habitat's low ceiling.

I n f I n I r 4 ' s Shore 349

Peepoe sent Kaa a brief sonar click, drawing attention to
Mopol's behavior.

* See what I mean? * she remarked in clipped Trinary.

Kaa nodded agreement. All trace of illness was gone,
replaced by primal exultation. No doubt Mopol longed to
be on the raid, tormenting the tormentors.

Peepoe was naturally irked to have come all this way,
driving a one-dolphin sled through unfamiliar waters
where frightening sound shadows lurked, just to diagnose
a case of kingree fever. The name had roots in an Anglic
word—malingering. Dolphin spacers knew many clever
ways to induce symptoms of food poisoning, in order to
feign illness and avoid duty.

"I thought-t so from the beginning," Kaa had told her
earlier. "It was Makanee's choice to send a nurse, just in
case."

That hardly mollified Peepoe.

"A leader's job is to motivate," she had scolded. "If the
work is hard, you're supposed to motivate even harder."

Kaa still winced from her chiding. Yet the words also
provoked puzzlement, for Mopol had no apparent reason
to fake illness. Despite his other faults, the crewfin wasn't
known for laziness. Anyway, conditions at this outpost
were more pleasant than back at Streaker, where you had
to breathe irksome oxy-water much of the time, and strug-
gle for sleep with the weird sonic effects of a high-pressure
abyss surrounding you. Here, the waves felt silky, the prey
fish were tasty, while the task of spying was varied and
diverting. Why should Mopol pretend illness, if it meant
being cooped up in a cramped habitat with just old
Brookida for company?

On-screen, half a dozen bewildered Jophur were being
ushered aboard the submarine, while onshore Lieutenant
Tsh't consulted with two native humans draped in muddy
rags—a young man and an even younger girl—who
looked quite tattered and fatigued. The male moved with a
limp, clutching a bow and quiver of arrows while his com-
panion held a small broken robot.

Brookida let out a shout, recognizing a spy probe of his
own design, fashioned months ago to send ashore, snoop-
ing in the guise of a Jijoan bird.

r

350  D a v I d B ri n

The young man pointed toward a nearby dune and .
spoke words the camera could not pick up. Almost at |
once, the three Earthling war drones darted to surround r
that hillock, hovering cautiously. Moments later, sand
spilled from a hole and a larger robot emerged, visibly 1
scarred from past violent encounters. Hesitantly, it paused
as if unsure whether to surrender or self-destruct. Finally,
the damaged machine glided to the beach, where two
more humans were being carried on stretchers by dolphin
warriors in exo-suits. These men were also mud-splashed.
But under a grime coating, the bigger one wore garments
of Galactic manufacture. The captive robot took a position
next to that man, accompanying him aboard the sub.

Last to board were Tsh't and the two walking humans.
The young man held back for a moment, awed by the '
entry hatch, gaping like the jaws of some ravenous beast.
But the girl radiated delight. Her legs could barely carry her
fast enough through the surf as she plunged inside.

Then only Lieutenant Tsh't remained, staring down at a
small creature who lounged indolently on the beach,
grooming its sleek fur, pretending it had all the time in the
world. Through her exo-suit speakers, Tsh't addressed the

strange being.

"Well? If you're coming, this is your lassst chance."

Kaa still found it hard to reconcile. For two weeks he
had spied on hoonish sailing ships operating out of
"Wuphon Port, and watched as tiny figures scampered
across the rigging. Not once did he associate the fuzzy
shapes with tytlal—a Galactic client species whose pa-
trons, the Tymbrimi, were Earth's greatest friends.

Who could blame me? With boons they act like clever
animals, not sapient beings. According to the journal of
the young hoon adventurer Alvin, Jijoans called the crea-
tures noor beasts. And noor never spoke,              i
But the one on the beach had! And with a Tymbrimi

accent, at that.

Could six races live here all this time without knowing

that another band of sooners were right in their midst'!
Could tytlal play dumb the entire time, without giving

themselves away?
The small creature seemed complacently willing to out-

1 n f i n i ri| ' s Shore 351

wait Tsh't, perhaps testing dolphin patience . . . until
abruptly a new voice broke in, coming from the sub's open
hatch. The camera eye swung that way, catching in its held
a tall figure, gangly and white, with scaly arms and a bel-
lowslike organ throbbing below its jaw, emitting a low,
resonant hum.

Alvin, Kaa realized. The young author of the memoir
that had kept Kaa up late several nights, reading about the
strange civilization of refugees.

He must be "umbling" at the tytlal.

In moments the sleek creature was seen perched atop
the lieutenant's striding exo-suit, as Tsh't hurried aboard.
Its grinning expression seemed to say, Oh, well. If you posi-
tively insist . . .

The hatch swung shut and the sub backed away swiftly,
sinking beneath the waves. But the images did not stop.

Left alone at last, Streaker's little scout robot turned its
spy eye back toward the field of dunes. Sandy terrain
swept past as it sought a vantage point—some ideal site to
watch over two blasted wrecks that had once been small
spacecraft, but now lay mired by mud and embraced by
corrosive vines.

No doubt Gillian Baskin and the ship's council were
deeply interested in who might next visit this place of dev-
astation.

THE INITIAL EXERCISES ARE COMPLETE. A WARM TIN-
gling pervades her floating body, from tip to toes.
Now Gillian is ready for the first deep movement. It is
Narushkan—"the starfish"—an outreach of neck, arms,
and legs, extending toward the five planar compass points.

Physique discipline lies at the core of weightless yoga, the
way Gillian learned it on Earth, when she and Tom studied
Galactic survival skills from Jacob Demwa. "Flesh partici-

352   D a v i d B r i n

pates in everything we do," the aged spy master once ex-
plained. "We humans like to think we're rational beings.
But feelings always precede reason."

It is a delicate phase. She needs to release her tense
body, allowing the skin itself to become like a sensitive
antenna. Yet she cannot afford a complete letting go. Not if
it means unleashing the grief and loneliness pent up inside.

Floating in a shielded nul-gee zone, Gillian lets her hori-
zontal torso respond to the tug of certain objects located
outside of the suspension tank, elsewhere in the ship, and
beyond. Their influence penetrates the walls, making her
sensitized nerves throb and twitch.

"Articles of Destiny"—that was how an enigmatic Old
One described such things, during Streaker's brief visit to
the Fractal System.

She never got to meet the one who spoke those words.
The voice came a great distance, far across that gargantuan
edifice of spiky hydrogen ice. The Fractal System was one
huge habitat, as wide as a solar system, with a tiny red sun
gleaming in its heart. No pursuer could possibly find
Streaker in such a vast place, if sanctuary were given.

"Your ship carries heavy freight, "the voice had said. "As
fate-laden a cargo as we ever detected."

"Then you understand why we came, "Gillian replied as
Streaker's lean hull passed jutting angles of fantastic crys-
tal, alternating with planet-sized hollows of black shadow.
The ship seemed like a pollen grain lost in a giant forest.

"Indeed. We comprehend your purpose. Your poignant
request is being considered. Meanwhile, can you blame us
for refusing your invitation to come aboard in person? Or
even to touch your vessel's hull? A hull so recently stroked
by dire light?

"We who dwell here have retired from the ferment of the
Five Galaxies. From fleets and star battles and political
intrigues. You may or may not receive the help you seek—
that has yet to be decided. But do not expect glad welcome.
For your cargo reawakens many of the hungers, the
urgencies, and irksome obsessions of youth."

She tried to play innocent. "The importance of our cargo

I n f i n i \ 4 ' s Shore 353

is overrated. We'll hand it over gladly, to those who prove
impartial and wise."

"Speak not so.'" the speaker scolded. "Do not add temp-
tation to the poisons you already bring in our midst!"

"Poisons?"

"You carry blessings in your hold . . . and curses."
The voice concluded, "We fear what your presence will do
to our ancient peace."

As it turned out, Streaker's time of sanctuary lasted just a
few slim weeks before convulsions began to shake the
Fractal System, sending awful sparks crackling along an
immense structure built to house quadrillions. Crystal
greenhouses, as wide as Earth's moon, blew apart, expos-
ing sheltered biomass to hard vacuum. Jupiter-sized slivers
cracked loose, diffuse as cardboard, though glittering with
lighted windows. Like icicles knocked by a violent wind,
these tumbled, then collided with other protrusions, ex-
ploding into hurricanes of silent dust. Meanwhile; a ca-
cophony of voices swarmed—

The poor wolfling children . '. . we must help the Ter-
rans. . . .

No! Erase them so we may return to quiet dream-
ing. . . .

Objection! Let us instead squeeze them for what they
know. . . .

Yes. Then we'll share the knowledge with our younger
brethren of the Awaiter Alliance. . . .

No! The Inheritors . . .

The Abdicators! . . .

Gillian recalls marveling at the unleashed storm of petti-
ness.

So much for the vaunted detachment of old age.

But then, when all seemed lost, sympathetic forces
briefly intervened.

This icy realm is not the place you seek.

Advice you need, dispassionate and sage. Seek it from
those who are older and wiser, still.

Where tides curl tightly, warding off the night.
Hurry, youngsters. Take this chance. Flee while you can.

354 David B r i n

•     •     •

Abruptly, an escape path opened for the Earth vessel—a
crevice in the vast maze of hydrogen ice, with star-
speckled blackness just beyond. Streaker had only mo-
ments to charge through ... an egress too sudden and
brief for Emerson D'Anite, who had already set forth in a
brave, desolate sacrifice.

Poor Emerson. Fought over by resentful factions until his
scout craft was swallowed by enfolding light.

All of this comes back to Gillian, not in sequence, but
whole, timeless, and entire as she recalls that one phrase—

"Articles of Destiny."

Immersed in a trance state, she can feel those tugging
objects. The same ones that caused so much trouble in the
Fractal System.

They stroke her limbs—the limbs of Narushkan—not
with physical force, but with awful import of their exis-
tence.

Abruptly, Narushkan gives way to Abhusha—"the
pointer"—and her left hand uncurls toward a massive
cube—a portable branch of the great Galactic Library,
squatting in a cool mist, two corridors away. With fingers
of thought, Gillian traces one of its gemlike facets, en-
graved with a rayed spiral symbol. Unlike the minimally
programmed units that wolfling upstarts could afford, this
one was designed to serve a mighty starfaring clan. Had
Streaker returned home with this prize alone, her costly
voyage might be called worthwhile.
Yet the cube seems least among Streaker's cargoes.

Abhusha shifts to her right hand, turning palm out, like a
flower seeking warmth to counter the Library's ancient

cold.

Toward youth; the antithesis of age.

Gillian hears her little servant, Kippi, move about her
private sanctum, straightening up. The Kiqui amphibian, a

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 355

native of waterlogged Kithrup, uses all six agile limbs im-
partially while tidying. A cheerful music of syncopated
chirps and trills accompanies his labor. Kippi's surface
thoughts prove easy to trace, even with Gillian's limited
psi-talent. Placid curiosity fills the presapient mind. Kippi
seems blithely unaware that his young race is embroiled in
a great crisis, spanning five galaxies.

## What comes next?—I wonder what?

## What comes?

## What comes next?—I hope it's something
good.

Gillian shares that fervent wish. For the sake of the Ki-
qui, Streaker must find a corner of space where Galactic
traditions still hold. Ideally some strong, benevolent star
lineage, able to embrace and protect the juvenile amphib-
ian race while hot winds of fanaticism blow along the
starry lanes.

Some race worthy to be their patrons . . . to help them
. . . as humans never were helped . . . until the Kiqui
can stand on their own.

She had already given up hope of adopting the Kiqui
into Terra's small family of humans, neo-dolphins, and
neo-chimps, the initial idea, when Streaker quickly
snatched aboard a small breeding population on Kithrup.
Ripe presapient species were rare, and this one was a real
find. But right now Earthclan could hardly protect itself, let
alone take on new responsibilities.

Abhusha shifts again, transmuting into Poposh as one of
Gillian's feet swarms with prickliness, sensing a new pres-
ence in the room. Smug irony accompanies the intruder,
like an overused fragrance. It is the Niss Machine's spin-
ning hologram, barging into her exclusive retreat with typi-
cal tactlessness.

Tom had thought it a good idea to bring along the Tym-
brimi device, when this ill-fated expedition set forth from
Earth. For Tom's sake—because she misses him so—Gil-

356 David B r i n

lian quashes her natural irritation with the smooth-voiced

artificial being.

"The submarine, with our raiding party aboard, is now

just hours from returning with the prisoners, "the Niss in-
tones. "Shall we go over plans for interrogation, Dr. Bus-
kin? Or will you leave that chore to a gaggle of alien

children?"
The insolent machine seems piqued, ever since Gillian

transferred to Alvin and Huck the job of interpreting. But
things are going well so far. Anyway, Gillian already
knows what questions to ask the human and Jophur cap-
tives.

Moreover, she has her own way to prepare. As old Jake

used to say, "How can one foresee, without first remember-
ing?"

She needs time alone, without the Niss, or Hannes

Suessi, or a hundred nervous dolphins nagging at her as if
she were their mother. Sometimes the pressure feels
heavier than the dark abyss surrounding Streaker's shelter-
ing mountain of dead starships.

To answer verbally would yank her out of the trance, so
Gillian instead calls up Kopou, an empathy glyph. Nothing
fancy—she lacks the inbuilt talent of a Tymbrimi—just a
crude suggestion that the Niss go find a corner of cyber-
netic space and spend the next hour in simulated self-repli-
cation, till she calls for it.

The entity sputters and objects. There are more words.

But she lets them wash by like foam on a beach. Mean-
while Gillian continues the exercise, shifting to another
compass point. One that seems quiet as death.

Abbusha resumes, now reaching toward a cadaver,
standing in a far corner of her office like a pharaoh's
mummy, surrounded by preserving fields that still cling af-
ter three years and a million parsecs, keeping it as it was.
As it had been ever since Tom wrested the ancient corpse
from a huge derelict ship, adrift in the Shallow Cluster.

Tom always had a knack for acquiring expensive souve-
nirs. But this one took the cake.

Herbie.
An ironic name for a Progenitor ... if that truly was its

Infinirii's Shore 357

nature . . . perhaps two billion years old, and the cause
of Streaker's troubles.

Chief cause of war and turmoil across a dozen spiral
arms.

We could have gotten rid of him on Oakka World, she
knew. Handing Herbie over to the Library Institute was
officially the right thing to do. The safe thing to do.

But sector-branch officials had been corrupted. Many of
the librarians had cast off their oaths and fell to fighting
among themselves—race by race, clan by clan—each seek-
ing Streaker's treasure for its own kind.

Fleeing once again became a duty.

No one Galactic faction can be allowed to own your
secret.

So commanded Terragens Council, in the single long-
range message Streaker had received. Gillian knew the
words by heart.

To show any partiality might lead to disaster.

It could, mean extinction for Earthclan.

Articles of Destiny tug at her limbs, reorienting her floating
body. Facing upward, Gillian's eyes open but fail to see the
metal ceiling plates. Instead, they look to the past.

To the Shallow Cluster. A phalanx of shimmering globes,
deceptively beautiful, like translucent moons, or floating
bubbles in a dream.

Then the Morgran ambush . . . fiery explosions amid
mighty battleships, as numerous as stars, all striving for a
chance to snare a gnat.

To Kithrup, where the gnat fled, where so much was
lost, including the better part of her soul.

Where are you, Tom? Do you still live, somewhere in
space and time?

Then Oakka, that green betraying place, where the Insti-
tutes failed.'

And the Fractal System, where Old Ones proved there is
no age limit on perfidy.

Herbie seems amused by that thought.

"Old Ones? From my perspective, those inhabitants of a
giant snowfiake are mere infants, like yourself!"

358 David B r i n

Of course the voice comes from her imagination, putting
words in a mouth that might have spoken when Earth's
ocean was innocent of any life but bacteria . . . when
Sol's system was half its present age.

Gillian cracks a smile and Abhusba transforms into
Kuntatta—laughter amid a storm of sleeting vacuum rays.

Soon, she must wrestle with the same quandary—how to
arrange Streaker's escape one more time, just ahead of
baying hounds. It would take a pretty neat trick this time,
with a Jophur dreadnought apparently already landed on
Jijo, and Streaker's hull still laden with refractory soot.

It would take a miracle.

How did they follow MS? she wonders. It seemed a per feet
hideout, with all trails to Jijo quantum collapsed but one,
and that one passing through the atmosphere of a giant
carbon star. The sooner races all did it successfully, arriv-
ing without leaving tracks. What did we do wrong?

Recrimination has no place in weightless yoga.

It spoils the serenity.

Sorry, Jake, she thinks. Gillian sighs, knowing this trance
is now forfeit. She might as well emerge and get back
down to business. Perhaps the Hikahi will bring useful

news from its raid on the surface.

I'm sorry, Tom. Maybe a time will come when I can clear
my mind enough to hear you ... or to cast a piece of

myself to wherever you have gone.

Gillian won't let herself imagine the more likely proba-
bility—that Tom is dead, along with Creideiki and all the
others she was forced to abandon on Kithrup, with little
more than a space skiff to convey them home again.

The emergence process continues, drawing meditation
en-forms back into their original abstractions, easing her
toward the world of unpleasant facts.

And yet . . .

In the course of preparing to exit, Gillian abruptly grows
aware of a fifth tug on her body, this one stroking the back
of her neck, prickling her occipital vertebrae, and follicles
along the middle of her scalp. It is familiar. She's felt it
before, though never this strong. A presence, beckoning

Infinirii's Shore 359

not from nearby, or even elsewhere in the ship, but some-
where beyond Streaker's scarred hull. Somewhere else on
the planet.

There is a rhythmic, resonant solidity to the sensation,
like vibration in dense stone.

If only Creideiki were here, he could probably relate to
it, the way he did with those poor beings who lived under-
ground on Kithrup. Or else Tom might have figured out a
way to decipher this thing.

And yet, she begins to suspect this time it is something
different. Correcting her earlier impression, Gillian real-
izes—

It is not a presence on this world, or beneath it, but
something of the planet. An aspect of Jijo itself.

Narusbkan orients her like the needle of a compass, and
abruptly she feels a strange, unprovoked commotion
within. It takes her some time to sort out the impression.
But recognition dawns at last.

Tentatively—like a long-lost friend unsure of its wel-
come—hope sneaks back into her heart, riding on the
stony cadence.

,wasx

BBRUPTLY COMES NEWS. TOO SOON FOR YOU RINGS
to have interpreted the still-hot wax. So let me relate it
directly.

WORD OF DISASTER! WORD OF CALAMITY!
Word of ill-fated loss, just east beyond this range of
mountain hills. Our grounded corvette—destroyed!

Dissension tears the Polkjhy crew. Chem-synth toruses
vent fumes of blame while loud recriminations pour from
oration rings.

Could this tragedy be the work of the dolphin prey ship,
retaliating against its pursuers? For years its renown has
spread, after cunning escapes from other traps.

360 David B r i n

But it cannot be. Long-range scans show no hint of
gravitic emanations or energy weapons. Early signs point

to some kind of onboard failure.

And yet, clever wolflings are not to be underrated. I/we
can read waxy memories left by the former Asx—historical
legends of the formative years of the Jijoan Commons, es-
pecially tales of urrish-human wars. These stories demon-
strate how both races have exceptional aptitudes for

improvisation.

Until now, we thought it was coincidence—that there

were Earthling sooners here, that the Rothen had human
servants, and the prey ship also came from that wolfling
world. The three groups seem to have nothing in common,
no motives, goals, or capabilities.

But what if there is a pattern?

I/we must speak of this to the Captain-Leader ... as
soon as higher-status stacks pause their ventings and let us

get a puff in edgewise.

Prepare, My rings. Our first task will surely be to interro-
gate the prisoners.

Tsk't

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
She fretted over her predicament as the submarine
made its way back to the abyssal mountain of dead
starships. While other members of the Hikabi team exulted
over their successful raid, looking forward to reunion with
their crew mates on the Streaker, Tsh't anticipated docking

with a rising sense of dread.

To outward appearances, all was well. The prisoners
were secure. The young adventurers, Alvin and Huck,
were debriefing Dwer and Rety—human sooners who had
managed somehow to defeat a Jophur corvette. Once
Hikabi leveled its plunge below the thermocline, Tsh't
knew she and her team had pulled it off—striking a blow

for Earth without being caught.

The coup reflected well on the mission commander,

I n f I n I r i| ' s Shore 361

Some might call Tsh't a hero. Yet disquiet churned her sour
stomach.

Ifni must hate me. The worst of all possible combinations
of events has caught me in a vise.

"Wait a minute," snapped the female g'Kek, who had as-
sumed the name of an ancient Earthling literary figure. As
her spokes vibrated with agitation, she pointed one eye-
stalk at the young man whose bow and arrows lay across
his knees. "You're saying that you walked all the way from
the Slope to find her hidden tribe . . . while she flew back
home aboard the Dakkin sky boat ..."

The human girl, Rety, interrupted.

"That's Danik, you dumb wheelie. And what's so sur-
prisin' about that? I had Kunn an' the others fooled down
to their scabs, thinkin' I was ready to be one of 'em. 0'
course I was just keepin' my eyes peeled fer my first
chance to ..."                         •

Tsh't had already heard the story once through, so she
paid scant attention this time, except to note that "Huck"
spoke far better Anglic than the human child. Anyway, she
had other matters on her mind. Especially one of the pris-
oners lying in a cell farther aft ... a captive starfarer who
could reveal her deepest secret.

Tsh't sent signals down the neural tap socketed behind
her left eye. The mechanical walker unit responded by
swiveling on six legs to aim her bottle-shaped beak away
from the submarine's bridge. Unburdened by armor or life-
support equipment, it maneuvered gracefully past a gaggle
of dolphin spectators. The fins seemed captivated by the
sight of two humans so disheveled, and the girl bearing
scars on her cheek that any Earth hospital could erase in a
day. Their rustic accents and overt wonder at seeing real
live dolphins seemed poignantly endearing in members of
the patron race.

The two seemed to find nothing odd about chatting with
Alvin and Huck, though, as if wheeled beings and Anglic-
speaking hoons were as common as froth on a wave. Com-
mon enough for Rety and Huck to bicker like siblings.

"Sure I led Kunn out this way. But only so's I could find

362 David B rIn

out where the bird machine came from!" Rety stroked a
miniature urs, whose long neck coiled contentedly around
her wrist. "And my plan worked, didn't it? I found you!"

Huck reacted with a rolling twist of all four eyestalks, a
clear expression of doubt and disdain. "Yes, though it
meant revealing the Earthship's position, enabling your

Danik pilot to target its site from the air."

"So? What's yer point?"
From the door, Tsh't saw the male human glance at the

big adolescent hoon. Dwer and Alvin had just met, but
they exchanged commiserating grins. Perhaps they would
compare notes later, how each managed life with such a

"dynamic" companion.

Tsh't found all the varied voices too complicated. It feels

like a menagerie aboard this tub.
The argument raged on while Tsh't exited the bridge.

Perhaps recordings would prove useful when Gillian and
the Niss computer analyzed every word. Preparations were
also under way to interrogate the Jophur survivors using
techniques found in the Thennanin,Library cube—sophisti-
cated data from a clan that had been fighting Jophur since

before Solomon built his temple.

Tsh't approved ... so far.
But Gillian will also want to question Kunn. And she

knows her own kind too well to be fooled.

The Hikahi was a makeshift vessel, built out of parts
salvaged from ancient hulks lining the bottom of the Rift.
Tsh't passed down corridors of varied substance, linked by
coarsely welded plates, until she reached the cell where
two human prisoners were held. Unfortunately, the guard
on duty turned out to be Karkaett, a disciple of former I
Captain Creideiki's keeneenk mental training program. I
Tsh't couldn't hope to send Karkaett off on some errand
and have him simply forget. Any slip in regulations would

be remembered.

"The doughnuts are sedated," the guard reported. "Also,

we z-zapped the damaged Rothen battle drone and put it
in a freezer. Hannes and I can check its memory store

later."

"That-t's fine," she replied. "And the tytlal?"           I

Karkaett tossed his sleek gray head. "You mean the one '

I

Infinirij's Shore 363

that talks? Isolated in a cabin, as you instructed. Alvin's pet
is just a noor, of course. I assume you didn't mean to lock
her up, t-too."

Actually, Tsh't wasn't sure she grasped the difference
between a noor and a tytlal. Was it simply the ability to
talk? What if they all could, but were good at keeping it
secret? Tytlal were legendary for one trait—going to any
length for a joke.

"I'll see the human prisoners now," she told the guard.

Karkaett transmitted a signal to open the door. Follow-
ing rules, he accompanied her inside, weapons trained on
the captives.

Both men lay on cots with medical packs strapped to
their arms. Already they seemed much improved over their
condition in the swamp, where, coughing and desperate
for breath, they had clutched a reed bank, struggling to
keep their heads above water. The younger one looked
even more grubby and half-starved than Rety—a slightly
built young man with wiry muscles, black hair, and a puck-
ered scar above one eye. Jass, Rety had identified him—a
sooner cousin, and far from her favorite person.

The other man was much larger. His uniform could still
be recognized beneath the caked filth. Steely gray eyes
drilled Tsh't the moment she entered.

"How did you follow us toJijo?"

That was what Gillian would surely ask the Danik voy-
ager. It was the question Tsh't feared most.

Calm down, she urged herself. The Rothen only know
that someone sent a message from the Fractal System. They
can't know who.

Anyway, would they confide in their Danik servants?
This poor fellow is probably just as bewildered as we are.

Yet Kunn's steady gaze seemed to hold the same rock-
solid faith she once saw in the Missionary . . . the disci-
ple who long ago brought a shining message-of-truth to
the small dolphin community of Bimini-Under, back when
Tsh't was still a child gliding in her mother's slipstream
wake.

"Humans are beloved patrons of the neo-dolphin race,
it's true," the proselytizer explained, during one secret
meeting, in a cave where scuba-diving tourists never ven-

364 David B r i n

tured. "Yet, just a few centuries ago, primitive men in boats
bunted cetaceans to the verge of extinction. They may act
better today, but who can deny their new maturity is frag-
ile, untested? Without meaning disloyalty, many neo-fins
feel discomfort, wondering if there might not be something
or somebody greater and wiser than humankind. Someone
the entire clan can turn to, in dangerous times."

"You mean God?" one of the attending dolphins asked.
And the Missionary responded with a nod.

"In essence, yes. All the ancient legends about divine
beings who intervene in Earth's affairs . . . all the great
teachers and prophets . . . can be shown to have their
basis in one simple truth.

"Terra is not just an isolated forlorn world—home to
bizarre wolflings and their crude clients. Rather, it is part
of a wonderful experiment. Something I have come from

afar to tell you about.

"We have been watched over for a very long time. Lov-
ingly guarded throughout our long time of dreaming. But
soon, quite soon, it will be time to waken."

K

aa

MOPOL'S FEVER SHOWED NO SIGN OF RETURNING.
In fact, he seemed quite high in spirits when he left the
next morning, swimming east with Zhaki, resuming
their reconnaissance of Wuphon Port.

"You see? All he needed was a stern talking-to," Peepoe
explained with evident pride. "Mopol just had to be re-
minded of his duty."

Kaa sensed the implied rebuke in her words, but chose

to ignore it.

"You have a persuasive bedside manner," he replied.

"No doubt they teach it in medical school."

In fact, he was quite sure that Mopol's recovery had little
to do with Peepoe's lecture. The half-stenos male had
agreed too readily with everything the young nurse said,

I n f I n I r 11 ' s Shore 365

tossing his mottled gray head and chittering "Yessss!" re-
peatedly.

He and Zhaki are up to something, Kaa thought, as he
watched the two swim off toward the coastal hoon settle-
ment.

"I need to be heading back to the ship soon," Peepoe
said, causing Kaa to dip his narrow jaw.

"But I thought you'd stay a few days. You agreed to
come see the volcano."

Her expression seemed wary. "I don't know. . . .
When I left, there was talk of shifting Streaker to another
hiding place. Searchers were getting too damned c-close."

Not that moving the ship a few kilometers would make
much difference, if Galactic fleets already had her pinned.
Even hiding under a great pile of discarded starcraft would
not help, once pursuers had the site narrowed down close
enough to use chemical sniffers. Earthling DNA would lure
them, like male moths to a female's pheromones.

Kaa shrugged by twisting his flukes.

"Brookida will be disappointed. He was so looking for-
ward to showing off his collection of dross from all six
sooner races."

Peepoe stared at Kaa, scanning him with penetrating
sound till she found the wryness within.

Her blowhole sputtered laughter.

"Oh, all right. Let's see this mountain of yours. Anyway,
I've been aching for a swim."

As usual, the water felt terrific. A little saltier than Earth sea,
but with a fine mineral flavor and a gentle ionic oiliness
that helped it glide over your skin. The air's rich oxygen
level made it seem as if you could keep going well past the
horizon.

It was a far friendlier ocean than on Kithrup or Oakka,
where the oceans tasted poisonously foul. Friendlier, that
is, unless you counted the groaning sounds that occasion-
ally drifted from the Midden, as if a tribe of mad whales
lived down there, singing ballads without rhyme or reason.

According to Alvin's Journal, their chief source on Jijo,
some natives believed that ancient beings lived beyond the

r

366 David B r i n

continental shelf, fierce and dangerous. Such hints
prompted Gillian Baskin to order the spying continued.

So long as Streaker doesn't need a pilot, I might as well
play secret agent. Anyway, it's a job Peepoe might respect.

Beyond all that, Kaa relearned how fine it was to cruise
in tandem with another strong swimmer, jetting along on
powerful fluke strokes, building momentum each time you
plunged, then soaring through each upper arc, like flying.
The true peak of exhilaration could never be achieved
alone. Two or more dolphins must move in unison, each
surf-riding the other's wake. When done right, surface ten-
sion nearly vanished and the planet merged seamlessly,
from core to rock, from sea to sky.

And then . . . to bitter-clear vacuum?
A modern poet might make that extrapolation, but it
never occurred to natural cetaceans—not even species
whose eyesight could make out stars—not until humans
stopped hunting and started teaching.

They changed us. Showed us the universe beyond sun,
moon, and tides. They even turned some of us into pilots.
Wormhole divers. I guess that makes up for their ancestors'

crimes.
Still, some things never change. Like the semierotic

stroke of whitecaps against flesh, or the spume of hot
breath meeting air. The raw, earthy pleasure of this outing
offered much that he felt lacking aboard Streaker.
It also made a terrific opening to courtship.
Assuming she thinks the same way I do.
Assuming I can start winning her esteem.
They were approaching shore. He could tell by the ech-
oes of rock-churned surf up ahead. A mist-shrouded
mountain could be glimpsed from the top of each forward
leap. Soon they would reach the hidden cave where his
spy equipment lay. Then Kaa must go back to dealing with
Peepoe in awkward, inadequate words.

/ wish this could just go on without end, he thought.
A brief touch of sonar, and he knew Peepoe felt the
same. She, too, yearned for this moment of primitive re-
lease to last.

Kaa's sonic sense picked out a school of pseudo-tunny,
darting through nearby shoals, tempting after a pallid

367

f i n i r IJ ' s Shor

breakfast of synthi flesh. The tunny weren't quite in their
path—it would mean a detour. Still, Kaa squirted a burst of
Trinary.

* In summer sunlight,

* Fish attract like edible

* Singularities! *

Kaa felt proud of the haiku—impulsive, yet punning as it
mixed both space- and planet-bound images. Of course,
free foraging was still not officially sanctioned. He awaited
Peepoe's rejection.

* Passing an abyss, or bright reef,

* Or black hole—what sustains us?

* Our navigator! *

Her agreement filled Kaa's pounding heart, offering a
basis for hope.

Peepoe's strong, rhythmic strokes easily kept pace
alongside as he angled toward a vigorous early lunch.

nf   r u ' s Shore 369

Sooners

I'VE BEEN ABOARD A FLYING MACHINE BEFORE, HE
told himself. I'm no simple nature child, astonished by
doors, metal panels, and artificial light.

This place should not terrify me.

The walls aren't about to close in.

His body wasn't convinced. His heart raced and he could
not rest. Lark kept experiencing a disturbing impression
that the little room was getting smaller.

He knew it must be an illusion. Neither Ling nor Rann
showed outward concern over being crushed in a dimin-
ishing space. They were used to hard gray surfaces, but the
metal enclosure seemed harsh to one who grew up scam-
pering along the branch-top skyways of a garu forest. The
floor plates brought a distant vibration, rhythmic and inces-
sant.

Lark suddenly realized what it reminded him of—the

machinery of his father's paper mill—the grinders and
pulping hammers—designed to crush scrap cloth into a

fine white slurry. That pounding noise used to drive him
away into the wilderness, on long journeys seeking living
things to study.

"Welcome to a starship, sooner," Rann mumbled, nurs-
ing both a headache and a grudge after their fight in the
lake. "How do you like it?"

All three human prisoners still wore their damp under-
wear, having been stripped of their tools and wet suits. For
some reason, the Jophur let them keep their rewq symbi-
onts, though Rann had torn his off, leaving red welts at his
temples where the crumpled creature had had no time to
withdraw its feeding suckers.

At least no one had been injured during the swift cap-
ture, when a swarm of tapered cone beings swept down
from the mammoth ship, each Jophur riding its own plat-
form of shimmering metal. Suspensor fields pressed the
lake, surrounding the human swimmers between disklike
watery depressions. Hovering robots crackled with re-
strained energy—one even dived beneath the surface to
cut off escape—crowding the captives toward one of the
antigravity sleds, and then to prison.

To Lark's surprise, they were put in the same cell. By
accounts from Earth's dark ages, it used to be standard
practice to separate prisoners, to break their spirits. Then
he realized.

If Jophur are like traeki, they can't quite grasp the notion
of being alone. A solitary traeki would be happy arguing
among its rings till the Progenitors came home.

"They are probably at a loss, trawling through their data-
base for information about Earthlings,'* Ling explained.
"Till recently, there wasn't much available."

"But it's been three hundred years since contact!"

"That may seem long to us, Lark. But Earth was minor
news for most of that time—a back-page sensation. By
now the first detailed Institute studies of our homeworld
have barely made it through the sector-branch Library, on
Tanith."

"Then why not . . ." He sought a word she had used
several times. "Why not upload Earthling books. Our ency-
clopedias, medical texts, self-analyses . . . the knowledge

370   0 a v I d B r i n

we spent thousands of years accumulating about our-
selves?"

She lifted her eyes. "Wolfling superstitions. Even we

Daniks are taught to think that way." She glanced at Rann.
"It took your thesis, Lark—the one you wrote with
Uthen—to convince me things might be different."

Though flushed at the compliment, Lark reined in his
imagination. He tried not to let his eyes drop to her nearly
bare figure. Skimpy underclothes would not hide his physi-
cal arousal. Besides, this was hardly the time.

"I still find their attitude hard to credit. The Galactics
would rather wait centuries for a formal report on us?"

"Oh, I'm sure the great powers—like the Soro and
Jophur—got access to early drafts. And they've urgently
sought more data since the Streaker crisis began. Their
strategic agencies almost certainly kidnapped and dis-
sected some humans, for instance. But they could hardly
update every star cruiser with illicit data. That would risk
contaminating the onboard Library cubes. I'd have to guess
this crew has been improvising—not a skill much encour-
aged in Galactic society."

"But humans are known for it. Is that why your ship

came to Jijo? Improvising an opportunity?"

Ling nodded, rubbing her bare shoulders. "Our Rothen
lor . . ." She paused, then chose another phrasing. "The
Inner Circle received a message. A time-drop capsule,
tuned for pickup by anyone with a Rothen cognition

wave."

"Who sent it?"
"Apparently, a secret believer living among the crew of

the dolphin ship. Or one desperate enough to break from
Terragens orders, and summon help from a higher source."

"A believer . . ." Lark mused. "In the Danik faith, you
mean. But Daniks teach that humans are the secret recipi-
ents of Rothen patronhood."

"And by tradition, that means a dolphin crew could also

call on Rothen help, in case of dire need . . . which those

poor creatures surely face."

"Like running to your grandparents, if your own folks

can't handle a problem. Hrm."

Lark had already picked up parts of the story. How the

Infinirii's Shore 371

first dolphin-crewed starship set forth on a survey mission,
assigned to check the accuracy of the small planetary
branch Earth had received from the Library Institute. Most
civilized clans simply accepted the massive volumes of in-
formation stored by past generations, especially concern-
ing far corners of space, where little profit could be gained
by exploration.

It was supposed to be routine. A shakedown cruise. But
then, somewhere off the beaten track, Earthship Streaker
confronted something unexpected—a discovery that made
the great alliances crazy. Clues to a time of transition, per-
haps, when ancient verities of the known galaxies might
abruptly change.

"It is said that when this happens, just one race in ten
shall make the passage to a new age, " the hoonish High
Sage, Phwhoon-dau, had explained one night by a camp-
fire, just after the fall of Dooden Mesa, drawing on his deep
readings of the Biblos Archive. "Those bent on surviving
into the next long phase of stability would naturally want
to learn as much as possible. Hr-r-r-rm. Yes, even a sooner
can understand why this Eartbling ship found itself in
trouble."

"A dolphin Danik." Lark marveled. "So this . . . be-
liever sent a secret message to the Rothen. . . ."

"To is the wrong word. You might better use at. In fact,
nothing in Anglic adequately describes the skewed logic of
communicating by time drop." Ling kept running her fin-
gers through her hair. It had grown since the Battle of the
Glade, and was still tangled from their long dive under the
lake.

"But yes, the message from the dolphin believer ex-
plained where the Streaker ship was—in one of the hydro-
gen-ice habitat zones where many older races huddle close
to stellar tides, after retiring from active Galactic affairs.

"More important—it hinted where the Earthship com-
mander next planned to flee." Ling shook her head. "It
turned out to be a clever version of the Sooner Path. A
difficult passage, uncomfortably close to fiery Izmunuti. No
wonder you Six were left undetected for so long."

"Hr-rm," Lark umbled contemplatively. "Unlike our an-
cestors, you let yourselves be followed."

372   0

avid B r i n

This drew a reaction from Rann, sullenly holding his
aching head in the opposite corner of the cell.

"Fool. We did no such thing!" the tall Danik muttered
sourly. "Are you saying we cannot easily repeat any feat
accomplished by a gaggle of cowardly sooners?"

"Putting insults aside, I agree," Ling said. "It seems un-
likely we were followed. That is, not the first time our ship

came to Jijo."

"What do you mean?" Lark asked.

"When our comrades left us—four humans and two
Rothen, with the job of doing a bioassay on Jijo—I thought
the others were going to cruise nearby space, in case the
dolphin ship was hiding on some nearby planetoid. But

that was not their aim at all.

"Their real intent was to go find a buyer."
Lark frowned in puzzlement. "A Buyur'i But aren't they

extinct? You mean the Rothen wanted to hire one as a

guide, to come back to Jijo and—"

"No ... a buyer\" Ling laughed, though it was not a
happy sound. "You were right about the Rothen, Lark.
They live by bartering unusual or illicit information, often
using human Daniks as agents or intermediaries. It was an
exciting way of life . . . till you made me realize how
we've been used." Ling's expression turned dark. Then she

shook her head.

"In this case, they must have realized Jijo was worth a

fortune to the right customer. There are life-forms on this
planet whose development seems ahead of schedule, rap-
idly approaching presapience. And there are the Six Races.
Surely someone would pay to know about such a major
infestation of criminal sooners ... no offense."

"None taken. And of course, the clue to the dolphin ship
was worth plenty. So . . ." He blew an airy sigh through j
his nostrils, like a disgusted urs. "Your masters decided to j

sell us all."                                           I
Ling nodded, but her eyes bored into Rann. "Our pa- '

trons sold us all."                                          ;

The big Danik did not meet her gaze. He pressed both
hands against his temples, emitting a low moan that
seemed half from pain and half disgust at her treason. He
turned toward the wall, but did not touch the oily surface.

Infiniru's Shore 373

"After all we've seen, you still think the Rothen are pa-
trons of humanity?" Lark asked.

Ling shrugged her shoulders. "I cannot easily dismiss the
evidence I was shown while growing up—evidence dating
back thousands of years. Anyway, it might explain our
bloody, treacherous history. The Rothen lords claim it's be-
cause our dark souls kept drifting from the Path. But
maybe we are exactly what they uplifted us to be. Raised to
be shills for a gang of thieves."

"Hrm. That might relieve us of some of the responsibil-
ity. Still, I'd rather be wolflings, with ignorance our only
excuse."

Ling nodded, lapsing into silence, perhaps contemplat-
ing the great lie her life had revolved around. Meanwhile,
Lark found a new perspective on the tale of humanity. It
went beyond a dry litany of events, recited from dusty
tomes in the Biblos Archive.

The Daniks claim that we bad guidance all along . . .
that Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Fuller, and others were teachers
in disguise. But if we were helped—by the Rothen or any-
body else—then our helpers clearly did a lousy job.

Like a problem child who needs open, honest, personal
attention, we could have used a lot more than a few ethi-
cal nostrums. Vague bints like, "Have faith " and "Be nice
to each other." Moralizing platitudes aren't enough to
guide a rowdy tyke . . . and they sure did not prevent
dark ages, slavery, the twentieth-century Holocaust, or the
despots of the twenty-first.

All those horrors reflect as poorly on the teacher as the
students. Unless . . .

Unless you suppose we actually did it all alone . . .

Lark was struck by the same feeling as when he and Ling
spoke beside the mule spider's lake. His mind filled with
an image of poignant, awful beauty. A tapestry spanning
thousands of years—human history seen from afar. A tale
of frightened orphans, floundering in ignorance. Of crea-
tures smart enough to stare in wonder at the stars, asking
questions of a night that never answered, except with terri-
fying silence.

Sometimes, from desperate imaginations, the silence
provoked roaring hallucinations, fantastic rationalizations,

374 David B r i n

or self-serving excuses for any crime the strong might
choose to commit against the weak. Deserts widened as
men ignorantly cut forests. Species vanished as farmers
burned and plowed. Wars spread ruin in the name of noble

causes.

Yet, amid all that, humanity somehow began pulling to-
gether, learning the arts of calmness, peering forward in
time, like a neglected infant teaching itself to crawl and

speak.

To stand and think.

To walk and read.
To care . . . and then become a loving parent to others.

The kind of parent poor orphans never had.
Born on a refuge world whose crude safety had van-
ished, imprisoned in the bowels of an alien starship, Lark
nevertheless felt drawn away from worrying about his own
fate, or even the six exile clans ofJijo. After all, on the vast
scale of things, his life hardly mattered. The Five Galaxies
would spin on, even if every last Earthling vanished.

Yet he found his heart torn by the tragic story of Homo
sapiens, the self-taught wolflings of Terra. It was a bitter-
sweet tale, pulling from his reluctant eyes trickles of tart
brine that tasted like the sea.

The voice was familiar . . . horrifyingly so.

"Tell us now."

When all three humans kept silent, the Jophur interroga-
tor edged closer, towering over them. Anglic words hissed
from atop the swaying stack of fatty rings, accompanied by

liquid burblings and mucusy pops.

"Explain to us; why did you transmit the signal that led
to your capture? Did you sacrifice yourselves in order to
buy time for unseen comrades? Those we most eagerly

pursue?"

It had introduced itself as "Ewasx," and part of Lark's

horror lay in recognizing torus markings of the former
traeki High Sage, Asx. One major difference appeared at
the bottom of the'stack, where a new, agile torus-of-legs let
the composite being move about more quickly than be-
fore. And silvery fibers now laced the doughy tubes, lead-

Infinirii's Shore 375

ing up to a glistening young ring that had no apparent
features or appendages. Yet Lark sensed it was the chief
thing turning the old traeki sage into a Jophur.

"We detected a disturbance in the toporgic time field,
imprisoning the Rothen vessel below the lake," it said.
"But these tremors were well within noise variance levels,
and our leaders were otherwise too busily engaged to in-
vestigate. However, we/I now clearly discern what you
were trying to accomplish with this trick."

The declaration left Lark unsurprised. Once alerted, the
mighty aliens would naturally pierce his jury-rigged
scheme for letting Daniks out of the trapped vessel. He
only hoped thatJeni Shen, andJimi, and the others made it
out before hunter robots swarmed around the Rothen time
cocoon, then through the network of caves.

while all three humans kept silent, Ewasx continued.

"The chain of logic is apparent, revealing a persistent
effort on the part of you sooners to divert us from our main
purpose on this world.

"In short, you have been attempting to distract us."

Now Lark looked up, baffled. He shared a glance with
Ling.

What is the Jophur talking about?

"It began several Jijo rotations ago," Ewasx went on.
"Although no other crew stack thought it unusual, / was
perplexed when the High Sages acceded so swiftly to our
Captain-Leader's demand. I did not expect Vubben and
Lester Cambel to obey so quickly, revealing the coordi-
nates of the chief g'Kek encampment."

Lark spoke at last. "You mean Dooden Mesa."

He still felt guilty over how a stray computer resonance
betrayed the secret colony's location. Apparently, Ewasx
thought the transmission had been made on purpose.

"Dooden Mesa, correct. The timing of the signal now
seems too convenient, too out of character. Memory stacks
inherited from Asx indicate a disgusting level of interspe-
cies loyalty among the mongrel races of Jijo. Loyalty that
should have delayed compliance with our demand. Nor-
mally the sages would have dithered, in hopes of evacuat-
ing the g'Keks before giving in."

"Why did you have to wait for a signal at all?" Lark

376 David B r i n

asked. "If you've got memories from Asx, you knew all
along where Dooden was! Why bother asking the High

Sages?"

For the first time, Lark saw signs of what might be called

an emotional response. Uneven ripples coursed several
Ewasx rings, as if they were writhing from unpleasant sen-
sations within. When it spoke next, the voice seemed

briefly labored.

"Reasons for incomplete data retrieval access are not

your concern. Suffice it to say that the immurement of
Dooden Mesa was gratifying to our Polkjhy Ship Com-
manders . . . yet I/we nursed brooding reservations
within this stack of restless rings. The timing seemed too

convenient."

"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the signal came just as we were about to

launch our remaining corvette to succor another, which
had made a forced landing beyond the mountains. That
mission was postponed on learning where the chief g'Kek
hideout lay. The corvette was outfitted with toporgic, to
attack our sworn feud enemies, lest any escape that nest of

wheeled vipers."

Lark caught Rann glancing at Ling, meaningfully. Beyond

the mountains. The Daniks had sent Kunn's scout vessel
out that way, just before the Battle of the Glade. And now
the Jophur reported losing a corvette in the same direction?

Not lost. A forced landing. Still, they have strange priori-
ties. Vengeance before rescue.

"After dealing with Dooden Mesa, there were other de- :

lays. Then, just as we were resuming preparations to send i
aid to our grounded cousins, this new distraction came
about. I refer to your activity below the lake. You cleverly
found some rude way to vibrate the toporgic seal around
the Rothen ship. We ignored this at first, since mere soon-

ers could never actually penetrate the cocoon—"

Another tremor crossed the creature's rings, though this

time the voice did not pause.

"Soon, however; there came a distraction we could not

ignore. The appearance of three humans at the surface of
the lake, deep within our perimeter! This event triggered
alarms, concentrating our attention for a lengthy period.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 377

"I/we are now quite certain that was your intent all
along."
Lark stared in astonishment.

Just after they were captured, he and Ling had speculated
in whispers about Rann's betrayal, swimming to the surface
and using the portable computer to blatantly attract Jophur
attention. Ling had illuminated a likely motive.

"Rann is more loyal to our masters than I ever imag-
ined. He knows the Six Races possess evidence that can
blow the lid off the grand Rothen deception. Helping our
crew mates escape the trapped ship would just make mat-
ters worse, by exposing more Daniks to your arguments,
Lark. Your evidence of genocide and other wrongs. Like
me, they might be converted away from our lords.

"Before allowing that to happen, Rann would rather let
the Jophur wipe out everybody, and leave our crew sealed
forever. At least that way the Rothen home clan might be
safe."

Ling's explanation had rocked Lark. But this one from
Ewasx was weirder still.

"You're saying we . . . uh, vibrated the golden shell
around the submerged ship . . . in order to attract your
attention? And when that didn't work, we swam up to the
surface to make even more noise, trying to draw your gaze
our way?"

As he said the words, Lark realized in surprise that the
scenario made more sense than what had actually hap-
pened! In comparison, it did seem improbable that primi-
tive sooners would find a way to pierce the toporgic trap
... or that a Danik would betray his crew mates in order
to keep them buried forever. There was just one logical
problem.

"But . . ." he went on. "But why would we be desper-
ate enough to do such a thing? What aim could make such
a sacrifice worthwhile?"

The Jophur emitted an aggravated sigh.

378 David B r i n

"You know perfectly well what aim. However, in order
to establish a clear basis for interrogation, I will explain.

"I/we know your secret," it told Lark.

"You must certainly be in communication with the Earth-
ling ship."

AI

vm

THE DOLPHINS HAVEN'T GIVEN A NAME TO THIS
| mountain of abandoned starships. This heap of discards
I from a lost civilization, moldering at the bottom of the

Midden.

Huck wants to call it Atlantis. But for once I find her

suggestion lacking imagination.

I prefer that mythical place described so hauntingly by
the great Clarke. The Seven Suns. Where my namesake
found ancient relics long forgotten by titans who had
moved on, leaving their obsolete servants behind.

Remnants of a mighty past, now lost between the city
and the stars.

We don't spend much time together anymore. We four
from Wuphon Port. We four comrades and adventurers.
We've gone off in different directions, led by our own ob-
sessions.

Ur-ronn spends her time where you'd expect—in the en-
gine room, eagerly learning about the hardware of a star-
ship and getting thick as thieves with Hannes Suessi. I get
an impression these dolphins aren't as good at delicate
hand-eye work as an urs, so Suessi seems glad to have her

around.

It's also the driest place aboard this waterlogged cruiser.
Still, I figure Ur-ronn would spend time down there even if
it meant sloshing through knee-deep slush. It's where a
smith belongs.

I n f i n i r if ' s Shore 379

Suessi hoped we might offer clues toward ridding
Streaker's hull of a thick carbon coating. Oral traditions
speak of star soot, weighing down each sneakship that
reached Jijo after passing close by Izmunuti. But I never
heard of a clan trying to remove it. Why would our ances-
tors bother, since they scuttled their arks soon after arriv-
ing?

Anyway, why not just refurbish one of the old hulks
lying under the Midden, and use it to make an escape?

Ur-ronn says Suessi and Dr. Baskin considered the idea.
But the ships are junk, after all. If the wrecks could fly well,
wouldn't the Buyur have taken them along?

For helping the engineers, Ur-ronn hopes to get some
cooperation in return . . . fulfilling the assignment we
were given when our little homemade Wuphon's Dream
first dropped to the sea by Terminus Rock. Uriel had asked
us to find a hidden cache—equipment to help the High
Sages deal with intruding starships.

Now that we know more about those invaders—a
Rothen cruiser, followed later by a Jophur battleship—it
seems unlikely that cache would help against forces so
godlike and lofty. Anyway, Uriel and our parents must
have given us up for dead, ever since the air hose tore
away from Wuphon's Dream.

Still, Ur-ronn's right. An oath is an oath.

I can see why Dr. Gillian Baskin prefers we don't contact
our folks. But I must persuade her to try.

Pincer-Tip spends most of his time with the Kiqui—those
six-limbed amphibians we once thought to be masters of
this ship. Instead, they are something even more revered in
the Five Galaxies—honest-to-goodness presapient beings.
Pincer seems to have an affinity for them, since his red
qheuen race is also adapted to live where waves meet a
rocky coast. But that may just begin to cover Pincer's at-
traction to them.

He talks of building a new bathy to explore the Midden.
Not just this mound of dead starcraft, but some of the vast
jumbled cities, filled with wonders discarded by the depart-
ing Buyur.

380   D a v i d B r i n

Clearly he enjoyed his brief stint as captain of Wuphon 's
Dream. Only this time he hopes for a new crew. Agile, .
obedient, water-loving Kiqui may be ideal, compared to a
too-tall hoon, a prolix g'Kek, and a hydrophobic urs.

Maybe Pincer still hopes to find real monsters.

Huck refuses to believe anything important can take place
without her. As soon as we returned with Lieutenant Tsh't,
she got involved in the serious business of questioning the
Jophur prisoners, taken from the wrecked scoutship.

According to spy and adventure novels, the art of inter-
rogation has a lot to do with language trickery. Fooling the
other guy into blurting out something he never intended.
That's just the kind of stuff Huck thinks she's oh so clever
at. So what if Jophur are different from traeki. She expected
to break their obstinate silence and get them talking.

So imagine her shock when she rolled into their cham-
ber and the very sight of her sent them into a fit, throwing
themselves against the restraining field trying to get at her!
The room filled with a stench of pure hatred.

Strangely enough, that proved useful! For the Jophur
abruptly lost their sullen muteness and started babbling.
Mostly, their GalTwo and GalFive utterance streams were
steeped with fuming anger. But soon the sneaky Niss Ma-
chine popped in, making insinuations and smooth-voiced

hints. . . .

Huck turned all four eyestalks to stare at the whirling

hologram when it suggested the Jophur might be given this
tasty g'Kek, if they cooperated! Soon, mixed among the
vengeance vows and retribution exclamatives were bits of
useful information, such as the name of their ship and the
rank of its Captain-Leader. And one further crucial fact.
Although their battlecruiser is a giant compared to out-
matched Streaker, the Jophur ship came to Jijo alone.

Huck says she knew all along that the Niss was bluffing
about handing her over. In fact, she claimed a triumph, as

if it had been her plan all along.

I knew better 'than to comment on the green sweat coat-
ing her eye hoods. After the interview, she needed a bath.
*    •    •

I n f i n I r u ' s Shore 381

Unlike the others, I can't banish all doubt.

Have we chosen the right side?

Oh, there seem to be good reasons for throwing our fate
in with these fugitives. Humans are members of the Six,
and that makes the dolphins sort of cousins, I guess. And
it's true that Streaker seems more like one of our sooner
sneakships than those arrogant dreadnoughts, up in the
Rimmer Range. Anyway, I was brought up reading Earth-
ling tall tales. My sentiments are drawn to the underdog.

Still, I must keep at least one mental corner detached
and uncommitted. My loyalty lies ultimately with family,
sept, and clan . . . and with the High Sages of the Com-
mons of Jijo.

Among the four of us, someone must remember our true
priorities. A time may come when they clash with our
hosts'.

How have I kept busy all this time?

For one thing, I've been learning to skim the ship's data-
base, extracting historical summaries of what's taken place
since the Great Printing. The distilled tale is a treat to a
born info hound like me.

And yet, I still can't get that big, mist-shrouded cube out
of my mind. Sometimes I hanker to sneak into that cold
room and ask questions of the Branch Library—a store-
house so great that the Biblos Archive might as well be a
primer for a two-year old.

On our way back from the surface I got to know Rety—the
irascible, proud human girl whose illegal tribe of savages
would have shaken the Commons with a sensational scan-
dal, in normal times. I also talked to Dwer the Hunter, who
I recall visiting Wuphon, a few years back. Dwer chatted
about his adventures while Physician Makanee treated his
wounds, till he fell into exhausted slumber. Soon Rety col-
lapsed, too, with her little "husband" curled alongside, a
slim urrish head draped across her chest.

382 David B rIn

For the most part, my job has been to umble.

Yeah, that's right. To umble for a noor.

My own pet, Huphu, doesn't know what to make of the
newcomer—the one called Mudfoot. On first spying him, ;

she hissed . . . and he hissed back, exactly like a regular
noor. It was such a normal reaction that I started to doubt
my own memory. Did I really hear and see Mudfoot tails!

My assigned task is to keep him happy till he decides to

talk again.

I guess I owe these people—Gillian Baskin and Tsh't and

the dolphins.

They saved us from the abyss . . . though maybe we

wouldn't have fallen at all, if it hadn't been for their inter-
ference.

They fixed my broken back . . . though it was injured

when they smashed Wuphon's Dream.

They turned a mere adventure into an epic ... but
won't let us go home for fear we'd tell the tale.

All right, dammit. I'll umble for the silly noor. He preens
and acts starved for sound anyway, after months with just

humans for company.

Up close I can sense a difference in him. I used to
glimpse the same thing now and then, in the eyes of a few [
strange noor lounging on the Port Wuphon docks.      I

A sleek arrogance.

A kind of lazy smugness.

The impression that he's in on a great joke. One you
won't figure out till there's egg all over your face.

I n f i n I r 11 ' s Shore 383

QUERY/INTERROGATIVE:

Is there similarity between their behavior and the way
you misled Me?

The way you rings have blurred so many of the waxy
memories we coinherited from Asx?

The way our union oscillates between grudging cooper-
ation and intermittent passive resistance?

It is enough to provoke unpleasant questions.

DON'T YOU LIKE BEING PART OF OUR MUCH-
IMPROVED SHARED WHOLE? OUR AMBITIOUS ONE-
NESS?

Yes, the majority of you claim gladness to be part of a
great Jophur entity, instead of a tepid traeki melange. But
can I/we really be sure that you/we love Me/us?

The question is, in itself, a possible symptom of mad-
ness. What naturally cojoined Jophur would allow itself to
entertain such doubts? The Polkjhy Priest-Stack predicted
this hybridization experiment would fail. The priest fore-
told it would be useless to impose a master torus onto
traeki rings already set in their ways.

A metaphor floats upward, along abused trails of half-
molten wax.

Are you trying to make a comparison, 0 second ring-of-
cognition?

Ah, yes. I/we see it.

Forging a noble Jophur out of disparate traeki cells
might seem like trying to tame a herd of wild beasts. It is
an apt analogy.

Too bad the metaphor does nothing to help solve My/
our problem.

P

Iw

wasx

HE HUMAN CAPTIVES SEEM OBDURATE, MY RINGS,
refusing to answer questions. Or else they obfuscate
with blatant lies.

WHAT SECRETS LIE BURIED in the melted areas? What
memories did the traeki High Sage purposely destroy, dur-
ing those stressful moments before Asx was converted? I/
we can tell, important evidence once glimmered in those
layers that lined our common core. Something Jophur were
not meant to know.

But know it we/I shall.

I must!

384 David B r i n

SUGGESTION:

Perhaps we can tear information out of these recently

seized humans.

The ones bearing the name attributes Lark, Ling, and

Rann.                                         \

REBUTTAL:

The Priest-Stack vents frustrated steam, upset to learn

how little data about Earthlings is contained in our ship- ,
board Library. We have many detailed prescriptions for I
truth serums or coercion drugs effective against other races
and species who are foes of the Great Jophur, but the
archives carry no record of any substance that is human-
specific. Our Library clearly needs updating, despite the '.
fact that it is a relatively new unit, less than a thousand '

years old.

One tactician stack, assigned to our shipboard planning

staff, proposed that we use interrogation techniques de-
signed against Tymbrimi. Those devil tricksters are close
allies of Earthlings, and appear similar in ways that go be-
yond bipedal locomotion. Trying out that suggestion, we
tried projecting psi-compulsion waves at the prisoners,
tuned to Tymbrimi empathic frequencies.

But the humans seemed deaf to the pulses, showing no

reaction at all.

Meanwhile, the Captain-Leader vents irate fumes—acrid

vapors that send all off-duty personnel fleeing from its

presence.

What is the cause of such rancor, My rings?

Recent news from beyond the nearby hills.
Bitter news confirming our fears.
Disaster to the east.

AT LAST, our remaining corvette reached the site where its
twin fell silent, two days ago. Aboard the Polkjhy, I/we all
stared in dismay at relayed images of devastation.

Hull wreckage lay sunk beneath swampy waters—the
son of marshland morass where a traeki might find it pleas-
ant to wallow while contemplating wax drippings, wind-
blown rain swept the area while searchers scanned for
survivors, but all they found were remnants—mostly sin-

1 n f I n i r u ' s Shore 385

gleton rings, reverting to a feral animal state, instinctively
gathering nests of rotting vegetation, as if they were no
more than primitive pretraeki.

Several of these surviving toruses were harvested. By
scraping their cores, we managed to download a few
blurry memory tracks. Enough to suggest that dolphins did
this deed, emerging from the sea to play havoc with our
brethren.

HOW WERE THEY ABLE TO DO THIS?

The downed corvette had reported defense systems
functional at a forty percent level. More than adequate, if
concentrated against just such a sortie by the desperate
Earthling quarry. Even amid a lightning-charged thunder-
storm, it should not have been possible for the cornered
prey to mount a surprise attack. Yet, not even an alarm
signal escaped our grounded boat before it was mysteri-
ously overwhelmed.

Again, doubts rise to disturb us. The wolflings are said to
be primitives, not much more capable than the sooner sav-
ages whose coward ancestors settled this world. Yet these
same Earthers have sent all Five Galaxies into turmoil, re-
peatedly escaping mighty fleets sent after them.

Perhaps it was a mistake for our Polkjhy ship commune
to take on this mission alone, with just our one mighty
battlecruiser to seize destiny for our kind.

SCENT RUMORS SPREAD THROUGH POLKJHY NOW, al-
leging the Captain-Leader was deficiently stacked. Subver-
sive pheromones suggest that flawed decision-processing
toruses brought us to this unsavory state. Our commander
was blinded by obsession with vengeance on the g'Kek,
ignoring higher priorities.

Furious to find mutinous molecules wafting through the
air ducts, our Captain-Leader seeks to overwhelm them
with his own chemical outpourings—a steamy concoction
of smoldering rejection. Perfumes of domineering essence
flood all decks.

What is it now, My ring?

386 David B r i n

Ah. Our second torus-of-cognition has come up with an-
other metaphor, this time comparing the Captain-Leader to
the skipper of a hoonish sailboat, who tries shouting down
his worried crew, using a loud voice to substitute for real

leadership.

Very interesting, My ring—making parallels between
alien behavior and Jophur ship politics. Such insights make
this irksome union seem almost worthwhile.

Unless . . .
Surely you do not ALSO apply this metaphor to your

own master ring?

Do not provoke Me. Be warned. It would be a mistake.

OUR PROBLEM REMAINS.

Unlike the tactician stacks, I/we do not attribute wolfling
success against our corvette to anomalous technology, or
luck. The timing was too coincidental. I am convinced the
dolphins knew exactly the right moment to attack, when
our attention was diverted by events close by.

CONCLUSION: The savage races MUST be in communi-
cation with the Earthship!

The captive humans deny knowing of any contact with
the dolphin ship. They claim their activities at the lake sur-
face were strictly a manifestation of interhuman dominance
struggles, having nothing to do with the prey ship.

They must be lying. Ways must be found to increase

their level of cooperation.

(If only I could lace their apelike cores with silvery fi-
bers, the way a master ring shows other components of a
stack how to cooperate in joyful oneness!)

We must, it seems, fall back on classic, barbarous interro-
gation techniques.

Shall we threaten the humans with bodily damage?
Shall we assail them with metaphysical torment?
Overruling My/our expertise, the Captain-Leader has de-
cided on a technique that is known to be effective against
numerous warm-blooded races.
We shall use atrocity.

s.

ara

TRAEKI UNGUENTS FILLED HER SINUSES WITH PLEAS-
ant numbness, as if she'd had several glasses of wine.
Sara felt the chemicals at work, chasing pain, making
room for herself to reemerge.

A day after rejoining the world, she let Emerson push her
wheelchair onto the stone veranda at Uriel the Smith's
sanctuary, watching dawn break over a phalanx of royal
peaks, stretching north and east. West of the mountains,
dusty haze muted the manicolored marvel of the Spectral
Plow, and the Plain of Sharp Sand beyond.

The view helped draw Sara's attention from the
handheld mirror on her lap—lent her by Uriel—which she
had examined all through breakfast. Jijo's broad vista made
clear Emerson's quiet sermon.

The world is bigger than all our problems.

Sara handed the looking glass over to the starman, who
performed sleight-of-hand motions, causing it to vanish up
one sleeve of his floppy gown. Emerson grinned when
Sara laughed out loud.

What's the point in dwelling on my stitches and scrapes,
she thought. Scars won't matter in the days to come. Any
survivors will scratch their living from the soil. Pretty
women won't have advantages. Tough ones will.

Or was this complacence another result of chemicals in
her veins? Potions tailored by Tyug, master alchemist of
Mount Guenn Forge. Jijo's traekis had learned a lot about
healing other races while qheuens, urs, hoons, and men
fought countless skirmishes before the Great Peace. In re-
cent years, texts from Biblos helped molecule maestros like
Tyug supplement practical lore with fresh insights, using
Anglic words like peptide and enzyme, reclaiming some of
the knowledge their settler ancestors had abandoned.

Only not by looking it up in some Library. Earthling texts
served as a starting point. A basis for fresh discoveries.

Which illustrated her controversial thesis. Six Races

388   D a v i d B r I n

climbing back upward, not via Redemption's Path, the
route their forebears used . . . but on a trail all our own.

Other examples filled the halls behind this stony para- !
pet, in workshops and labs where Uriel's staff labored near
lava heat, wresting secrets from nature. Despite her suffer- |
ing, Sara was glad to see more evidence on Mount Guenn
that Jijoan civilization had begun heading in new direc-
tions.

Until starsbips came.                                 \
Sara winced, recalling what they had witnessed last '

night, from this same veranda. She and her friends were
being regaled at a feast under the Stars, celebrating her
recovery. Hoonish sailors from the nearby seaport boomed [
festive ballads and Uriel's apprentices cavorted in an intri-
cate dance while diminutive husbands perched on their
backs, mimicking each twist and gyre. Gray qheuens, their
broad chitin shells embellished with gemstone cloisonne,
sculpted wicked impromptu caricatures of the party guests,
using their adroit mouths to carve statuettes of solid stone.

Even Uigor was allowed to take part, playing the violus,
drawing rich vibrato tones as Emerson joined in with his
dulcimer. The wounded starman had another unpredict-
able outburst of song, each verse pouring whole from

some recessed memory.

"In a cottage of Fife,
lived a man and wife,

who, believe me, were comical folk;

For to people's surprise,
they both saw with their eyes,

and their tongues moved whenever

they spoke!"

Then, as the feast was hitting its stride, there came a rude
interruption. Staccato flashes lit the northwest horizon, out-
lining the distant bulk of Blaze Mountain, drawing every-
one to the balcony rim.

Duras passed before sounds arrived, smeared by dis-
tance to murmuring growls. Sara pictured lightning and
thunder—like the storm that had drenched the badlands
lately, drumming at her pain-soaked delirium. But then a

f i n i r i| 's Shore  389

chill coursed her spine, and she felt glad to have Emerson
nearby. Some apprentices counted intervals separating
each flash from its long-retarded echo.

Young Jomah voiced her own thoughts.

"Uncle, is Blaze Mountain erupting?"

Kurt's face had been gaunt and bleak. But it was Uriel
who answered, shaking her long head.

"No, lad. It's not an erufshun. I think ..."

She peered across the poison desert.

"I think it is Ovoon Town."

Kurt found his voice. The words were grim.

"Detonations. Sharp. Well-defined. Bigger than my guild
could produce."

Realization quenched all thought of revelry. The biggest
city on the Slope was being razed, and they could only
watch, helplessly. Some prayed to the Holy Egg. Others
muttered hollow vows of vengeance. Sara heard one per-
son explain dispassionately why the outrage was taking
place on a clear night—so the violence would be visible
from much of the Slope, a demonstration of irresistible
power.

Awed by the lamentable spectacle, Sara had been inca-
pable of coherent thought. What filled her mind were im-
ages of mothers—hoonish mothers, g'Kek mothers,
humans, and even haughty qheuen queens—clutching
their children as they abandoned flaming, collapsing
homes. The visions stirred round her brain like a cyclone
of ashes, till Emerson gave her a double dose of traeki
elixir.

Dropping toward a deep, dreamless sleep, she had one
last thought.

Thank God that I never accepted Sage Taine's proposal
of marriage. . . . I might have had a child of my own by
now.

This is no time . . . to allow so deep a love.

Now, by daylight, Sara found her mind functioning as it
had before her accident—rapidly and logically. She was
even able to work out a context for last night's calamity.
fop and Dedinger will preach we should never have had

390 David B r i n

cities in the first place. They'll say the Galactics did us a
favor by destroying Ovoom Town.

Sara recalled legends her mother used to read aloud,
from books of folklore covering many pre-contact Earth-
ling traditions. Most Earth cultures told sagas of some pur-
ported golden age in the past, when people knew more.
When they had more wisdom and power.

Many myths went on to describe angry gods, vengefully
toppling the works of prideful mortals, lest men and
women think themselves worthy of the sky. No credible
evidence ever supported such tales, yet the story seemed
so common it must reflect something deep and dour within

the human psyche.

Maybe my personal heresy was always a foolish dream,
and my notion of "progress" based on concocted evidence.
Even if Uriel and others had begun to embark on a differ-
ent path, the point seems moot now.

Dedinger proved right, after all.

As in those legends, the gods have resolved to pound us
down.

Confirmation of the outrage came later by semaphore—the
same system of flashing mirrors that had surprised Sara
days ago, when a stray beam caught her eye during the
steep climb from XL Using a code based on simplified
GalTwo, the jittering signal followed a twisty route from
one Rimmer peak to the next, carrying clipped reports of
devastation by the River Gentt.

Then, a few miduras later, an eyewitness arrived, swoop-
ing out of the sky like some fantastic beast of fable, landing
on Uriel's stone parapet. A single human youth emerged
beneath shuddering wings, unstrapping himself after a dar-
ing journey across the wide desert, skimming from one
thermal updraft to the next in a feat that would have
caused a sensation during normal times.

But heroism and miraculous deeds are routine during
war, Sara thought, as crowds gathered around the young
man. His limbs trembled with exhaustion as he peeled off
the rewq that had protected his eyes above the Spectral

I n f i n i r 11 ' s Shore 391

Flow. He gave the Smith a militia salute when Uriel trotted
out of the workshop grottoes.

"Before attacking Ovoom Town, the Jophur issued a
two-part ultimatum," he explained in a hoarse voice.
"Their first demand is that all g'Keks and traekis must head
to special gathering zones."

Uriel blew air through her nostril fringe, a resigned blast,
as if she had expected something along these lines.

"And the second fortion of the ultinatun?"

She had to wait for her answer. Kepha, the horsewoman
from Xi, arrived bearing a glass of water, which the pilot
slurped gratefully, letting streams run down his chin. Most
urrish eyes turned from the unpleasant sight. But Uriel
stared patiently till he finished.

"Go on," she prompted again, when the youth handed
the empty glass back to Kepha with a smile.

"Um," he resumed. "The Jophur insist that the High
Sages must give up the location of the dolphin ship."

"The dolphin shif?" Uriel's hooves clattered on the flag-
stones. "We heard vague stories of this thing. Gossif and
conflicting hints told vy the Rothen. Have the Jophur now
revealed what it's all avout?"

The courier tried to nod, only now Tyug had come for-
ward, gripping the youth's head with several tentacles. He
winced as the traeki alchemist secreted ointment for his
sun- and windburns.

"It seems . . . Hey, watch it!" He pushed at the ada-
mant tendrils, then tried ignoring the traeki altogether.

"It seems these dolphins are the prey that brought both
the Rothen and the Jophur to Galaxy Four in the first place.
What's more, the Jophur say the sages must be in contact
with the Earthling ship. Either we give up its location, or
face more destruction, starting with Tarek Town, then
lesser hamlets, until no building is left standing."

Kurt shook his head. "They're bluffin'. Even Galactics
couldn't find all our wood structures, hidden under blur
cloth."

The courier seemed less sure. "There are fanatics every-
where who think the end is here. Some believe the Jophur
are agents of destiny, come to set us back on the Path. All
such fools need do is start a fire somewhere near a build-

392 David B r i n

ing and throw some phosphorus on the flame. The Jophur
can sniff the/signal using their rainbow finder."

Rainbow finder . . . Sara pondered. Oh, he means a

spectrograph.

Jomah was aghast. "People would do that?"
"It's already happened in a few places. Some folks have
taken their local explosers hostage, forcing them to set off
their charges. Elsewhere, the Jophur have established base
camps, staffed by a dozen stacks and thirty or so robots,
gathering nearby citizens for questioning." His tone was
bleak. "You people don't know how lucky you have it

here."

Yet Sara wondered. How could the High Sages possibly

give in to such demands? The g'Kek weren't being taken
off-planet in order to restore their star-god status. As for the
traeki, death might seem pleasant compared with the fate

planned for them.

Then there was the "dolphin ship." Even the learned
Uriel could only speculate if the High Sages truly were in
contact with a bunch of fugitive Terran clients.

Perhaps it was emotional fatigue, or a lingering effect of
Tyug's drug, but Sara's attention drifted from the litany of
woes recited by the pilot. When he commenced describing
the destruction and death at Ovoom, Sara steered her
wheelchair to join Emerson, standing near the courier's

glider.

The starman stroked its lacy wings and delicate spars,

beaming with appreciation of its ingenious design. At first
Sara thought it must be the same little flier she had seen
displayed in a Biblos museum case—the last of its kind, left
over from those fabled days just after the Tabernacle ar-
rived, when brave aerial scouts helped human colonists
survive their early wars. Over time, the art had been lost for
lack of high-tech materials.

But this machine is new!

Sara recognized g'Kek weaving patterns in the fine fab-
ric, which felt slick to the touch.

"It is a traeki secretion," explained Tyug, having also
abandoned the crowd surrounding the young messenger.
The alchemist shared Emerson's preference for physical
things, not words.

Infinifii's Shore 393

"i/we sample-tasted a thread. The polymer is a clever
filamentary structure based on mule fiber. No doubt it will
find other uses in piduras to come, as our varied schemes
converge."

There it was again. Hints of a secret stratagem. A scheme
no one had yet explained, though Sara was starting to have

suspicions.

"Forgive us/me for interrupting your contemplation,
honored Saras and Emersons," Tyug went on. "But a scent
message has just activated receptor sites on my/our fifth
sensory torus. The simplified meaning is that Sage Purofsky
desires your presences, in proximity to his own."

Sara translated Tyug's awkward phrasing.

In other words, no more goofing off. It's time to get back
to work.

Back to Uriel's den of mysteries.

Sara saw that the Smith had already departed, along with
Kurt, leaving Chief Apprentice Urdonnol to finish de-
briefing the young pilot. Apparently, even such dire news
was less urgent than the task at hand.

Calculating problems in orbital mechanics, Sara pon-
dered. / still don't see bow that will help get us out of this
fix.

She caught Emerson's eye, and with some reluctance he
turned away from the glider. But when the star voyager
bent over Sara to tuck in the corners of her lap blanket, he
made eye contact and shared an open smile. Then his
strong hands aimed her wheelchair down a ramp into the
mountain, toward Uriel's fantastic Hall of Spinning Disks.

I feel like a g'Kek, rolling along. Perhaps all humans
should spend a week confined like this, to get an idea what
life is like for others.

It made her wonder how the g'Kek used to move about
in their "natural" environment. According to legend, those
were artificial colonies floating in space. Strange places,
where many of the assumptions of planet-bound existence
did not hold.

Emerson skirted ruts countless generations of urrish
hooves had worn in the stone floor. He picked up the pace
when they passed a vent pouring fumes from the main •

394 David B r i n

forge, keeping his body between her and waves of vol-
canic heat.
In fact, Sara was almost ready to resume walking on her

own. But it felt strangely warming to wallow for a time in

their reversed roles.

She had to admit, he was good at it. Maybe he had a

good teacher.

Normally, Prity would have been the one pushing Sara's
chair. But the little chimp was busy, perched on a high
stool in Uriel's sanctuary with a pencil clutched in one
furry hand, drawing arcs across sheets of ruled graph pa-
per. Beyond Prity's work easel stretched a vast under-
ground chamber filled with tubes, pulleys, and disks, all
linked by gears and leather straps—a maze of shapes
whirling on a timber frame, reaching all the way up to a
vaulted ceiling. In the sharp glare of carboacetylene lan-
terns, tiny figures could be seen scurrying about the scaf-
folding, tightening and lubricating—nimble urrish males,
among the first ever to find useful employment outside
their wives' pouches, earning a good income by tending

the ornate "hobby" of Uriel the Smith.

When Sara first saw the place, squinting through her fe-
ver, she had thought it a dream vision of hell. Then a won-
drous thing happened. The spinning glass shapes began

singing to her.

Not in sound, but light. As they turned, rolling their rims

against one another, narrow beams reflected from mirrored
surfaces, glittering like winter moonbeams on the count-
less facets of a frozen waterfall. Only there was more to it
than mere gorgeous randomness. Patterns. Rhythms. Some
flashes came and went with the perfect precision of a
clock, while others performed complex, wavelike cycles,
like rolling surf. With the fey sensitivity of a bared subcon-
scious, she had recognized an overlapping harmony of
shapes. Ellipses, parabolas, catenaries ... a nonlinear

serenade of geometry.

It's a computer, she had realized, even before regaining

the full faculties of her searching mind. And for the first

Infinifii's Shore 395

time since departing her Dolo Village tree house, she had
felt at home.

It is another world.

My world.

Mathematics.

aae

HE MIGHT HAVE STAYED DOWN LONGER. BUT AFTER
three or four miduras, the air in his leg bladders started
growing stale. Even a full-size blue qheuen needs to
breathe at least a dozen times a day. So by the time filtered
sunlight penetrated to his murky refuge, Blade knew he
must abandon the cool river bottom that had sheltered him
through the night's long firestorm. He fought the Gentt's
current, digging all five claws into the muddy bank, climb-
ing upward till at last it was possible to raise his vision
cupola above the water's smeary surface.

It felt as if he had arrived at damnation day.

The fabled towers of Ovoom Town had survived the
deconstruction age, then half a million years of wind and
rain. Vanished were the sophisticated machines' that made
it a vibrant Galactic outpost. Those had been taken long
ago by the departing Buyur, along with nearly every win-
dowpane. Yet, even despite ten thousand gaping open-
ings, the surviving shells had been luxury palaces to the six
exile races—providing room for hundreds of apartments
and workshops—all linked by shrewd wooden bridges,
ramps, and camouflage lattices.

Now only a few jagged stumps protruded through a
haze of dust and soot. Sunshine beat down from a glaring
sky, showing how futile every cautious effort at conceal-
ment had been.

Picking his way along the riverbank, now cluttered with
blocks of shattered stone, Blade encountered a more grue-
some kind of debris—bodies floating in back eddies of the
river, along with varied dismembered parts . . . biped
limbs, g'Kek wheels, and traeki toruses. In the qheuen

396   0 a v i d B r i n

manner, he did not wince or experience revulsion while
claw-stepping past the drifting corpses, but hoped that
someone would organize a collection of the remains for
proper mulching. Little was gained by maundering over

the dead.                                •            j
Blade felt more disturbed by the chaos at the docks, ;

where several collapsing spires had fallen across the river-
side piers and warehouses. Not a single ship or coracle

appeared untouched.

Pausing to watch one crew of disconsolate boons ex- I

amine their once-beautiful craft, Blade felt a brief surge of
hope when he recognized the ship, and saw its gleaming
wooden hull had survived intact! Then he realized—all the
masts and rigging were gone. Bubbles of disappointment

escaped three of five leg vents.

Just yesterday, Blade had booked passage aboard that
vessel. Now he might as well toss the paper ticket from his
moisture pouch to join the other flotsam drifting out to sea.
Much of that dross had been alive till last night, when
the starry sky lit up with the spectacle of a Galactic god
ship, arriving well ahead of its own shock wave, announc-;

ing its sudden arrival instead with a blare of braking en-
gines. Then it glided a complacent circle above Ovoom
Town, as gracefully imperturbable as a fat, predatory fish.
The sight had struck Blade as both beautiful and terrible. ,
At last, an amplified voice boomed forth, declaring a
ritual ultimatum in a dense, traekilike dialect of Galactic;

Two.

Blade had already been through too many adventures to

stand and gawk. The lesson taught by experience was sim-
pie—when someone much bigger and nastier than you i
starts making threats, get out! He barely listened to the roar'
of alien words as he joined an exodus of the prudent. Rac- •
ing toward the river, Blade made it with kiduras to spare, j

Even when ten meters of turbulent brown liquid layi
overhead, he could not shut out what followed. Searing:

blasts, harsh flashes, and screams,                      i

Especially the screams.                            |
Now, under the sun of a new day, Blade found all the I

concept facets of his mind overwhelmed by a scene of
havoc. The biggest population center on the Slope, a once-

n f i n i r u's Shore 397

vibrant community of art and commerce, lay in complete
ruins. At the center of devastation, buildings had not sim-
ply been toppled, but pulverized to a fine dust that trailed
eastward, riding the prevailing breeze.

Had similar evil already befallen Tarek Town, where the
pleasant green Roney met the icy Bibur? Or Dolo Village,
whose fine dam sheltered the prosperous hive of his aunts
and mothers? Though Blade had grown up near humans,
he now found that stress drove Anglic out of his mind. For
now, the logic of his private thoughts worked better in
Galactic Six.

My situation—it seems hopeless.

To Mount Guenn—there is no longer a path by ocean
ship.

With Sara and the others—I cannot now rendezvous.

So much for my promise . . . So much for my vow.

Other qheuens were rising out of the water nearby, their
cupolas bobbing to the surface like a scattering of corks.
Some venturesome blues had already reached the ruined
streets ahead of Blade, offering their strong backs and
claws to assist rescue parties, searching through the rubble
of fallen towers for survivors. He also saw a few reds and
several giant grays, who must have somehow survived the
night of horrors without a freshwater refuge. Some ap-
peared wounded and all were dust-coated, but they set to
work alongside hoons, humans, and others.

A qheuen feels uneasy without a duty to fulfill. Some
obligation that can be satisfied, like a scratched itch,
through service. On the original race homeworld, gray ma-
trons used to exploit that instinct ruthlessly. But Jijo had
changed things, promoting a different kind of fealty. Alle-
giance to more than a particular hive or queen.

Seeing no chance that he could accomplish his former
goal and catch up with Sara, Blade consciously rearranged
his priority facets, assigning himself a new short-term
agenda.

Corpses meant nothing to him. He was unmoved by the
dead majority of Ovoom Town. Yet he roused his bulk,
pumping five legs into rapid motion, rushing to help those
left with a spark of life.

398 David B r i n

Survivors and rescuers picked through the wreckage with
exaggerated care, as if each overturned stone might con-
ceal danger.

Like most settlements, this one had been mined by a

chapter of the Explosers Guild, preparing the city for delib-
erate razing if ever the long-prophesied Judgment Day ar-
rived. But when it finally came, the manner was not as
foreseen by the scrolls. There were no serene, dispassion-
ate officials from the great Institutes, ordaining evacuation
and tidy demolition, then weighing the worth of each race
by how far it had progressed along the Path of Redemp-
tion. Instead there had poured down an abrupt and cruelly
impartial cascade of raging flame, efficient only at killing,
igniting some of the carefully placed charges that the exp-
losers had reverently tended for generations . . . and
leaving others smoldering like booby traps amid the de-
bris.

When the explosers' local headquarters blew up, a huge

fireball had risen so high that it briefly licked the under-
belly of the Jophur corvette, forcing a hurried retreat. Even
now, several miduras after the attack, delayed blasts still
rocked random parts of town, disrupting mercy efforts, set-
ting rubble piles tottering.

Matters improved when urrish volunteers from a nearby
caravan galloped into town. With their sensitive nostrils,
the urs sniffed for both unexploded charges and living
flesh. They proved especially good at finding unconscious
or hidden humans, whose scent they found pungent.

Miduras of hard labor merged into a blur. By late after-
noon, Blade was still at it, straining on a rope, helping clear
the stubborn obstruction over a buried basement. The res-
cue team's ad hoc leader, a hoonish ship captain, boomed

out rhythmic commands.

"Hr-r-rm, now pull, -friends' . . . Again, it's coming!

. . . And again'."
Blade staggered as the stone block finally gave way. A

pair of nimble lorniks and a lithe chimpanzee dived
through the exposed opening, and soon dragged out a
g'Kek with two -smashed wheel rims. The braincase was
intact, however, and all four eyestalks waved a dance of
astounded gratitude. The survivor looked young and

I n f i n i r 4 ' s Shore 399

strong. Rims could be repaired, and spokes would reweave
all by themselves.

But where will he live until then? Blade wondered,
knowing that g'Keks preferred city life, not the nearby jun-
gle where many of Ovoom's citizens had fled. Will it be a
world worth rolling back to, or one filled with Jophur-de-
signed viruses and hunter robots, programmed to satisfy
an ancient vendetta?

The work crew was about to resume its unending task
when a shrill cry escaped the traeki who had been as-
signed lookout duty, perched on a nearby rubble pile with
its ring-of-sensors staring in all directions at once.

"Observe! All selves, alertly turn your attentions in the
direction indicated!"

A pair of tentacles aimed roughly south and west. Blade
lifted his heavy carapace and tried bringing his cupola to
bear, but it was dust-coated and he had no water to clean
it. If only qheuens had been blessed with better eyesight.

By Ifni, right now I'd settle for tear ducts.

An object swam into view, roughly spherical, moving
languidly above the forested horizon, as if bobbing like a
cloud. Lacking any perspective for such a strange sight,
Blade could not tell at first how big it was. Perhaps the
titanic Jophur battleship had come, instead of dispatching
its little brother! Were the Jophur returning to finish the job?
Blade remembered tales of Galactic war weapons far
worse than the corvette had used last night. Weapons capa-
ble of melting a continent's crust. A mere river would
prove no refuge, if the aliens meant to use such tools.

But no. He saw the globelike surface ripple in an un-
steady breeze. It appeared to be made of fabric, and much
smaller than he had thought.

Two more globelike forms followed the leader into
view, making a threesome convoy. Blade instinctively
switched organic filters in his cupola, observing them in
infrared. At once he saw that each flying thing carried a
sharp heat glow beneath, suspended by cables from the
globe itself.

Others standing nearby—those with sharper eyesight—
passed through several reactions. First anxious dread, then

400   D a v i d B f i n

puzzlement, and finally a kind of joyful wonder they ex-
pressed with shrill laughter or deep, umbling tones.       |
"What is it?" asked a nearby red qheuen, even more '

dust-blind than Blade.

"I think—" Blade began to answer. But then a human

cut in, shading his eyes with both hands.

"They're balloons! By Drake and Ur-Chown . . .

they're hot air balloons!"

A short time later, even the qheuens could make out
shapes hung beneath the bulging gasbags. Urrish figures
standing in wicker baskets, tending fires that intermittently
flared with sudden, near-volcanic heat. Blade then realized
who had come, as if out of the orange setting sun.

The smiths of Blaze Mountain must have seen last night's
calamity from their nearby mountain sanctum. The smiths
were coming to help succor their neighbors.

It seemed blasphemous, in a strange way. For the Sacred
Scrolls had always spoken of doom arriving from the fear-
some open sky.

Now it seemed the cloudless heavens could also bring

virtue.

HE WAS TOO BUSY NOW TO FEEL RACKED WITH
conscience pangs. As commotion at the secret base
neared a fever pitch, Lester had no time left for wal- |
lowing in guilt. There were slurry tubes to inspect—a pipe- i
line threading its meandering way through the boo forest, '
carrying noxious fluids from the traeki synthesis gang to
tall, slender vats where it congealed into a paste of chemi- |

cally constrained hell.                                  !
Lester also had to approve a new machine for winding
league after league of strong fiber cord around massive j
trunks of greatboo, multiplying their strength a thousand- |

fold.

Then there was the matter of kindling beetles. One of his

assistants had found a new use for an old pest—a danger-

1 n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 401

ous, Buyur-modified insect that most Sixers grew up loath-
ing, but one that might now solve an irksome technical
problem. The idea seemed promising, but needed more
tests before being incorporated in the plan.

Piece by piece, the scheme progressed from Wild-Eyed
Fantasy all the way to Desperate Gamble. In fact, a local
hoonish bookie was said to be covering bets at only sixty
to one against eventual success—the best odds so far.

Of course, each time they overcame a problem, it was
replaced by three more. That was expected, and Lester
even came to look upon the growing complexity as a
blessing. Keeping busy was the only effective way to fight
off the same images that haunted his mind, replaying over
and over again.

A golden mist, falling on Dooden Mesa. Only immersion
in work could drive out the keening cries of g'Kek citizens,
trapped by poison rain pouring from a Jophur cruiser.

A cruiser he had carelessly summoned, by giving in to
his greatest vice—curiosity.

"Do not blame yourself Lester," Ur-Jah counseled in a
dialect of GalSeven. "The enemy would have found
Dooden soon anyway. Meanwhile, your research harvested
valuable information. It helped lead to cures for the
qheuen and hoonish plagues. Life consists of trade-offs, my
friend."

Perhaps. Lester admitted things might work that way on
paper. Especially if you assumed, as many did, that the
poor g'Kek were doomed anyway.

That kind of philosophy comes easier to the urrish, who
know that only a fraction of their offspring can or should
survive. We humans wail for a lifetime if we lose a son or
daughter. If we find urs callous, it's good to recall how
absurdly sentimental we seem to them.

Lester tried to think like an urs.

He failed.

Now came news from the commandos who so bravely
plumbed the lake covering the Glade of Gathering. Ser-
geant Jeni Shen reported partial success, freeing some
Daniks from their trapped ship . . . only to lose others to
the Jophur, including the young heretic sage, Lark Kool-
han. A net loss, as far as Lester was concerned.

402   D a v i d B f i n

What might the aliens be doing to poor Lark right now?
I never should have agreed to his dangerous plan.
Lester realized, he did not have the temperament to be a
war leader. He could not spend people, like fuel for a fire,

even as a price for victory.

When all this was over, assuming anyone survived, he

planned to resign from the Council of Sages and become
the most reclusive scholar in Biblos, creeping like a specter
past dusty shelves of ancient tomes. Or else he might re-
sume his old practice of meditation in the narrow Canyon
of the Blessed, where life's cares were known to vanish
under a sweet ocean of detached oblivion.

It sounded alluring—a chance to retreat from life.
But for now, there was simply too much to do.

The council seldom met anymore.

Phwhoon-dau, who had made a lifelong study of the
languages and ways of fabled Galactics, had responsibility
for negotiating with the Jophur. Unfortunately, there
seemed little to haggle about. Just futile pleading for the
invaders to change their many-ringed minds. Phwhoon-
dau sent repeated entreaties to the toroidal aliens, pro-
testing that the High Sages knew nothing about the
much-sought "dolphin ship."

Believe us, 0 great Jophur lords, the hoonish sage im-
plored. We have no secret channel of communication with
your prey. The events you speak of were all unrelated . . .

a series of coincidences.
But the Jophur were too angry to believe it.

In attempting to negotiate, Phwhoon-dau was advised by
Chorsh, the new traeki representative. But that replace-
ment for Asx the Wise had few new insights to offer. As a
member of the Tarek Town Explosers Guild, Chorsh was a
valued technician, not an expert on distant Jophur cousins.
What Chorsh did have was a particularly useful talent—a

summoning torus.
Shifting summer winds carried the traeki's scent message

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 403

all over the Slope—a call from Chorsh to all qualified ring
stacks.

Come . . . come now to where you/we  are
needed. . . .

• Hundreds of them already stood in single file, a chain of
fatty heaps that stretched on for nearly a league, winding
amid the gently bending trunks of boo. Each volunteer
squatted on its own feast of decaying matter that work
crews kept stoked, like feeding logs to a steam engine.
Chuffing and smoking from exertion, the chem-synth gang
dripped glistening fluids into makeshift troughs made of
split and hollowed saplings, contributing to a trickle that
eventually became a rivulet of foul-smelling liquor.

Immobile and speechless, they hardly looked like sen-
tient beings. More like tall, greasy beehives, laid one after
another along a twisty road. But that image was deceiving.
Lester saw swathes of color flash across the body of one
nearby traeki—a subtle interplay of shades that rippled first
between the stack's component rings, as if they were hold-
ing conversations among themselves. Then the pattern co-
alesced, creating a unified shape of light and shadows at
the points that lay nearest to the traeki's neighbors, on
either side. Those stacks, in turn, responded with changes
in their own surfaces.

Lester recognized the wavelike motif—traeki laughter.
The workers were sharing jokes, among their own rings
and from stack to stack.

They are the strangest of the Six, Lester thought. And yet
we understand them . . . and they, us.

I doubt even the sophisticates of the Five Galaxies can
say the same thing about the Jophur. Out there, none of
their advanced science could achieve what we have simply
by living next to traeki, day in and day out.

It was pretty crude humor, Lester could tell. Many of
these workers were pharmacists, back in their home vil-
lages all over the Slope. The one nearest Lester had been
speculating about alternative uses of the stuff they were
making—perhaps how it might also serve as a cure for the
perennial problem of hoonish constipation . . . especially
if accompanied by liberal applications of heat. . . .

At least that was how Lester interpreted the language of

David B r i n

404

color. He was far from expert in its nuances. Anyway, these
workers were welcome to a bit of rough-edged drollery.
Their hard labor lasted day in, day out, and still production

lagged behind schedule.

But more traeki arrived with each passing midura, fol-
lowing the scent trail emitted by their sage.

Now we have to hope that the Jophur are too advanced
and urbane to use the same technique, and trace our loca-
tion by reading the winds.

The qheuen sage, Knife-Bright Insight, bore all the duties
of civil administration on her broad blue back.

There were refugees to relocate, food supplies to orga-
nize, and militia units to dispatch, quashing outbreaks of
civil war among the Six. One clear success came lately in
subduing foreign plagues, duplicating the samples Jeni
Shen brought from the Glade Lake, then using a new net-
work of glider couriers to distribute vaccines.

Yet despite such successes, the social fabric of the Com-
mons continued dissolving. News arrived telling of sooner
bands departing across the official boundaries of the Slope,
seeking to escape the doom threatened for the Six Races.
The Warril Plain was aflame with fighting among hot-tem-
pered urrish clans. And more bad news kept rolling in.

Recent reports told of several hives of Gray Queens de-
claring open secession from the Commons, asserting sover-
eignty over their ancient domains. Spurred by the
devastation of Ovoom Town, some rebel princesses even
rejected their own official High Sage.

"We accept no guidance from a mere blue, " came word
from one gray hive, snubbing Knife-Bright Insight and res-
urrecting ancient bigotry.

"Come give us advice when you have a real name."
Of course no red or blue qheuen ever used a name, as
such. It was cruel and haughty to mention the handicap,
inherited from ancient days and other worlds.

Worse, rumors claimed that some gray hives had started
negotiating with the Jophur on their own.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 405

A crisis can tear us apart, or draw us together.

Lester checked on the mixed team of qheuens and
hoons who were erecting spindly scaffolding around se-
lected spires of greatboo. Only a small fraction of the des-
ignated trunks had been trimmed and readied, but the
crews were getting better at their unfamiliar task. Some
qheuens brought expertise learned from their grandmoth-
ers, who in olden times used to maintain fearsome cat-
apults at Tarek Town, dominating two rivers until a great
siege toppled that ancient reign.

So much activity might be detectable by prying sky eyes.
But taller trunks surrounded each chosen one, drowning
the tumult in a vast sea of Brobdingnagian grass.

Or so we hope.

Guiding the work, urrish and human craft workers pored
over ancient designs found in a single rare Biblos text,
dating from pre-contact days, dealing with an obscure
wolfling technology that no Galactic power had needed or
used for a billion years. Side by side, men and women
joined their urs colleagues, adapting the book's peculiar
concepts, translating its strange recipes to native materials
and their own cottage skills.

Conditions were spartan. Many volunteers had already
suffered privation, hiking great distances along steep
mountain trails to reach this tract of tall green columns,
stretching like a prairie as far as any eye could see.

All recruits shared a single motive—finding a way for the
Commons of Six Races to fight back.

Amid the shouting throng, it was Ur-Jah who brought
order out of chaos, galloping from one site to the next,
making sure the traeki synthesists had food and raw mate-
rial, and that every filament was wound tight. Of all the
High Sages, Ur-Jah was most qualified to share Lester's job
of supervision. Her pelt might be ragged with age and her
brood pouches dry, but the mind in that narrow skull was
sharp—and more pragmatic than Lester's had ever been.

Of the High Sages, that left only Vubben.

Judicious and knowing. Deep in perception. Leader of a
sept that had been marked long ago for destruction by foes

avid B r i n

406   0

J[V/V/            —   —    -     .

who never forgot, and never gave up. Among Jijo's exile
races, Vubben's folk had been first to brave Izmunuti's stiff-
ening winds, seeking Jijo's bright shoal almost two thou-
sand years ago.

The wheeled g'Kek—both amiable and mysterious.

Neighborly, if weird.

Elfin but reliable.

Faceless, yet as open as a book.

How lessened the universe would be without them!

Despite their difficulty on rough trails, some g'Kek had
made it to this remote mountain base, laboring to weave
fabric, or applying their keen eyes to the problem of mak-
ing small parts. Yet their own sage was nowhere in sight.

Vubben had gone south, to a sacred place dangerously
near the Jophur ship. There, he was attempting in secret to

commune with Jijo's highest power.

Lester worried about his wise friend with the squeaky

axles, venturing down there all alone.

But someone has to do it.

Soon we'll know if we have been fools all along ... or
if we've put our faith in something deserving of our love.

lallon

la

» DOMAIN OF BLINDING WHITENESS MARKED THE
border of the Spectral Flow, where that slanting shelf of
radiant stone abruptly submerged beneath an ocean of
sparkling grains. North of this point commenced a different
kind of desert—one that seemed less hard on the brain and
eyes, but just as unforgiving. A desert where hardy life-
forms dwelled.

Dangerous life-forms.

The escaped heretic's footprints transformed as they

crossed the boundary. No longer did they glow, each with
a unique lambency of oil-slick colors, telling truths and
lies. Plunging ahead without pause, the tracks became
mere impressions on the Plain of Sharp Sand—indenta-
tions that grew blurrier as gusty winds stroked the dunes—

Infinirii's Shore 407

revealing only that someone recently came this way, a hu-
manoid biped, favoring his left leg with a limp.

Fallen could tell one more thing—the hiker had been in
an awful hurry.

"We can't follow anymore," he told his young compan-
ions. "Our mounts are spent, and this is Dedinger's realm.
He knows it better than we do."

Reza and Pahna stared at the sandy desert, no less dis-
mayed than he. But the older one dissented—a sturdy red-
head with a rifle slung over her shoulder.

"We must go on. The heretic knows everything. If he
reaches his band of ruffians, they'll soon follow him back
to Xi, attacking us in force. Or else he might trade our
location to the aliens. The man must be stopped!"

Despite her vehemence, Fallen could tell Reza's heart
was heavy. For several days they had chased Dedinger
across the wasteland they knew—a vast tract of laminated
rock so poisonous, a sliver under the skin might send you
into thrashing fever. A place almost devoid of life, where
daylight raised a spectacle of unlikely marvels before any
unprotected eye—waterfalls and fiery pits, golden cities
and fairy dust. Even night offered no rest, for moonbeams
alone could make an unwary soul shiver as ghost shadows
flapped at the edge of sight. Such were the terrible won-
ders of the Spectral Plow—in most ways a harsher territory
than the mundane desert just ahead. So harsh that few
Jijoans ever thought to explore its fringes, allowing the se-
cret of Xi to remain safe.

Reza was right to fear the consequences, should Ded-
inger make good his escape—especially if the fanatic man-
aged to reforge his alliance with the horse-hating clan of
urrish cultist.s called the Urunthai. The fugitive should have
succumbed to the unfamiliar dangers of the Flow by now.
The three pursuers had expected to catch up with him
yesterday, if not the day before.

It's my fault, Fallen thought. / was too complacent. Too
deliberate. My old bones can't take a gallop and I would
not let the women speed on without me.

Who would guess Dedinger could ride so well after so
little practice, driving his stolen horse with a mixture of

408 David B r i n

care and utter brutality, so the poor beast expired just two
leagues short of this very boundary?

Even after that, his jogging pace kept the gap between
them from closing fast enough. While the Illias preserved
their beloved mares, the madman managed to cross
ground that should have killed him first.

We are chasing a strong, resourceful adversary. I'd
rather face a hoonish ice hermit, or even a Gray Cham-
pion, than risk this fellow with bis back cornered against a

dune.
Of course Dedinger must eventually run out of reserves,

pushing himself to the limit. Perhaps the man lay beyond
the next drift, sprawled in exhausted stupor.

Well, it did no harm to hope.

"All right." Fallen nodded. "We'll go. But keep a sharp
watch. And be ready to move quick if I say so. We'll follow
the trail till nightfall, then head back whether he's brought

down or not."

Reza and Pahna agreed, nudging their horses to follow.
The animals stepped onto hot sand without enthusiasm,
laying their ears back and nickering unhappily. Color-blind
and unimaginative, their breed was largely immune to the
haunting mirages of the Spectral Plow, but they clearly dis-
liked this realm of glaring brightness. Soon, the three hu-
mans removed their rewq symbionts, pulling the living
veils from over their eyes, trading them for urrish-made
dark glasses with polarized coatings made of stretched fish

membranes.

Ifni, this is a horrid place, Fallen thought, leaning left in

his saddle to make out the renegade's tracks. But Dedinger

is at home here.

In theory, that should not matter. Before ceding the posi-
tion to his apprentice, Dwer, Fallen had been chief scout
for the Council of Sages—an expert who supposedly knew
every hectare of the Slope. But that was always an exagger-
ation. Oh, he had spent some time on this desert, getting to
know the rugged, illiterate men who kept homes under
certain hollow dunes, making their hard living by spear
hunting and sifting for spica granules.

But I was much younger in those days, long before Ded-
inger began preaching to the sandmen, flattering and con-

1 n f i n i r u ' s Shore 409

vincing them of their righteous perfection. Their role as
leaders, blazing a way for humanity down the Path of
Redemption.

I'd be a, fool to think I still qualify as a "scout" in this
terrain.

Sure enough, Fallen was taken by surprise when their
trail crossed a stretch of booming sand.

The fugitive's footprints climbed up the side of a dune,
following an arc that would have stressed the mounts to
follow. Fallon decided to cut inside of Dedinger's track,
saving time and energy . . . but soon the sandy surface
ceased cushioning the horse's hoofbeats. Instead, low
groans echoed with each footfall, resonating like the sound
of tapping on a drum. Cursing, he reined back. As an ap-
prentice he once took a dare to jump in the center of a
booming dune, and was lucky when it did not collapse
beneath him. As it was, he spent the next pidura nursing an

aching skull that kept on ringing from the reverberations
he set off.

After laborious backtracking, they finally got around the

obstacle.

Now Dedinger knows we're still after him. Fallon chided
himself. Concentrate, dammit! You have experience, use it!

Fallon glanced back at the young women, whose secret
clan of riders chose him to spend pleasant retirement in
their midst, one of just four men dwelling in Xi's glades.
Pahna was still a lanky youth, but Reza had already shared
Fallen's bed on three occasions. The last time she had been
kind, overlooking when he fell asleep too soon,

They claim experience and thoughtfulness are preferable
traits in male companions—qualities that make up for de-
clining stamina. But I wonder if it's a wise policy.
Wouldn 't they be better off keeping a young stallion like
Dwer around, instead?

Dwer was far better equipped for this kind of mission.
The lad would have brought Dedinger back days ago, all
tied up in a neat package.

Well, you don't always have the ideal man on hand for
every job. I just hope old Lester and the sages found a good
use for Dwer. His gifts are rare.

Fallon had never been quite the "natural" that his ap-

410 David B r i n

prentice was. In times past, he used to make up for it with
discipline and attention to detail. He had never been one |

to let his mind wander during a hunt.

But times change, and a man loses his edge. These days,
he could not help drifting away to the past. Something i
always reminded him of other days, his past was so filled [

with riches.                                           '
Oh, the times he used to have, running across the steppe

with Ul-ticho, his plains hunting companion whose grand
life was heartbreakingly short. Her fellowship meant more
to Fallon than any human's, before or since. No one else
understood so well the silences within his restless heart.

Ul-ticho, he glad you never saw this year when things/oil i
apart. Those times were better, old friend. Jijo was ours, \
and even the sky held no threat you and I couldn't handle.

Dedinger's tracks still lay in plain sight, turning the rim
of a great dune. The marks grew steadily fresher, and his
limp grew worse with every step. The fugitive was near
collapse. Assuming he kept going, it would be a half
midura, at most, before the mounted party caught him.
And still some distance short of the first shelter well. Not

bad. We may pull this off yet.
Assumptions are a luxury that civilized folk can afford.

But not warriors or people of the land. In those staggered
footprints, Fallon read a reassuring story, and so violated a
rule that he used to pound into his apprentice.

They were riding in the same direction as the wind, so
no scent warned the animals before they turned, slanting
down to the shadowed north side of the dune. Abruptly, a
murmur of voices greeted them—shouts, filled with wrath
and danger. Before Fallen's blinking eyes could adjust to
the changed light, he and the women found themselves
staring down the shafts of a dozen or more cocked arba-
lests, all aimed their way, held by grizzled men wearing

cloaks, turbans, and membrane goggles.

Now he made out a structure just ahead, shielded from
the elements, made of piled stones. Fallon caught a belated

sniff of water.

A new well? Built since I last came here as a young man!\

Or did I forget this one?
More likely, the desert men never told the visiting chief

Infinilu's Shore 411

scout all their secret sites. Far better, from their point of
view, to let the High Sages think their maps complete,
while holding something in reserve.

Lifting his hands slowly and carefully away from the pis-
tol at his belt, Fallon now saw Dedinger, sunburned and
shaking as he clutched devoted followers—who tenderly
poured water over the prophet's broken lips.

We came so close/

The hands holding Dedinger right now should have
been Fallen's. They would have been, if only things had
gone just a little differently.

I'm sorry, Fallon thought, turning in silent apology to
Reza and Pahna. Their faces looked surprised and bleak.
I'm an old man . . . and I let you down.

Net elo

'HE BATTLE FOR DOLO VILLAGE INVOLVED LARGER

I

issues, but the principal thing decided was who would

get to sleep indoors that night.

Most of the combatants were quite young, or very old.

In victory, the winners took possession of ashes.

In defeat, the losers marched forth singing.

Aided by a few qheuen allies, the craft workers started the
fight evenly matched against the fanatical followers ofJop
the Zealot. Both sides were angry, determined, and poorly
armed with sticks and cudgels. Every man, woman, and
qheuen of fighting age was away on militia duty, taking the
swords and other weapons with them.
Even so, it was a wonder no one died in the melee.
Combatants swelled around the village meeting tree in a
sweaty, disorderly throng, pushing and flailing at men who
had been their neighbors and friends, raising a bedlam that
blocked out futile orders by leaders of both sides. It might
have gone on till everyone collapsed in hoarse exhaustion,

412   D a v i d B r i n

but the conflict was abruptly decided when one side got

unexpected reinforcements.

Brown-clad men dropped- from the overhanging
branches of the garu forest, where gardens of luscious,
protein-rich moss created a rich and unique niche for agile
human farmers. Suddenly outflanked and outnumbered,
Jop and his followers turned and fled the debris-strewn

valley.

"The zealots went too far," said one gnarled tree farmer,

explaining why his people dropped their neutrality to in-
tervene. "Even if they had an excuse to blow up the dam
without guidance from the sages . . . they should've
warned the poor qheuens first! A murder committed in the
name of reverence is still a crime. It's too high a toll to pay

for following the Path."

Nelo was still catching his breath, so Ariana Foo ex-
pressed thanks on the craft workers' behalf. "There has
already been enough blood spilled down the Bibur's wa-
ters. It is well past time for neighbors to care for one an-
other, and heal these wounds."

Despite confinement to her wheelchair, Ariana had been
worth ten warriors during the brief struggle, without ever
aiming or landing a blow. Her renowned.status as the for-
mer High Sage of human sept meant that no antagonist
dared confront her. It was as if a bubble of sanity moved
through the mob, interrupting the riot, which resumed
again as soon as she had passed. The sight of her helped
the majority of farmers decide to come down off the garu

heights and assist.                                       ;

No one pursued Jop's forces as they retreated on canoes
and makeshift rafts to the Bibur's other bank, re-forming
on a crest of high ground separating the river from a vast |
swamp. There the zealots chanted passages from the Sa-
cred Scrolls, still defiant.

Nelo labored for breath. It felt as if his ribs were half torn i

loose from his side, and he could not tell for some time
which pains were temporary, and which were from some
fanatic's baton Or quarterstaff. At least nothing seemed bro-
ken, and he grew more confident that his heart wasn't

about to burst out of his chest.

Infinilii's Shore 413

5o, Dolo has been won back, he thought, finding little to
rejoice over in the triumph. Log Biter was dead, as well as
Jobee and half of Nelo's apprentices. With his paper mill
gone, along with the dam and qheuen rookery, the battle
had been largely to decide who would take shelter in the
remaining dwellings.

A makeshift infirmary was set up surrounding the traeki
pharmacist, on a stretch of leaf-covered loam. Nelo spent
some time sewing cuts with boiled thread, and laying plas-
ter compresses on bruised comrades and foes alike.

The task of healing and stitching was hardly begun
when a messenger dropped down from the skyway of
rope bridges that laced the forest in all directions. Nelo
recognized the lanky teenager, a local girl whose swiftness
along the branch-top ways could not be matched. Still
short of breath, she saluted Ariana Foo and recited a mes-
sage from the commander of the militia base concealed
some distance downriver.

"Two squads will get here before nightfall," she relayed
proudly. "They'll send tents and other gear by tomorrow
morn . . . assuming the Jophur don't blow the boats up."

It was fast action, but a resigned murmur was all the
news merited. Any help now was too little, and far too late
to save the rich, united community Dolo Village had been.
No wonder Jop's people had been less tenacious, more
willing to retreat. In their eyes, they had already won.

The Path of Redemption lies before us.

Nelo walked over to sit on a tree stump near the town
exploser, whose destructive charges were commandeered
and misused by Jop's mob. Henrik's shoulders slumped as
he stared over the Bibur, past the shattered ruins of the
craft shops, at the zealots chanting on the other side.

Nelo wondered if his own face looked as bleak and hag-
gard as Henrik's.

Probably not. To his own great surprise, Nelo found
himself in a mood to be philosophical.

"Never have seen such a mess in all my days," he said,
with a resigned sigh. "I guess we're gonna have our hands
full, rebuilding."

Henrik shook his head, as if to say, It can't be done.

414   D a v i d B r i n

This, in turn, triggered a flare of resentment from Nelo.
What business did Henrik have, wallowing in self-pity? As
an exploser, his professional needs were small. Assisted by
his guild, he could be back in business within a year. But
even if Log Biter's family got help from other qheuen hives,
and held a dam-raising to end all dam-raisings, it would
still be years before a waterwheel, turbine, and power train
could convert lake pressure into industrial muscle. And
that would just begin the recovery. Nelo figured he would
devote the rest of his life to building a papery like his

former mill.

Was Henrik ashamed his charges had been misused by a

panicky rabble? How could anyone guard against such
times as these, when all prophecy went skewed and awry?
Galactics had indeed come to Jijo, but not as foreseen.
Instead, month after month of ambiguity had mixed with
alien malevolence to sow confusion among the Six Races.
Jop represented one reaction. Others sought ways to fight
the aliens. In the long run, neither policy would make any

difference.

We should have followed a third course—wait and see.

Go on living normal lives until the universe decides what

to do with us.

Nelo wondered at his own attitude. The earlier shocked
dismay had given way to a strange feeling. Not numbness.
Certainly not elation amid such devastation.

7 bate everything that was done here.

. . . and yet ...                             ;

And yet, Nelo found a spirit of anticipation rising within. |
He could already smell fresh-cut timber and the pungency
of boiling pitch. He felt the pulselike pounding of ham-
mers driving joining pegs, and saws spewing dust across
the ground. In his mind were the beginnings of a sketch for

a better workshop. A better mill.

All my life I tended the factory my ancestors left me,

making paper in the time-honored way.
It was a pride ful place. A noble calling.

But it wasn 't 'mine.

Even if the original design came from settlers who
stepped off the Tabernacle, still wearing some of theil

I n f i n i r IJ ' s Shore 415

mantle as star gods, Nelo had always known, deep in-
side—I could do a better job.

Now, when his years were ripe, he finally had a chance
to prove it. The prospect, was sad, daunting . . . and
thrilling. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was how young
it made him feel.

"Don't blame yourself, Henrik," he told the exploser,
charitably. "You watch and see. Everything'll be better'n
ever."

But the exploser only shook his head again. He pointed
across the river, where Jop's partisans were now streaming
toward the northeastern swamp, carrying canoes and other
burdens on their backs, still singing as they went.

"They've got my reserve supply of powder. Snatched it
from the warehouse. I couldn't stop 'em."

Nelo frowned.

"What good'll it do 'em? Militia's coming, by land and
water. Jop can't reach anywhere else along the river that's
worth blowing up."

"They aren't heading along the river," Henrik replied,
and Nelo saw it was true.

"Then where?" he wondered aloud.

Abruptly, Nelo knew the answer to his own question,
even before Henrik spoke. And that same instant he also
realized there were far more important matters than re-
building a paper mill.

"Biblos, " the exploser said, echoing Nelo's thought.
The papermaker blinked silently, unable to make his
brain fit around the impending catastrophe.
"The militia . . . can they cut 'em off?"

"Doubtful. But even if they do, it's not Jop alone that has
me worried."

He turned to show his eyes for the first time, and they
held bleakness.

"I'll bet Jop's bunch ain't the only group heading that
way, even as we speak."

Rety

THE MORE SHE LEARNED ABOUT STAR GODS, THE

| less attractive they seemed.
I  None of 'em is half as smart as a dung-eating glaver,

she thought, while making her way down a long corridor
toward the ship's brig. It must come from using all those
computers and smarty-ass machines to cook your food,
make your air, tell you stories, kill your enemies, tuck you
in at night, and foretell your future for you. Count on 'em
too much, and your brain stops working.

Rety had grown more cynical since those early days
when Dwer and Lark first brought her down off the Rim-
mer Mountains, a half-starved, wide-eyed savage, agog
over the simplest crafts produced on the so-called civilized
Slope—all the way from pottery to woven cloth and paper
books. Of course that awe evaporated just as soon as she
sampled real luxury aboard the Rothen station, where
Kunn and the other Daniks flattered her with promises that

sent her head spinning.

Long life, strength and beauty . . . cures for all your,

aches and scars . . . a clean, safe place to live under the'
protection of our Rothen lords . . . and all the wonders
that come with being a lesser deity, striding among the

stars.
There she had met the Rothen patrons of humankind.

Her patrons, they said. Gazing on the benevolent faces of
Ro-kenn and Ro-pol, Rety had allowed herself to see wise,
loving parents—unlike those she knew while growing up
in a wild sooner tribe. The Rothen seemed so perfect, so
noble and strong, that Rety almost gave in. She very nearly

pledged her heart.

But it proved a lie. Whether or not they really were hu-
manity's patrons did not matter to her at all. What counted
was that the Rothen turned out to be less mighty than they
claimed. For that she could never forgive them.

What use was a protector who couldn't protect?

Infinirii's Shore 417

For half a year, Rety had fled one band of incompetents
after another—from her birth tribe of filthy cretins to the
Commons of Six Races. Then from the Commons to the
Rothen. And when the Jophur corvette triumphed over
Kunn's little scout boat, she had seriously contemplated
heading down to the swamp with both hands upraised,
offering her services to the ugly ringed things. Now
wouldn't that have galled old Dwer!

At one point, while he was floundering in the muck,
talking to his crazy mule-spider friend, she had actually
started toward the ramp of the grounded spaceship, in-
tending to hammer on the door. Surely the Jophur were
like everybody else, willing to deal for information that
was important to them.

At a critical moment, only their stench held her back—an
aroma that reminded her of festering wounds and gan-
grene . . . fortunately, as it turned out, since the Jophur
also proved unable to defend themselves against the unex-
pected.

So I got to just keep looking for another way off this mud
ball. And who cares what Dwer thinks of me? At least I
don't make fancy excuses for what I do.

Rety's tutor had been the wilderness, whose harsh edu-
cation taught just one lesson—to survive, at all cost. She
grew up watching as some creatures ate others, then were
eaten by Something stronger still. Lark referred to the "food
chain," but Rety called it the who-kills mountain. Every
choice she made involved trying to climb higher on that
mountain, hoping the next step would take her to the top.

So when the Jophur were beaten and captured by mythi-
cal dolphins, it seemed only natural to hurry aboard the
submarine and claim sanctuary with her "Earth cousins."
Only now look where I am, buried under a trash heap at
the bottom of the sea, hiding with a bunch of chattering
Eartbfish who have every monster and star god in space
chasing them.

In other words, back at the bottom of the mountain
again. Doomed always to be prey, instead of the hunter.

Craxf I sure do got a knack for picking 'em.

David B r I n

418

There were a few small compensations.

For one thing, dolphins seemed to hold humans in
awe—the same kind as the Daniks had for their Rothen
patrons. Furthermore, the Streaker crew considered Rety
and Dwer "heroes" for their actions in the swamp against
the Jophur sky boat. As a result, she had free run of the
ship, including a courtesy password that let her approach a
sealed entrance to the Streaker's brig.

For a brief time both airlock doors were closed, and she
knew guards must be examining her with instruments.
Prob'ly checkin' my innards, to see if I'm smugglin' a laser
or something. Rety took a breath and exhaled deeply,
washing away her body's instinctive panic over confine-
ment in a cramped metal space. It'll pass . . . it'll

pass. . . .

That trick had helped her endure years of frustration in
her feral tribe, whenever defeat and brutality seemed to

press in from all sides.

Don't react like a savage. If others can stand living in
boxes, you can, too ... for a little while.

The second hatch opened at last, showing Rety a ramp
that dropped steeply to a chamber that was flooded, chest-
high, with water.

Ugh.

She disliked the mixed compartments making up a large
part of this weird vessel—half-immersed rooms that were
spanned above by dry catwalks, allowing access to both
striding and swimming beings. The liquid felt warm as Rety
sloshed downslope, reminding her of volcanic springs
back home in the Gray Hills, but with an added fizzy qual-
ity that left trails of tiny bubbles wherever she moved.
Feigning relaxed confidence, Rety approached the guard
station, where two sentries were assisted by a globular
robot whose whirring antennae watched her acutely. One
of the dolphins rode a six-legged walker unit—without the
bug-eyed body armor—enabling it to stride about dry ar-
eas of the ship. The other "fin" wore just a tool harness,
using languid motions of his flippers to face a set of moni-
tor displays.

"May we help you, missss?" the latter one asked, with a

tail splash added for punctuation.

I n f i n i r if ' s Shore 419

"Yeh. I came to question Kunn an' Jass again. I figure I'll
get more out of 'em if I try it alone."

The guard focused one eye back at her with a dubious
expression. The first attempt had not gone well, when Rety
accompanied Lieutenant Tsh't to interrogate the human
prisoners. They had been groggy and unhelpful, still wear-
ing bandages and medic pacs for their various injuries.
While the dolphin officer tried grilling Kunn about matters
back in the Five Galaxies, Rety endured a hot glare of ha-
tred from her cousin Jass, who murmured the word traitor
and spat on the floor.

Who 'd you figure I betrayed, Joss? she had wondered,
eyeing him coldly until his stare broke first. The Daniks!'
Even Kunn isn 't surprised I switched sides, after the way he
treated me.

Or do you mean I've turned against our home clan? The
band of grubby savages that birthed me, then never
showed me a day's kindness since?

Before looking away, his eyes showed it was personal.
She had arranged for Jass to be seized, tormented, and
pressed into service as Kunn's guide. His being locked in
this metal cage was also her doing.

That thought cheered her up a bit. You gotta admit, Jass,
I finally made an impression on you.

But soon things are gonna get even worse.

I'm gonna make you grateful.

Meanwhile, Kunn told Tsh't that the siege of Earth went
on, though eased somewhat by a strange alliance with the
Thennanin.

"But to answer your chief question, there has been no
amnesty call by the Institutes. Several great star clans have

blocked a safe-conduct decree to let your ship come
home."

Rety wasn't sure what that meant, but clearly the news
was bitter to the dolphins.

Then a new voice intruded from thin air, where a spin-
ning abstract figure suddenly whirled.

"Lieutenant, please recall instructions. Have the prisoner
explain how his vessel tracked us to this world."

Rety recalled seeing a tremor course down the dolphin's
sleek gray flank, perhaps from irritation over the machine's

420   D 0

snide tone. But Tsh't snapped her jaw in a gesture of sub-
mission, and sent her walker unit looming closer to Kunn's
bunk. The human star voyager had nowhere to retreat as
her machine pressed close, threateningly. Rety recalled
sweat popping out on the Danik warrior's brow, giving lie
to his false air of calm. Having watched him intimidate
others, she was pleased to see the tables turned.

Then it happened. Some piece of equipment failed, or
else the lieutenant's walker took a misstep. The right front
ankle abruptly snapped, sending the dolphin's great mass

crashing forward.

Only lightning reflexes enabled Kunn to scramble out of
the way and avoid being crushed. By the time guards ar-
rived to help Tsh't untangle herself, the dolphin officer was
bruised, angry, and in no humor to continue the interview.

But I'm ready now, Rety thought later, as one of the brig
wardens prepared to escort her down a narrow passage
with numbers etched on every hatch. I've got a plan . . .
and this time Kunn and Joss better do as I say.

"Are you sure you want-t to do this now, miss?" the
guard asked. "It's night cycle and the prisoners are asleep."

"That's just how I want 'em. Groggy an' logy. They may

blab more."

In fact, Rety hardly cared if Kunn named the admirals of
all the fleets in the Five Galaxies, Her questions would only
serve as cover for communication on another level.

She had been busy in the room the Streakers assigned
her—a snug chamber once occupied by a human named l
Dennie Sudman, whose clothes fit her pretty well. Pictures I
on the wall portrayed a young woman with dark hair, who I
was said to have gone missing on some foreign planet
years ago, along with several human and dolphin crew
mates. On her cluttered desk Dennie had left a clever ma-
chine that spoke in a much friendlier manner than the sar-
castic Niss. It seemed eager to assist Rety, telling her all
about the Terran ship and its surroundings.

I've studied the passages leading from this jail to the
OutLock. I can name what kind of skiffs and star boats
they keep there. And most important, these Earthfish trust
me. My passwords should let us out.

Infinirii's Shore 421

All I need is a pilot . . . and someone strong and mean
enough to do any fighting, if we run into trouble.

And luck. Rety had carefully timed things so there was
little chance of running into Dwer along the way.

Dwer knows not to trust me . . . and I can't be sure
that bothJass and Kunn together would be enough to bring
him down.

Anyway, all else being equal, she'd rather Dwer didn't
get hurt.

Maybe I'll even think about him now and then, while I'm
livin' high on some far galaxy.

There wasn't much else about Jijo that she planned on
remembering.

D

wer

I DON'T BELONG HERE," HE TRIED TO EXPLAIN. "AND
neither does Rety. You've got to help us get back."
"Back where?" The woman seemed honestly per-
plexed. "To that seaside swamp, with toxic engine waste
and dead Jophur rings for company? And more Jophur
surely on the way?"

Once again, Dwer was having trouble with words. He
found it difficult to concentrate in these sealed spaces they
called "starship cabins," where the air felt so dead. Espe-
cially this one, a dimly lit chamber filled with strange ob-
jects Dwer could not hope to understand.

Lark or Sara would do fine here, but I feel lost. I miss the
news that comes carried on the wind.

It didn't help settle his nerves that the person sitting op-
posite him was the most beautiful human being Dwer had
ever seen, with dark yellow hair and abiding sadness in her
pale eyes.

"No, of course pot," he answered. "There's another

place where I'm needed. . . . And Rety, too."
Fine lines crinkled at the edges of her eyes.
"The young hoon, Alvin, wants to let his parents know

he's alive, and report to the urrish sage who sent the four

422   D a

of them on their diving mission. They want help getting
home."

"Will you give it?"

"How can we? Aside from putting our own crewfolk in
danger, and perhaps giving our position away to enemies,
it seems unfair to endanger your entire culture with knowl-
edge that's a curse to any who possess it.

"And yet ..."

She paused. Her scrutiny made Dwer feel like a small
child.

"Yet, there is a reticence in your voice. A wariness about
your destination that makes me suspect you're not talking
about going home. Not to the tranquil peace you knew
among friends and loved ones, in the land you call the
Slope."

There seemed little point in trying to conceal secrets
from Gillian Baskin. So Dwer silently shrugged.

"The girl's tribe, then," the woman guessed. "Rety's folk,
in the northern hills, where you were wounded fighting a
war bot with your bare hands."

He looked down, speaking in a low voice.

"There's . . . things that still need to be done there."

"Mm. I can well imagine. Obligations, I suppose? Duties
unfulfilled?" Her sigh was soft and distant sounding. "You
see, I know how it is with your kind. Where your priorities
lie."

That made him look up, wondering. What did she mean
by that? There was resigned melancholy in her face . . .
plus something like recognition, as if she saw something
familiar in him, wakening affectionate sadness.

"Tell me about it, Dwer. Tell me what you must accom-
plish.

"Tell me who depends on you."

Perhaps it was the way she phrased her question, or the
power of her personality, but he found himself no longer
able to withhold the remaining parts of the story. The parts
he had kept back till now.

—about his job as chief scout of the Commons, seeing to
it that no colonist race moved east of the Rimmers—spar-
ing the rest ofJijo from further infestation. Enforcing sacred
law.

I n f i n i r 4 ' s Shore 423

—then how he was ordered to break that law, guiding a
mission to tame Rety's savage cousins—a gamble meant to

ensure human survival on Jijo, in case the Slope was
cleansed of sapient life.

—how the four of them—Darnel Ozawa, Dwer, Lena,
andJenin—learned the Gray Hills were no longer a sanctu-
ary when Rety guided a Danik sky chariot to her home

tribe.

—how Dwer and the others vowed to gamble their for-
feit lives to win a chance for the sooner tribe . . . four

humans against a killer machine ... a gamble that suc-
ceeded, at great cost.

"And against all odds, I'd say," Gillian Baskin com-
mented. She turned her head, addressing the third entity
sharing the room with them.

"I take it you were there, as well. Tell me, did you bother

to help Dwer and the others? Or were you always a useless

nuisance?"

After relating his dour tale, Dwer was startled by a sud-
den guffaw escaping his own gut. Fitting words! Clearly,
Gillian Baskin understood noor.

Mudfoot lay grooming himself atop a glass-topped dis-
play case. Within lay scores of strange artifacts, backlit and
labeled like treasures in the Biblos Museum. Some light
spilled to the foot of another exhibit standing erect
nearby—a mummy, he guessed. When they were boys,
Lark once tried to scare Dwer with spooky book pictures
of old-time Earth bodies that had been prepared that way,
instead of being properly mulched. This one looked
vaguely human, though he knew it was anything but.

At Gillian's chiding, Mudfoot stopped licking himself to

reply with a panting grin. Again, Dwer imagined what the
look might mean.

Who, me, lady? Don't you know I fought the whole battle
and saved everybody's skins, all by myself?

After his experience with telepathic mule spiders, Dwer
did not dismiss the possibility that it was more than imagi-
nation. The noor showed no reaction when he tried mind
speaking, but that proved nothing.

Gillian had also tried various techniques to make the
noor talk—first asking Alvin to smother the creature with

424   D a v i d B r i n

umble songs, then keeping Mudfoot away from the young
hoon, locking it instead in this dim office for miduras, with
only the ancient mummy for company. The Niss Machine
had badgered the noor in a high-pitched dialect of Gal-
Seven, frequently using the phrase dear cousin.

"Danel Ozawa tried talkin' to it, too," Dwer told Gillian.

"Oh? And did that seem strange to you?"

He nodded. "There are folktales about talking noor . . .
and other critters, too. But I never expected it from a sage."

She slapped the desktop.

"I think I get it."

Gillian stood up and began pacing—a simple act that
she performed with a hunter's grace, reminding him of the
prowl of a she-ligger.

"We call the species tytlal, and where I come from, they
talk a blue streak. They are cousins of the Niss Machine,
after a fashion, since the Niss was made by our allies, the

Tymbrimi."

"The Tymb ... I think I heard of 'em. Aren't they the

first race Earth contacted, when our ships went out—"

Gillian nodded. "And a lucky break that turned out to
be. Oh, there are plenty of honorable races and clans in the
Five Galaxies. Don't let the present crisis make you think
they're all evil, or religious fanatics. It's just that most of the
moderate alliances have conservative mind-sets. They pon-
der caution first, and act only after long deliberation. Too
long to help us, I'm afraid.

"But not the Tymbrimi. They are brave and loyal friends.
Also, according to many of the great clans and Institutes,
the Tymbrimi are considered quite mad."

Dwer sat up, both intrigued and confused. "Mad?"

Gillian laughed. "I guess a lot of humans would agree. A
legend illustrates the point. It's said that one day the Great
Power of the Universe, in exasperation over some Tym-
brimi antic, cried out, 'These creatures must be the most

outrageous beings imaginable!'

"Now, Tymbrimi like nothing better than a challenge. So
they took the Great Power's statement as a dare. When
they won official patron status, with license to uplift new
species, they traded away two perfectly normal client races

InfiniM's Shore 425

for the rights to one presapient line that no one else could
do anything with."

"The noor," Dwer guessed. Then he corrected himself.
"The tytlal."

"The very same. Creatures whose chief delight comes
from thwarting, surprising, or befuddling others, making
the Tymbrimi seem staid by comparison. Which brings us
to our quandary. How did they get to Jijo, and why don't
they speak?"

"Our Jijo chimpanzees don't speak either, though your
Niss-thing showed me moving pictures of them talking on

Earth."

"Hmm. But that's easily explained. Chims were still not
very good at it when the Tabernacle left, bringing your
ancestors here. It would be easy to suppress the talent at
that point, in order to let humans pretend . . ."

Gillian snapped her fingers. "Of course." For a moment,
her smile reminded Dwer of Sara, when his sister had
been working on some abstract problem and abruptly saw
the light.

"Within a few years of making contact with Galactic civi-
lization, the leaders of Earth knew we had entered an in-
credibly dire phase. At best, we might barely hang on
while learning the complex rules of an ancient and danger-
ous culture. At worst—" She shrugged. "It naturally
seemed prudent to set up an insurance policy. To plant a
seed where humanity might be safe, in case the worst hap-
pened."

Her expression briefly clouded, and Dwer did not need
fey sensitivity to understand. Out there, beyond Izmunuti,
the worst was happening, and now it seemed the fleeing
Streaker had exposed the "seed," as well.

That's what Danel was talking about, when he said,
"Humans did not come to Jijo to tread the Path of Redemp-
tion. " He meant we were a survival stash . . . like the
poor g'Kek.

"When humans brought chimps with them, they natu-
rally downplayed pans intelligence. In case the colony
were ever found, chims might miss punishment. Perhaps
they could even blend into the forest and survive in Jijo's
wilderness, unnoticed by the judges of the great Institutes."

426 David B r i n

Gillian whirled to look at Mudfoot. "And that must be
what the Tymbrimi did, as well! They, too, must have
snuck down to Jijo. Only, unlike glavers and the other six
races, they planted no colony of their own. Instead, they

deposited a secret cache ... of tytlal."

"And like we did with chimps, they took away their
speech." Dwer shook his head. "But then . , ." He

pointed to Mudfoot.

Gillian's eyebrows briefly pursed. "A hidden race within

the race? Fully sapient tytlal, hiding among the others? Why
not? After all, your own sages kept secrets from the rest of
you. If Danel Ozawa tried speaking to Mudfoot, it means
someone must have already known about the tytlal, even
in those early days, and kept the confidence all this time."
Absently, she reached out to stroke the noor's sleek fur.

Mudfoot rolled over, presenting his belly.

"What is the key?" she asked the creature. "Some code
word? Something like a Tymbrimi empathy glyph? Why did

you talk to the Niss once, then clam up?"

And why did you follow me across mountains and
deserts? Dwer added, silently, enthralled by the mystery
tale, although the complexity combined with his ever-pres-
ent claustrophobia to foster a growing headache.

"Excuse me," he said, breaking into Gillian's rumina-
tions. "But can we go back to the thing I came here about?
I know the problems you're wrestling with are bigger and
more important than mine, and I'd help you if I could. But
I can't see any way to change your star-god troubles with

my bow and arrows.

"I'm not asking you to risk your ship, and I'm sorry

about being a pest. . . . But if there's any way you could
just let me . . . well ... try to swim ashore, I really do

have things I've got to do."

That was when the tytlal rolled back onto his feet, wear-
ing a look of evident surprise on his narrow face. Spines
that normally lay hidden in the fur behind his ears now
stood in stiff bristles. Moreover, Dwer felt sure he glimpsed
something take shape briefly, in the air above Mudfoot. A ;

ghostly wisp, less than vapor, which seemed to speak of its

own accord.

I n f i n i r IJ ' s Shore 427

So do I, it said, evidently responding to Dwer's state-
ment.

Things to do.

Dwer rubbed his eyes and would gladly have dismissed
the brief specter as another imagining ... another prod-
uct of the pummeling his nervous system had gone
through.

Only Gillian must have noted the same event. She
blinked a few times, pointed at the now-worried expres-
sion on Mudfoot's face . . . and burst out laughing.

Dwer stared at her, then found himself breaking up, as
well. Till that moment, he had not yet decided about the
beautiful Earthwoman. But anyone who could set Mudfoot
back like that must be all right.

Rety

AS THE GUARD ESCORTED HER TO THE CAPTIVES'
cell, she eyed several air-circulation grates. Schematics
showed the system to be equipped with many safety
valves, and the ducts were much too small for prisoners to
squeeze through.

But not for a little urrish male, armed with borrowed
laser cutters.

Rety's plan was chancy, and she hated sending her "hus-
band" into the maze of air pipes. But yee seemed confident
that he would not get lost.

"this maze no worse than stinky passages under the
grass plain, "he had sniffed while examining a holographic
chart, "it easier than dodging through root tunnels where
urrish grubs and males must scurry, when we have no
sweet wife pouch to lie in." yee curled his long neck in a
shrug, "don't you worry, wife! yee take tools to locked-up
men. we do this neat!"

That would be the critical phase. Once Kunn and Jass
were beyond the brig airlock, all the other obstacles should
quickly fall. Rety felt positive.

Two prison cells had red lights glaring above reinforced

428 David B f i n

hatches. The far one, she knew, contained Jophur rings
that had been captured in the swamp. The little g'Kek
named Huck was helping the Niss Machine interrogate
those captives. Rety had racked her brain to come up with
a way they might fit her plan, but finally deemed it best to

leave them where they were.

This Streaker ship won't dare chase us, once we get a
star boat outside . . . but the Jophur ship might. Espe-
cially if those rings had a way to signal their crew mates.

As the guard approached Kunn's cell, Rety fondled a
folded scrap of paper on which she had laboriously
printed instructions, sounding out the words letter by let-
ter, stretching her newborn literacy to the limit. She knew it
must look wrong, but no one could afford to be picky

these days.

KUN I KAN GIT U OT UV HIR WANT TU GO?

So went the first line of the note she planned slipping
him, while pretending to ask questions. If the Danik pilot
understood and agreed to the plan, she would depart and
set yee loose to worm his small, lithe body through
Streaker's dueling system. Meanwhile Rety had selected
good places to set fires—in a ship lounge and a cargo
locker—to distract the Streaker crew away from this area
while Kunn used smuggled tools to break out. If all went
well, they could then dash for the OutLock, steal a star

boat, and escape.

There's just one condition, Kunn. You gotta agree that
we get away from here. Away from these Farthers, away
from Daniks and Rothens and Jophur monsters and all

that crap. Away from Jijo.

Rety felt sure he'd accept. Anyway, if he orJass give me
any trouble, they'll find they're dealin' with a different

Rety now.
The guard maneuvered his walker unit carefully in the

narrow hallway. The gangly machine had to bend in order
for him to bring a key against the door panel. Finally, it slid
aside. Rety glimpsed two bunks within, each supporting a

blanket-covered 'human form.

"Hey, Kunn," she said, crossing the narrow distance and

nudging his shoulder. "Wake up! No more delayin' or

I n f i n i f u ' s Shore 429

foolin' now. These folks want t'know how you followed

'em. . . ."

The blanket slipped off, revealing his shock of glossy
hair, but there was no tremor of movement.

They must have him doped, she thought. / hope he's not
too far under. This can't wait!

Rety shook harder, rolling Kunn toward her—

And jumped back with a gasp of surprise.

The Danik's face was purple. His eyes bulged from their

sockets, and his tongue had swollen to fill his mouth.
The dolphin guard chattered a dismayed squeal in the

instinctive animal language of his kind.
Rety struggled with shock. She had grown up with

death, but it took all her force of will to quash the horror

rising in her gorge.

Somehow, she made herself turn toward the other bunk.

s

'ara

"Ob, Doctor Faustus was a good man,
He whipped his scholars now and then;

When he whipped them he made them dance,
Out of Scotland into France,
Out of France, and into Spain,
Then he whipped them back again!"

Emerson's song resonated through the Hall of Spinning
Disks, where dust motes sparkled in narrow shafts of
rhythmic light.

Sara winced at the violent lyrics, but the starman clearly
enjoyed these outbursts, gushing from unknown recesses
of his scarred brain. He laughed, as did a crowd of urrish
males who followed him, clambering through the scaffold-
ing of Uriel's fantastic machine, helping him fine-tune each
delicate part. The little urs cackled at Emerson's rough hu-
mor, and showed their devotion by diving between
whirling glass plates to tighten a strap here, or a pulley
there, wherever he gestured with quick hand signs.

430   D a v I d B r i n

Once an engineer, always an engineer, Sara thought. At :

times, Emerson resembled her own father, who might go I
silent for days while tending his beloved paper mill, draw-
ing more satisfaction from the poetry of pulping hammers
and rollers than the white sheets that made literacy possi- ;

ble on a barbaric world.

A parallel occurred to her.

Paper suited the Six Races, who needed a memory stor-
age system that was invisible/row space. But Uriel's ma-
chine has similar traits—an analog computer that no
satellite or spaceship can detect, because it uses no electric-
ity and has no digital cognizance. Above all, Galactics
would never imagine such an ornate contraption.

And yet it was beautiful in a bizarre way. No wonder she
had dreamed shapes and equations when her eyes first
glimpsed this marvel through cracks in her delirium. Each i
time a disk turned against a neighbor's rim, its own axle'
rotated at a speed that varied with the radial point of con-
tact. If that radius shifted as an independent variable, the
rotation changed in response, describing a nonlinear func-
tion. It was a marvelously simple concept . . . and hell-1
ishly hard to put into practice without years of patient trial

and error,

Uriel first saw the idea in an old Earth book—a quintes-

sentially wolfling concept, briefly used in an old-time
Amero-Eurasian war. Soon after, humans discovered digital
computers and abandoned the technique. But here on
Mount Guenn, the urrish smith had extended it to levels
never seen before. Much of her prodigious wealth and pas-
sion went into making the concept work.

And urrish haste. Their lives are so short, Uriel must
have feared she'd never finish before she died. In that case,

what would her successor do with all this?

An array of pillars, arches, and boo scaffolding held the
turning shafts in proper alignment, forming a three-
dimensional maze that stretched away from Sara, nearly
filling the vast chamber. Long ago, this cavity spilled liquid.
magma down the mountain's mighty flanks. Today itj
throbbed with a different kind of creative force.

Light rays played a clever role in the dance of mathemat-
ics. Glancing off selected disks, pulselike reflections fellj

Infinity's Shore 431

onto a stretch of black sand that had been raked smooth
across the floor. Each flash affected the grains, causing a
slight spray or rustle. Hillocks grew wherever glimmers
landed most often.

Uriel even found a use for lightning crabs, Sara mar-
veled.

On Jijo, some shorelines were known to froth during
electrical storms, as these tiny creatures kicked up sand in
frenzied reaction. We thought it might be static charges in
the air, making them behave so. But clearly it is light. I
must tell Lark about this, someday.

And Sara realized something else.

The crabs may be another Buyur gimmick species.
Bioengineered servants, reverted to nature, but keeping
their special trait, even after the gene meddlers left.

Whatever their original function, the crabs now served
Uriel, whose hooves clattered nervously as the sandscape
swirled under a cascade of sparkling light. Individual
flashes mattered little. It was the summed array over area
and time that added up to solving a complex numerical
problem. Near Uriel, the little chimp, Prity, perched on a
high stool with her drawing pad. Prity's tongue stuck out as
she sketched, copying the sand display. Sara had never
seen her little assistant happier.

Despite all this impressive ingenuity, the actual equa-
tions being solved were not profound. Sara had already
worked out rough estimates, within a deviance of ten per-
cent, by using a few simple Delancy approximations. But
Lester Cambel needed both precision and accuracy under a
wide range of boundary conditions, including atmospheric
pressure varying with altitude. For that, machine-derived
tables offered advantages.

At least now I understand what it's all for. In her mind,
she pictured bustling activity beneath the towering stems
of a boo forest, throngs of workers laboring, the flow of
acrid liquids, and discussions in the hushed, archaic dialect
of science.

They may be crazy—Lester especially. Probably the effort
will backfire and make the aliens more vicious than ever.
Dedinger would look at this—along with all the sema-

avid B r i n

432   0

phores, gliders, balloons, and other innovations—and call

it the futile thrashing of the damned.

Yet the attempt is glorious. If they pull it off, I'll know 1
was right about the Six. Our destiny was not foretold by the
scrolls, or Dedinger's orthodoxy ... or Lark's, for that

matter.

It was unique.

Anyway, if we're to be damned, I'd rather it be for try-
ing.

Just one thing still puzzled her. Sara shook her head and

murmured aloud.

"Why me?"

Kurt, the Tarek Town exploser, had acted as if this proj-
ect desperately needed Sara, for her professional expertise.
But Uriel's machine was already nearly functional by the
time the party arrived from Xi. Prity and Emerson were
helpful at making the analog computer work, and so were
books Kurt hand-carried from Biblos. But Sara found her-
self with little to contribute.

"I only wish I knew why Uriel asked for me."

Her answer came from the entrance to the computer

vault.

"Is that truly the only thing you wish to understand? But

that one is easy, Sara. Uriel did not ask for you at all!"

The speaker was a man of middling stature with a shock
of white hair and a stained beard that stood out as if he
were constantly thunderstruck. Kawsh leaves smoldered in
his pipe, a habit chiefly indulged in by male hoons, since
the vapors were too strong for most humans. Politely, Sage
Purofsky stood in the draft of the doorway, and turned

away from Sara when exhaling.

She bowed to the senior scholar, known among his

peers as the best mind in the Commons.

"Master, if Uriel doesn't need my help, why was I urged

to come? Kurt made it sound vital."

"Did he? Vital. Well, I suppose it is, Sara. In a different

way."

Purofsky's eyes tracked the glitter of rays glancing off

spinning disks. His gaze showed appreciation of Uriel's
accomplishment. "Math must pay its way with useful
things," the sage once said. "Even though mere computa-

1 n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 433

tion is like bashing down a door because you cannot find
the key."

Purofsky had spent his life in search of keys.
"It was / who sent for you, my dear," the aged savant
explained after a pause. "And now that you're recovered
from your ill-advised spill down a mountainside, I think it's
high time that I showed you why."

It was still daytime outside, but a starscape spread before
Sara. Clever lenses projected glass photoslides onto a
curved wall and ceiling, recreating the night sky in a won-
drous planetarium built by Uriel's predecessor so that even
poor urrish eyesight might explore constellations in detail.
Sage Purofsky wore stars like ornaments on his face and
gown, while his shadow cast a man-shaped nebula across
the wall.

"I should start by explaining what I've been up to since
you left Biblos . . . has it really been more than a year,
Sara?"

"Yes, Master."

"Hmm. An eventful year. And yet ..."

He worked his jaw for a moment, then shook his head.

"Like you, I had grown discouraged with my former field
of study. At last, I decided to extend the classical, pre-
contact geometrodynamic formalisms beyond the state
they were in when the Tabernacle left the solar system."

Sara stared.

"But I thought you wanted to reconcile pre-contact Earth
physics with Galactic knowledge. To prove that Einstein
and Lee had made crude but correct approximations . . .
the way Newton preapproximated Einstein."

That in itself would have been a daunting task—some
might say hopeless. According to reports brought by the
Tabernacle, space-time relativity was ill regarded by those
alien experts hired by the Terragens Council to teach mod-
ern science to Earthlings. Galactic instructors disdained as
superstition the homegrown cosmology humans formerly
relied on—the basis of crude star probes, crawling along at
sublight speeds. Until the Earthship Vesarius fell through
an undetected hyperanomaly, ending humanity's long iso-

434   D a v i d B r i n

lation, Einstein's heirs had never found a useful way to go t
faster—although some methods had been recorded in the |

Galactic Library for over a billion years.                    \

After contact, humans scrimped to buy some thirdhand |
hyperships, and the old mathemetric models of Hawking, >
Purcell, and Lee fell by the wayside. In trying to show
validity for pre-contact physics, Purofsky had taken on a

strange, perhaps forlorn, task.                            ,
"I had some promising results at first, when I restated the !'

Serressimi Exalted Transfer ShUnt in terms compatible with

old-fashioned tensor calculus."

"Indeed?" Sara leaned forward in her chair. "But how

did you renormalize all the quasi-simultaneous infinities?

You'd almost have to assume—"

But the elder sage raised a hand to cut her off, unwilling

to be drawn into details.

"Plenty of time for that later, if you're still interested. For

now let's just say that I soon realized the futility of that
approach. Earth must by now have specialists who under-
stand the official Galactic models better than I'll ever hope
to. They have units of the Great Library, and truly modern '
computer simulators to work with. Suppose I did eventu-
ally manage to demonstrate that our Old Physics was a
decent, if limited, approximation? It might win something
for pride, showing that wolflings had been on the right
track, on our own. But nothing new would come of it."

Purofsky shook his head. "No, I decided it was time to |
go for broke. I'd plunge ahead with the old space-time I
approach, and see if I could solve a problem relevant to
Jijo—the Eight Starships Mystery."

Sara blinked.
"You mean seven, don't you? The question of why so

many sooner races converged on Jijo within a short time,
without getting caught? But isn't that settled?" She pointed
at the most brilliant point on the wall. "Izmunuti started
flooding nearby space with carbon chaff twenty centuries
ago. Enough to seed the hollow hail and change our
weather patterns, more than a light-year away. Once the
storm wrecked all the watch robots left in orbit by the
Migration Institute, sneakships could get in undetected."
"Hr-rm . . . yes, but not good enough, Sara. From wall

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 435

inscriptions found in a few Buyur ruins, we know two
transfer points used to serve this system. The other must
have collapsed after the Buyur left."

"Well? That's why the Izmunuti gambit works! A single
shrouded access route, and the great Institutes not sched-
uled to resurvey the area for another eon. It must be a fairly
unique situation."

"Unique. Hrm, and convenient. So convenient, in fact,
that I decided to acquire fresh data."

Purofsky turned toward the planetarium display, and a
distant expression crossed his shadowed face. After a few
duras, Sara realized he must be drifting. That kind of ab-
sentmindedness might be a prerogative of genius back in
the cloistered halls of Biblos, but it was infuriating when he
had her keyed up so! She spoke in a sharp tone.

"Master! You were saying you needed data. Is there
really something relevant you can see with Uriel's simple
telescope?"

The scholar blinked, then cocked his head and smiled.
"You know, Sara ... I find it striking that we both spent
the last year chasing unconventional notions. You, a side-
line into languages and sociology—yes, I followed your
work with interest. And me, thinking I could pierce secrets
of the past using coarse implements made of reforged
Buyur scrap metal and melted sand.

"Did you know, while taking pictures of Izmunuti, I also
happened to snap shots of those starships? The ones caus-
ing so much fuss, up north? Caught them entering orbit
. . . though my warning didn't reach the High Sages in
time." Purofsky shrugged. "But to your question. Yes, I
managed to learn a few things, using the apparatus here on
Mount Guenn.

"Think again about Jijo's unique conditions, Sara. The
collapse of the second transfer point . . . the carbon flar-
ing of Izmunuti . . . the inevitable attractiveness of an
isolated, shrouded world to sooner refugees.

"Now ponder this—how could beings with minds as ag-
ile as the Buyur fail to notice advance symptoms of these
changes, about to commence in nearby space?"

"But the Buyur departed half a million years ago! There

I   PART EIGHT

I

! ILLEGAL RESETTLEMENT OF FALLOW
i WORLDS has been a predicament in the Five
; Oalaxies tor as (ar back as records exist.
1 here are many causes ror this recurring
problem/ but its most enduring basis is the
laradox ot Reproductive L^>gic.

\-/KC_-!/\I\Iv^ beings irom countless diverse
worlds tend to share one common trait—sell-
propagation. In some species/ this maniiests as
a conscious desire to have onspring. /\mong
other races/ individuals respond to crude in-
stinctive drives ior either sex or xim/ and
spare little active attention to the conse-
quences.

However dilterent the detailed mecha-
nisms may be/ the net enect remains the same.
l_,e(t to their own inclinations/ organic lite-
(orms will reproduce their l<ind in numbers
exceeding the replacement rate. (_/ver periods
ot time that are quite brici \by stellar stan-
dards/ the resulting population increase can
iwiitly overburden the carrying capacity or
any selt-sustaintng ecosystem. (SEE: AJ -

TACHED SORTED EXAMPLES.)

Species do this because each tecund in-

436 David B r i n

may not have been any symptoms back then. Or else they

were subtle."

"Perhaps. And that's where my research comes in. Plus
your expertise, I hope. For I strongly suspect that space-
time anomalies would have been noticeable, even back

then."

"Space-time . . ." Sara realized his use of the archaic

Earth-physics term was intentional. Now it was her turn to
spend several silent duras staring at a blur of stars, sorting

implications.

"You're . . . talking about lensing effects, aren't you?"

"Sharp lass," the sage answered approvingly. "And if /

can see them—"

"Then the Buyur must have, and foreseen—"

"Like reading an open book! Nor is that all. I asked you
here to help confirm another, more ominous suspicion."

Sara felt a frisson, climbing her spine like some insect
with a million ice-cold feet.

"What do you mean?"

Sage Purofsky briefly closed his eyes. When he re-
opened them, his gaze seemed alight with fascination.

"Sara, I believe they planned it this way, from the very

start."

dtvidual ts the direct descendant ol a long chain ol successlul
reproducers. Jimply stated; those who lack traits that enable
breeding do not become ancestors. Iralts that encourage reproduc-
tion are the traits that get reproduced.

lo the best ol our knowledge/ this evolutionary imperative
extends even to the eco-matrix ol hydrogen-based liie-iorms that
shares real space in parallel with our oxygen-breathing civilisation.
/\s (or the 1 hird Urder—autonomous machines——only the re-
lentless application or stringent saleguards has prevented these
nonorganic species Irom engaging in exponential reproduction/
threatening the basts ol all llle in the rive L^alaxies.

Ibr the vast majority ol nonsaplent animal species in natural
ecosystems/ this tendency to overbreed is kept in check by starva-
tion/ predation/ or other limiting tactors/ resulting in quasi-stable
states ot pseudo-equilibrium, However/ presaplent llle-torms oiten
use their newlound cleverness to eliminate competition and indulge
in orgiastic breeding Iren^ies/ lollowed by overutili?atlon ol re-
sources. l_eit tor too long without proper guidance/ such species
can bring about their own ruin through ecological collapse.

I his is one ol the Seven Reasons why naive liie-iorms
cannot sell-evolve to lully competent sapience. 1 he laradox ot
Keproductive Logic means that short-term selt-tnterest will always
prevail over long-range planning/ unless wisdom is imposed trom
the outside by an adoptive patron line.

L-/ne duty ot a patron is to make certain that its client
race achieves conscious control over its sell-replicating drives/ before
it can be granted adult status. Y\nd yet/ despite such precautions/
even lully ranked cillsen species have been known to engage in
breeding spasms/ especially during intervals when lawlul order
temporarily breaks down. (SEE REF: "TIMES OF
C/HANOE. } Hasty/ spasmodic episodes ot colonisation/exploi-
tation have lett entire galactic ?ones devastated in their wake.

By law/ the prescribed punishment (or races who perpetrate

such eco-holocausts can be complete extinction/ down to the racial

rootstock.

IN comparison/ illegal resettlement ol lallow worlds is a problem
ol moderate-level criminality, lenalties depend on the degree o(
damage done/ and whether new presapient lorms salely emerge
Irom the process.

Nevertheless/ it is easy to see how the laradox ol Kepro-
ductive L,ogtc applies here/ as well. L/r else why would Individu-
als and species sacrifice so much/ and risk severe punishment/ in
order to dwell in leral secrecy on worlds where they do not
belong'

OVEK the course ol tens ol millions ol years/ only one solution
has ever been lound lor this enduring paradox. I his solution
consists ol the continuing application ol pragmatic loreslght In the
Interests ol the common good.

In other words——civilisation.

—from /\ C-'alactographtc tutorial for Ignorant Vmlning lerrans/ a
special publication ol the library Institute ol the five Oalaxies/ year 42
EC/ in partial satisfaction o( the debt obligation ol 35 EC

K,

aa

THEY MADE LOVE IN A HIDDEN CAVE, NESTLED BE-
neath seaside cliffs, while tidal currents pounded nearby,
shooting spume fountains high enough to rival the
craggy promontories.

At last! Booming echoes seemed to shout each time a
I' wave dashed against the bluffs, as if everything leading up
I to that moment had been prelude, a mere transport of mo-
j mentum across the vast ocean, passed from one patch of
salt water to the next. As if a wave may only become real
by spending itself against stone.

Rolling echoes reverberated in the sheltered cave. That's
me, Kaa thought, listening to the breakers cry out their
brief reification. As a coast fulfills a tide, he now felt com-
pleted by contact with another.

Water sloshed through his open mouth, still throbbing
with their passion. The secret pool had her flavor.

Peepoe rolled along Kaa's side, stroking with her pecto-
ral fins, making his skin tingle. He responded with a brush
of his tail flukes, pleased at how she quivered with un-

442   D a v i d B r i n

guarded bliss. This postcoital affection had even deeper
meaning than the brief glory dance of mating. It was like
.the difference between mere need and choice.

* Can the burning stars

* Shout their joy more happily

* Than this simple fin? *

His Trinary haiku came out as it should, almost involun-
tarily, not mulled or rehearsed by the frontal lobes that
human gene crafters had so thoroughly palped and re-
worked during neo-dolphin uplift. The poem's clicks and
squeals diffracted through the cave's grottoes at the same

moment they first resonated in his skull.

Peepoe's reply emerged the same way, candidly languid,

with a natural openness that brooked no lies.

* Simplicity is not

* Your best-known trait, dear Kaa.

* Don't you feel Lucky? *

Her message both thrilled and validated, in a way she
must have known he'd treasure. I have my nickname back,

Kaa mused happily.                                  ,
All would have been perfection then—a flawless mo- j
ment—except that something else intruded on his plea-
sure. A tremor, faint and glimmering, like the sound
shadow made by a moray eel, passing swiftly in the night,

leaving fey shivers in its wake.

Yes, you have won back your name, whispered a faint
voice, as if from a distant seaquake. Or an iceberg, groan-
ing, a thousand miles away.

But to keep it, you will have to earn it.

When Kaa next checked the progress of his spy drone, it
had nearly reached the top of the Mount Guenn funicular.

At the beginning, Peepoe's decision to stay with him had
been more professional than personal, helping Kaa pilot
the special probe up a hollow wooden monorail that
climbed the rutted flank of an extinct volcano. While the j

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 443

bamboolike track was a marvel of aboriginal engineering,
Kaa found it no simple matter guiding the little robot past
sections filled with dirt or debris. He and Peepoe wound
up having to camp in the cave, to monitor it round the
clock, instead of returning to Brookida and the others. A
fully autonomous unit could have managed the journey on
its own, but Gillian Baskin had vetoed sending any ma-
chine ashore that might be smart enough to show up on
Jophur detectors.

A moment of triumph came as the camera eye finally
emerged from the rail, passed through a camouflaged sta-
tion, then proceeded down halls of chiseled stone, trailing
its slender fiber comm line like a hurried spider. Kaa had it
crawl along the ceiling—the safest route, offering a good
view of the native workshops.

Other observers tuned in at this point. From the Streaker,
Hannes Suessi and his engineering chiefs remarked on the
spacious chambers where urrish and qheuen smiths
tapped ominous heat from lava pools, dipping ladles into
nearby pits for melting, alloying, and casting. Most ques-
tions were answered by Ur-ronn, one of the four young
guests whose presence on the Streaker posed such quan-
daries. Ur-ronn explained the forge in thickly accented An-
glic, revealing tense reserve. Her service as guide was part
of a risky bargain, with the details still being worked out.

"I do not see Uriel at the hearths." Ur-ronn's voice came
tinnily from Kaa's receiver. "Ferhafs she is ufstairs, in her
hovvy roon."

Uriel's hobby room. From the journal of Alvin Hph-
wayuo, Kaa envisioned an ornately useless toy gadget of
sticks and spinning glass, something to hypnotize away the
ennui of existence on a savage world. He found it puzzling
that a leader of this menaced society would spare time for
the arty Rube Goldberg contraption Alvin had described.

Ur-ronn told Kaa to send the probe down a long hall,
past several mazelike turns, then through an open door
into a dim chamber . . . where at last the fabled appara-
tus came into view.

Peepoe let out an amazed whistle.

444 David B r i n

* Advance description

* Leaves the unwary stunned by
* Serendipity! *

Yeah, Kaa agreed, staring at a vaulted chamber that
would have been impressive even on Earth, rilled with
crisscrossing timbers and sparkling lights. Alvin's account
did the place injustice, never conveying the complex unity
of all the whirling, spinning pans—for even at a glance one
could tell that an underlying rhythm controlled it all. Each
ripple and turn was linked to an elegant, ever-changing

whole.

The scene was splendid, and ultimately baffling. Dim

figures could be glimpsed moving about the scaffolding,
making adjustments—several small, scurrying shapes and
at least one bipedal silhouette that looked tentatively hu-
man. But Kaa could not even judge scale properly because
most of the machine lay in deep shadows. Moreover,
holovision had been designed to benefit creatures with
two forward-facing eyes. A panel equipped with sono-par-
allax emitters would have better suited dolphins.

Even the normally wry Hannes Suessi was struck silent
by this florid, twinkling palace of motion.

Finally, Ur-ronn cut in.
"I see Uriel! She is second fron the right, in that groiif

standing near the chinfanzee."

Several four-footed urs nervously watched the machine
whirl, next to a chimp with a sketchpad. Random light
pulses dappled their flanks, resembling fauns in a forest,
but Kaa could tell that gray-snouted Uriel must be older
than the rest. As they watched, the chimp showed the
smith an array of abstract curves, commenting on the re-
sults with hand signs instead of words.

"How we gonna do this, Streaker?" Kaa asked. "Just

barge in and start t-talking?"

Until lately, it had seemed best for all concerned thai
Streaker keep her troubles separate. But now events made
a meeting seem inevitable—even imperative.

"Let's listen before announcing ourselves," Gillian Bas-
kin instructed. "I'd rather conditions were more private."

In other words, she preferred to contact Uriel, not a

Infinirii's Shore 445

whole crowd. Kaa sent the robot creeping forward. But
before any urrish words became audible, another speaker
interrupted from Streaker's end.

"Allow me this indulgence, " fluted the refined voice of
the Niss Machine. "Kaa, will you again focus the main
camera on Uriel's contraption? I wish to pursue a conjec-
ture. "

When Gillian did not object, Kaa had the probe look at
the expanse of scaffolding a second time.

"Note the stretch of sand below, " the Niss urged. "Neat
piles accumulate wherever light falls most frequently. These
piles correlate with the drawings the chimpanzee just
showed Uriel. ..."

Kaa's attention jerked away, caught by a slap of Pee-
poe's tail.

"Someone's c-coming. Peripheral scanner says ap-
proaching life signs are Jophur!"

Despite objections from the Niss, Kaa made the probe
swivel around. There, framed in the doorway, they saw a
silhouette Streaker's crew had come to loathe—-like a
tapered cone of greasy doughnuts.

Gillian Baskin broke in. "Calm down, everyone. . . .
I'm sure it's just a traeki."

"Of course it is," confirmed Ur-ronn. "That stack is

Tyug."

Kaa recalled. This was the "chief alchemist" of Mount
Guenn Forge. Uriel's master of chemical synthesis. Kaa
brushed reassuringly against Peepoe, and felt her relax a
bit. According to Alvin's journal, traeki were docile beings
quite unlike their starfaring cousins.

So he was caught completely off guard when Tyug
turned a row of jewel-like sensor patches upward, toward
the tiny spy probe. Thoughtful curls of orange vapor
steamed from its central vent. Then the topmost ring
bulged outward . . .

. . . and abruptly spewed a jet of flying objects, swarm-
ing angrily toward the camera eye! Kaa and the others had
time for a brief glimpse of insects—or some local equiva-
lent—creating a confusing buzz of light and sound with

446 David B r i n

their compound eyes and fast-beating wings. A horde of
blurry creatures converged, surrounding Kaa's lenses and
pickups.

Moments later, all that reached his console was a smear
of dizzying static.

Gillian

R MAGNIFIED IMAGE FLOATED ABOVE THE CONFEB-
ence table—depicting a small creature, frozen in flight,
whose wings were a rainbow-streaked haze, painful to
the eye. By contrast, the Niss Machine's compact mesh of
spiral lines seemed drab and abstruse. A strain of pique
filled its voice.

"Might any of you local children be able to identify this
bothersome thing for us?"

The words were polite enough, though Gillian winced al
its insolent manner,                                 j

Fortunately, Alvin Hph-wayuo showed no awareness of
being patronized. The young hoon sat near his friends,
throbbing his throat sac in the subsonic range for both
noor beasts, one lounging on each broad shoulder. To the
machine's sardonic question, Alvin nodded amiably, a hu
man gesture that seemed completely unaffected.

"Hrm. That's easy enough. It is a privacy wasp."

"Gene-altered toys of the Vuyur," lisped Ur-ronn. "A
well-known nuisance."

Buck's four eyestalks waved, peering at the image
"Now I see how they got their name. They normally move
so fast, I never got a good look before. It looks kind of like
a tiny rewq, with the membranes turned into wings."

Hannes Suessi grunted, tapping the tabletop with hii
prosthetic left arm.

"Whatever the origins of these critters, it seems Uriel was
armed against the possibility of being spied upon. Oui
probe's been rendered useless. Will she now assume thatil!
was sent by the Jophur?"

Ur-ronn shrugged, an uncertain twist of her long nedj

I n f i n i r 11 ' s Shore 447

f "Who else? How would Uriel have heard of you guys . . .
I unless the Jophur thenselves sfoke of you?"

Gillian agreed. "Then she may destroy the drone, unless
we make it speak Anglic words right away. Niss, can you
| and Kaa get a message through?"

"We are working to accomplish that. Commands rise
from the control console, but the bedlam given off by these
so-called wasps appears to swamp all bands, thwarting
confirmation. The probe may be effectively inoperable."

"Damn. It would take days to send another. Days we
don't have." Gillian turned to Ur-ronn. "This might make
our promise hard to keep."

She hated saying it. Part of her had looked forward to
meeting the legendary smith of Mount Guenn. By all ac-
counts, Uriel was an individual of shrewdness and insight,
whose sway on Jijoan society was notable.

"There is another off-shun," Ur-ronn suggested. "Fly
there in ferson."

"An option we must set aside for now," replied Lieuten-
ant Tsh't. "Since any aircraft sent beyond these shielding

waters would be detected instantly, by the enemy battle-

ship-p."

The dolphin officer lay on the cushioned pad of a six-
legged walker. Her long, sleek body took up the end of the
conference room farthest from the sooner youths, her left
eye scanning the members of the ship's council. "Believe it
or not-t, and despite our disappointment over the loss of
Kaa's probe, there are other agenda items left to cover."

Gillian understood the lieutenant's testy mood. Her re-
port on the apparent suicide of the two human prisoners
had left many unanswered questions. Moreover, discipline
problems were also on the rise, with a growing faction of

the dolphin crew signing what they called the "Breeding

Petition."

Gillian had tried boosting morale by getting out and talk-
ing to the dolphins, listening to their concerns, encourag-
ing them with a patron's touch. Tom had the knack, like
Captain Creideiki. A joke here, a casual parable there.

Most fins grew more inspired and devoted the worse things

got.

448 David B r i n

/ don't have the same talent, I guess. Or else this poor
crew is just tired after all the running.

Anyway, the best workers were all outside the ship now,
in gangs that labored round the clock, while she spent
hours closeted with the Niss Machine, eliminating one des-
perate plan after another.

At last, one of her schemes seemed a bit less awful than

the rest.

"Tasty, " the Niss had called it. "Though a rash gamble.
Our escape from Kithrup had more going for it than this

ploy."

Ship's Physician Makanee raised the next agenda item,
Unlike Tsh't, the elderly dolphin surgeon did not like to
ride around strapped to a machine. Naked, except for a
small tool harness, she took part in the meeting from a
clear tube that ran along one wall of the conference room.
Makanee's body glistened with tiny bubbles from the oxy-
gen-packed fluid that filled Streaker's waterways.

"There is the matter of the Kiqui," she said. "It must be
settled, especially if we are planning to move the ship-p."

Gillian nodded. "I'd hoped to consult about this matter
with—" She glanced at the staticky display from Kaa's lost
spy probe, and sighed. "A final decision must wait, Doctor.
Continue preparations and I'll let you know."

Hannes Suessi next reported on the state of Streaker's

hull.

"Weighed down like this, she'll be as slow as when we
carried around that hollowed-out Thennanin cruiser, wear-
ing it like a suit of armor. Slower, with all the probability
arrays gummed up by carbon gunk."

"So we must consider transferring to one of the wrecks I.
outside?"                                             ;

That would be hard. None had the modifications that
made Streaker usable by an aquatic race.

The mirrored dome containing Suessi's brain and skull

nodded.

"I have crews preparing the best of the drossed star-
ships." A chuckle' then escaped the helmet speaker vent.
"Cheer up, everybody! With Ifni's luck, some of us may yet
make it out of here."

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore  449

Perhaps, Gillian thought. But if we get away from theJijo
system, where will we go? Where else can we run?

The meeting broke up. Everyone, including the sooner
kids, had jobs to do.

And Dwer Koolhan will be waiting in my quarters, ask-
ing again for passage ashore. Or to swim, if necessary.

To go back to a savage place where he's needed.

Ambivalence filled her. Dwer was hardly more than a
boy. Still, in all the years since Streaker'was forced to aban-
don Tom on Kithrup, this was the first time she felt any-
thing like physical attraction to another.

Naturally. I've always been a sucker for hero types.

It brought to mind the last time she had felt Tom's
touch—one final night together on a metal island, set amid
a poison sea. The night before he flew away on a solar-
powered glider, determined to mislead great battle fleets,
thwart mighty foes, and make an opening for Streaker to
get away. Gillian's left thigh still tingled, from time to time
. . . the site of his last loving squeeze as he lay prone on
the flimsy little aircraft, grinning before taking off.

"I'll be back before you know it," Tom said—a meta-
physically strange expression, when you thought about it.
And she often had.

Then he was gone, winging north, barely skimming the
waves, just above the contrary tides of Kithrup.

/ should never have let him go. Sometimes you have to
tell a hero that enough is enough.

Let someone else save the world.

As Gillian made ready to leave the conference room, she
saw Alvin, the young hoon, trying to collect both noors.
The female was his longtime pet, to all appearances a
bright nonsapient being, probably derived from natural
tytlal rootstock, dating from before their species' uplift. The
Tymbrimi must have stockpiled a gene pool of their beloved
clients here on Jijo, as insurance in case the worst hap-
pened to their clan. A wise precaution, given the number
of enemies they've made.

450 David B r i n

As for the other one, Mudfoot, Dwer's bane and travel-
ing companion across half a continent, scans of his brain
showed uplift traces throughout.

A race hidden within a race, retaining all the traits the
Tymbrimi worked hard to foster in their clients.

In other words, the tytlal were true sooners, another
wave of illegal settlers, but guarded by added layers of
camouflage. So disguised, they might even escape what-
ever ruin lay in store for the relatives of Alvin, Huck, Ur-
ronn, and Pincer.

But that can't be the whole story. Caution isn 't a para-
mount trait in Tymbrimi, or their clients. They wouldn't go
to so much trouble just to hide. Not unless it was part of
something bigger.

Alvin had trouble gathering Mudfoot, who ignored the
boy's umble calls while wandering across the conference
table, poking a whiskered nose into debris from the meet-
ing. Finally, the tytlal stood up on his hind legs to peer at
the frozen projection last sent by Kaa's probe, the image of
a privacy wasp. Mudfoot purred with curiosity.

"Niss," Gillian said in a low voice.

With an audible pop, the pattern of whirling, shifting
lines came into being nearby.

"Yes, Dr. Baskin? Have you changed your mind about
hearing my tentative conjectures about Uriel's intricate de-
vice of spinning disks?"

"Later," she said, and gestured at Mudfoot. Gillian now
realized the tytlal was peering past the blurry display of the
privacy wasp, at something in the scene beyond.

"I'd like you to do some enhancements. Find out what
that little devil is looking at."

She did not add that she had detected something on her
own. Something only a psi-sensitive would notice. For the
second time, a faint presence could be felt—vague and
ephemeral—floating ever so briefly above Mudfoot's agi-
tated cranial spines. She could not be sure, but whatever it
was had a distinctly familiar flavor.

Call it Essence of Tymbrimi.

K

aa

THERE WAS NO MORE TO ACCOMPLISH IN THE CAVE.
The probe appeared to be dead.
Even if it came back to life, any conversation with the
natives would be handled from Streaker's end. Meanwhile,
it was past time to return to the habitat. Kaa had a team he
had not seen in days.

A human couple might have paused before exiting the
little grotto, looking around to imprint the site of their first
lovemaking. But not dolphins. Neo-fins experienced nos-
talgia, just like their human patrons, but they could store
sonar place images in ways humans had to mimic with
recording devices. Streaking outside, joining Peepoe under
bright sunshine, Kaa knew the two of them could revisit
the cave anytime they chose, simply by bringing their
arched foreheads together—re-creating its unique echoes
in that ancient gulf of memory some called the Whale
Dream.

It felt good to dash across the wide sea again, with Pee-
poe's lithe body sharing every kick and leap in perfect
unison. Motion equaled joy after any long confinement to
machinery and closed spaces.

On the outward trip, their swim had been exquisite, but
tempered by a taut, sexual tension. Now there were no
secrets, no conflicting desires. Most of the return journey
was spent in silent bliss—like a simple mated pair from
presapient days, free of the gifts and burdens of uplift.

Finally, with the habitat drawing near, Kaa felt his mind
slip reluctantly back into Anglic-using rhythms. Compelled
to speak, he used the informal click-squeal dialect fins pre-
ferred while swimming.

"Well, here it comes," he sonar-cast during the underwa-
ter phase of their next splash-and-surge cycle. "Back to
home and family . . . such as they are."

"Family?" she replied skeptically. "Brookida, perhaps. As
for Mopol and Zhaki, wouldn't you rather be related to a
penguin?"

452 David B r i n

Is my opinion of them so obvious? After breaching for air,
Kaa tried making light of things with a joke.

"Oh, I give those two some credit. With luck, they won't
have set the ocean on fire while we're gone."

Peepoe laughed, then added, "Do you think they'll be

jealous?"

Good question. Dolphins could not conceal interper-
sonal matters like humans, with their complex games of
emotional deceit. By sonar-scanning each other's viscera,
one seldom had to guess who slept with whom.

Envy wouldn't be a problem if I established clear author-
ity from the start, both as an officer and as senior-ranking

male.

Unfortunately, chain of command was a recent, human-
imposed concept. Underneath, bull dolphins still felt an-
cient drives to jostle over status and breeding rights.

In fact, Peepoe's choice might reinforce Kaa's position
atop the little local hierarchy. Though I shouldn't need
help. Not if I were a real leader.

"Jealous." He pondered, thrusting harder with his flukes,
till his beak pushed their shared shock wave, drawing her
along in his wake. "Those two are highly sexed, so maybe
they will be. But at least this way Zhaki and Mopol should
stop bothering you with hopeless propositions."

The young males had made relentless crude suggestions
toward Peepoe from the first day she arrived, even brush-
ing lewdly against her until Kaa had to rebuke them. While
it was true that dolphins had a far different scale of toler-
ance for such behavior than humans—and Peepoe was ca-
pable of taking care of herself—in this case the pair were
so persistent that Kaa had to dish out tail whacks to make
them back off.

"Hopeless?" Peepoe asked in a teasing tone. "Now
you're making assumptions. How do you know I'm mo-
nogamous? Maybe a little harem would suit me fine."

Kaa spread his jaws and aimed a nip at her nearest pec-
toral fin ... slow enough for her to slip aside, laughing,
before his teeth snapped.

"Good," she commented. "Pacific Tursiops go in for that
kinky stuff. But I prefer a nice and conservative Atlantean.

Infinirii's Shore 453

You're from Miami-Under, no? Born into an old-fashioned
line marriage, I bet."

Kaa grunted. Even the sonar-based dialect of Anglic
wasn't easy while speeding at full throttle.

"One of the Heinlein family variants," he conceded.
"The style works better for dolphins than humans. Why?
You looking for a line to marry into?"

"Mnn. I'd rather start a new one. Always hankered to be
the founding matriarch of a nice little lineage—if the mas-
ters of uplift allow it."

That was the eternal Big If. No neo-dolphin could legally
breed without permission from the Terragens Uplift Board.
Despite the unusual freedoms humans had given their cli-
ents—voting rights and the trappings of citizenship—Earth-
clan was still bound by ancient Galactic law.

Improve your clients, went the basic code of uplift. . . .
Or lose them.

"You gotta be kidding," he answered. "If any of us
Streaker fins ever do make it home somehow from this
crazed voyage, we'll never face another sapiency exam
from the masters. We may be sterilized on the spot, for all
the trouble we caused. Or else we're heroes, and it'll be
sperm-and-seed donations for the rest of our lives, foster-
ing almost the whole next neo-fin generation.

"Either way, it won't be cozy family life for any of us.
Not ever."

He hadn't expected it to come out that way, with an
edge of ironic bitterness. But Peepoe must have seen he
was telling the truth. She continued keeping pace along-
side, but her silence told Kaa how much it stung.

Great. Everything felt so fine . . . this wonderful water,
the fish we snatched for breakfast, our lovemaking. Would
it have hurt to let her stay in denial for a while, dreaming
of happy endings? Holding on to the fantasy that we might
yet go home, and lead normal lives?

"Kaa!" Brookida's cry made the tiny habitat reverberate.
"I'm glad you're back. Did your mission go well? Wait till
you hear what I discovered by correlating passive seismic
echo scans from here to Streaker's sssite. I fed the raw data

454 David B r i n

into one of Charles Dart's old programs to get tomography
images of the subcrustal zone!"
All that, on a single breath. It was what humans would

call a "mouthful."

"That's great, Brookida. But to answer your question,
our mission didn't go as well as we hoped. In fact, we have
orders to pack everything up and break camp. Gillian and
Tsh't plan to move the ship."

Brookida shook his mottled gray head. "Won't that risk
giving away Streaker's position?"

"The site's already compromised. Dr. Baskin suspects
the Jophur may be p-preoccupied, but that can't last."

It had been Kaa's mission to find out what the sooners
knew about such things. Perhaps Uriel the Smith had some
idea what the Jophur were up to. No one had blamed Kaa
for the failure—not out loud. But he knew the ship's coun-
cil -was disappointed.

I warned them to send someone better trained at spying.

He looked around. "Where are the others?"

Brookida let out a warbled sigh.

"Off joyriding on Peepoe's sled. Or else vandalizing the
fishing nets of local hoons and qheuens."

Damn! Kaa cursed. He had ordered Zhaki and Mopol to
stay within a kilometer of the dome, and restrict them-
selves to monitoring spy eyes already in place at Wuphon
Port. Above all, they were supposed to avoid direct contact

with the sooners.

"They got bored," Brookida explained. "Now that
Streakerhas Alvin and other local experts aboard, our team
is a bit redundant. It's why I've been tracing the subduc-
tion-zone magma flows. My first chance since Kithrup to
test out an idea I had, based on Charles Dart's old research.
You recall those strange beings who lived deep under
Kithrup's crust? The ones with the weird, unpronounceable

species name?"

Peepoe spoke up. "You mean the Karrank-k%?"
She did a creditable job of expressing the double-
aspirated slide tone at the end, sounding like a steam kettle

about to explode.

"Yes, quite. Well, I'd been wondering what kind of

Inflnirii's Shore 455

ecosystem could support them down there. And it got me
thinking . . ."

Brookida halted. Then all three dolphins whirled around
as the wall segment behind them began emitting a low,
scraping hum. The grating vibration hurt Kaa's jaw.

Soon, the entire habitat groaned to a rasping sonic fre-
quency Kaa recognized.

It's a saser! Someone's attacking the dome!

"Harnesses!"

At his shouted command, they all dived toward the rack
where heavy-duty tool kits were hung, ready for use. Kaa
streaked through the open end of his well-worn apparatus,
and felt its many control surfaces slide smoothly into place.
A control cable snaked toward the neural tap behind his
left eye. Robotic arms whirred as he jerked the harness free
of its rack. Peepoe's unit popped loose just half an instant
later.

A rough rectangle crept across the opposite wall, above
and below the waterline, glowing hot.

"They're cutting through!" Peepoe cried.

"Breathers!" Kaa shouted. From the back of his harness,
a hose swarmed over his blowhole, covering it with a
moist kiss and tight seal. A blast of canned air tasted even
more tinny than the recycled stuff within the dome. Kaa
sent a neural command activating his torch cutter and
saser, tools that could second as weapons in close com-
bat. . . .

But they didn't respond!

"Peepoe!" He shouted. "Check your—"

"I'm helping Brookida!" she cut in. "His harness is
stuck!"

Kaa slashed the water with his flukes, squealing a cry of
frustration. With no better options, he interposed his body
between theirs and the far wall . . .

. . . which abruptly collapsed in a wave of pummeling
froth.

Gillian

I HAVE DISCOVERED SEVERAL THINGS OF INTEREST,"
the Niss Machine told Gillian, after she wakened from a
brief induced sleep. "The first has to do with that wonder-
fully ostentatious native machine, built and operated by
the urrish tinkerer, Uriel."

Sitting in her darkened office, she watched a recorded
holo image of wheels, pulleys, and disks, whirling in a
flamboyant show of light and action. Not far from Gillian,
the ancient cadaver, Herbie, seemed to regard the same
scene. A trick of shadows made the enigmatic, mummified
face seem amused.

"Let me guess. Uriel created a computer."

The Niss reacted with surprise. Its spiral of meshed lines
tightened to a knot.

"You knew?"

"I suspected. From the kids' reports, Uriel wouldn't
waste time on anything useless or abstract. She'd want to
give her folk something special. The one thing her found-
ing ancestors absolutely had to throw away."

"Possession of computers. Good point. Dr. Baskin. Uriel
could aim no higher than to be like Prometheus. Bringing
her people the fire of calculation."

"But without digital cognizance," she pointed out. "An
undetectable computer."

"Indeed. I found no reference to such a thing in our
captured Galactic Library unit. So I turned to the pre-
contact 2198 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. There
I learned about analog computation with mechanical
components, which actually had a brief ascendancy on
Earth, using many of the same techniques we see in Uriel's
hall of spinning glass!"

"I remember hearing about this. Maybe Tom mentioned
it."

"Did he also mention that the same thing can be
achieved using simple electronic circuits? Networks of resis-
tors, capacitors, and diodes can simulate a variety of

Infinitii's Shore 457

equations. By interconnecting such units, solutions can be
worked out for limited problems.

"It provokes one to consider the military potential of
such a system. For instance, operating sneak-attack weap-
ons without digital controls, using undetectable guidance
systems."

The Niss holo performed a twist that Gillian interpreted
as a shrug.

"But then, if the notion were feasible, it would have
found its way into the Library by now."

There it was again. Even Tymbrimi suffered from the
same all-pervading supposition—that anything worth do-
ing must have been done already, over the course of two
billion years. The assumption nearly always proved true.
Still, wolfling humans resented it.

"So," Gillian prompted. "Have you figured out what
Uriel is trying to compute?"

"Ah, yes." The line motif spun contemplatively.
"That is, perhaps.

"Or rather . . . no, I have not."
"What's the problem?"
The Niss showed spiky irritation.

"My difficulty is that all the algorithms used by Uriel are
of Terran origin."

Gillian nodded.

"Naturally. Her math books came from the so-called
Great Printing, when human learning flooded this world,
most of it in the form of pre-contact texts. A mirror image
of what Galactic society did to Earth. On Jijo, we were the
ones to unleash an overpowering wealth of knowledge,
engulfing prior beliefs."

Hence also Gillian's recent, weird experience—debating
the literary merits of Jules Verne with a pair of distinctly
unhuman youngsters named "Alvin" and "Huck," whose
personalities had little in common with the stodgy Galactic
norm.

The Niss agreed, bowing its tornado of laced lines.
"You grasp my difficulty, Doctor. Despite Tymbrimi sym-
pathy toward Earthlings, my makers were uplifted as Ga-
lactic citizens, with a shared tradition. While details of my

458 David B r i n

programming are exceptional, I was designed according to
proven principles, after eons of Galactic experience refin-
ing digital computers. These precepts clash with Terran su-
perstitions— "

Gillian coughed behind her hand. The Niss bowed.

"Forgive. I meant to say, Terran lore."

"Can you give an example?"

"/ can. Consider the contrast between the word/concepts
discrete and continuous.

"According to Galactic science, anything and every-
thing can be accomplished by using arithmetic. By count-
ing and dividing, using integers and rational fractions.
Sophisticated arithmetic algorithms enable us to under-
stand the behavior of a star, for instance, by partitioning it
into ever-smaller pieces, modeling those pieces in a simple
fashion, then recombining the parts. That is the digital
way."

"It must call for vast amounts of memory and raw com-
puting power."

"True, but these are cheaply provided, enough for any
task you might require.

"Now look back at pre-contact human wolflings. Your
race spent many centuries as semicivilized beings, men-
tally ready to ask sophisticated questions, but completely •
lacking access to transistors, quantum switches, or binary '
processing. Until your great savants, Turing and Von Neu-
mann, finally expressed the power of digital computers, \
generations of mathematicians had to cope by using pencil
and paper.

"The result? A mix of the brilliant and the inane. Ab-
stract differential analysis and cabalistic numerology. Al-
gebra, astrology, and geometrical topology. Much of this
amalgam was based on patently absurd concepts, such as j
continuity, or aptly named irrational numbering, or the
astonishing notion that there are layered infinities of the
divisibly small."

Gillian sighed an old frustration.

"Earth's best minds tried to explain our math, soon after
contact. Again and again we showed it was self-consistent.
That it worked."

I n f i n i f u " s Shore 459

"Yet it accomplished nothing that could not be out-
matched in moments by calculating engines like myself.
Galactic seers dismissed all the clever equations as trickery
and shortcuts, or else the abstract ravings of savages."
She acceded with a nod.

"This happened once before, you know. In Earth's twen-
tieth century, after the Second World War, the victors
quickly split into opposing camps. Those experts you men-
tioned—Turing and von Whoever—they worked in the
west, helping set off our own digital revolution.

"Meanwhile, the east was ruled by a single dictator, I
think his name was Steel."

"Accessing the Britannica . . . You mean 'Stalin 7 Yes, I
see the connection. Until his death, Stalin obstructed
Russo-Soviet science for ideological reasons. He banished
work on genetics because it contradicted notions of com-
munist perfectibility. Moreover, he quashed work on com-
puters, calling them 'decadent.' Even after his passing,
many in the east held that calculation was crude, inele-
gant . . . only good for quick approximations. For truth,
one needed pure mathematics."

"So that's why many practitioners in the Old Math still
come from Russia." Gillian chuckled. "It sounds like yet

another inverted image of what happened to Earth, after
contact."

The Niss pondered this for a moment.

"What are you implying, Doctor? That Stalin was partly
right? That you -Terra ns were right? That you were onto
something the rest of the universe bos missed?"

"It seems unlikely, eh? And yet, isn't that slim possibility

the very reason why your makers assigned you to this
ship?"

Again, the meshed lines whirled.

"Point well taken, Dr. Baskin."

Gillian stood up to start moving her body through a se-
ries of stretching exercises. The brief sleep period had
helped. Still, there were a hundred problems to address.

"Look," she asked the Niss Machine. "Is there some
point where all this is heading? Haven't you a clue what
problem Uriel is trying to solve?"

46o   D a v I d B r i n                      !

She gestured toward the recorded image of pulleys,
leather straps, and spinning disks.

"In a word. Doctor? No.

"Oh, I can tell that Uriel is modeling a set a/simultane-
ous differential equations—to use old wolfling terminal- '•
ogy. The range of numerical values being considered I
appears to be simple, even trivial. I could outcalculate her
so-called computer with a mere one quadrilliontb of my
processing power."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because to me the problem first calls for unlocking the
code of a lost language. I need an opening, a Rosetta stone,
after which all should be instantly clear.

"In short, I need help from an Earthling, to suggest what

the expressions might be for."

Gillian shrugged.

"Another tough break, then. We've plumb run out of
mathematicians aboard this crate. Creideiki and Tom both
used to play with the Old Math. I know Charles Dart dab-
bled, and Takkata-Jim. . . ."

She sighed.
"And Emerson D'Anite. He was the last one who could

have helped you."

Gillian moved toward her reference console. "I suppose
we can scan the personnel files to see if there's anyone

else—"

"That may not be necessary," the Niss cut in. "It might

be possible to access one of the experts you already men-
tioned. "

Gillian blinked, unable to believe she heard right.     |

"What are you talking about?"

"You assigned me another problem—to find out what
the feral-sapient tytlal named 'Mudfoot' was staring at, af-
ter the council meeting. To achieve that, I enhanced the spy
camera's last scene, before the privacy wasps closed in.

"Please watch carefully, Doctor."

The big display now showed the final clear picture sent
by the lost probe. Gillian found it physically painful to
watch the insect's beating wings, and felt relief when the
Niss zoomed toward a corner of the field, pushing the pri-

1 n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 461

vacy wasp off-screen. What ballooned outward was a sec-
tion of the ornate contraption of Uriel the Smith—a marvel
of pure ingenuity and resourcefulness.

/ did take one course in the Old Math, before heading to
medical school. I could try to help. The Niss can supply pre-
contact texts. All it wants is insight. Some wolfling intu-
ition . . .

Her thoughts veered, distracted by the vivid enhance-
ment. Looming around her now was a maze of improvised
scaffolding, filled with shadows that were split, here and
there, by glaring points of light.

All this incredible activity must add up to something im-
portant.

Gillian saw the apparent goal sought by the Niss—a set
of shadows that had the soft curves of life-forms, precari-
ously balanced in the crisscrossing trusswork. Some figures
were small, with snakelike torsos and tiny legs, bran-
dishing tools with slim, many-jointed hands.

Miniature urs, she realized. The maintenance crew?

A larger silhouette loomed over these. Gillian gasped
when she saw it must be human! Then she recalled.

Of course. Humans are among Uriel's allies, and skilled
technicians. They're also good climbers, perfect to help
keep things running.

The Niss must now be straining its ability to enhance the
grainy image. The rate of magnification slowed, and re-
maining shadows peeled grudgingly before the onslaught
of computing power. But soon she knew the human was
male, from the shape of neck and shoulders. He was point-
ing, perhaps indicating a task for the little urs to perform.

Gillian saw that he had long hair, brushed left over a
cruel scar. For an instant she stared at the puckered wound
in his temple.

A moment later, the image clarified to show a smile.

Recognition hit like a blast of chill water.

"My God ... It can't be!"

The Niss crooned, expressing both satisfaction and in-
trigue.

"You confirm the resemblance?

"It does appear to be engineer Emerson D'Anite.

462 David B r i n

"Our crew mate whom we thought killed by the Old
Ones, back at the Fractal System.

"He whose scout vessel was enveloped by a globe of de-
vouring light, as the Streaker made its getaway, fleeing by
a circuitous route toward Jijo."

The Tymbrimi machine shared one trait with its makers,
a deep love of surprise. That pleasure it now expressed in
a hum of satisfaction.

"You ask frequently how anyone could have/allowed us
to this forlorn corner of the universe. Dr. Baskin.

"I believe the question just acquired new levels of co-
gency. "

K

aa

HE NEVER GOT TO PUT UP MUCH OF A FIGHT.
How could he, with all his weapons sabotaged from ,
the start? Besides, Kaa wasn't sure he could bring him- '<
self to harm one of his own kind.

Clearly, the assailants who attacked the dome had fewer

scruples.

The ruined habitat lay far below, its pieces strewn across '
the continental shelf. Along with Peepoe and Brookida,
Kaa barely dodged being pinned by the collapsing walls, j
escaping the maelstrom of metal and froth only to face the
gun barrels of well-armed captors. Herded to the surface,
he and the others panted in nervous exhaustion under the )
waning afternoon sun.                                !

In contrast, Mopol's sleek form rested almost languidly
atop the speed sled that Peepoe had brought from
Streaker's hiding place, governing the engines and arma-
ments with impulses sent down his neural tap. Swimming
nearby—wearing a fully charged tool harness—Zhaki ex-
plained the situation.

"It's like this, p-pilot-t. . . ." He slurred the words in his
eagerness. "The three of you are gonna do what we sssay,
or else."

I n f i n i r IJ ' s Shore 463

Kaa tossed his head, using his lower jaw to splash water
at Zhaki's eye.

* Silly threats from one

* Who's watched too many movies!
* Just say it, fool. Now! *

Mopol hissed angrily, but Peepoe laughed at Zhaki's
predicament. To continue his menacing speech now would
be an act of obedience to Kaa's command. It was a minor
matter—not exactly a logical checkmate. But Kaa felt it
valuable to recover even a little initiative.

"We ..." Zhaki blew air and tried again. "Mopol and I
are resigning from the Streaker crew. We're not going
back-k, and you can't make us."

5'o that's what it's about, Kaa thought.

"Desertion!" Brookida sputtered indignantly. "Letting
your crew mates down when they need you mossst!"

Mopol let out a skirl of rejection.

"Our legal term of ssservice ended almossst two years
ago."

"Right-t," Zhaki agreed. "Anyway, we never signed on
for this insanity . . . fleeing like wounded mullet across
the galaxies."

"You plan to go sooner," Peepoe fluted, her voice be-
mused. "Living wild, in this sea."

Mopol nodded. "Some were already talkin' about it, be-
fore we left-t the ship. This world's a paradise for our kind.
The whole crew oughta do it!"

"But even if they don't-t," Zhaki added, "we're gonna."

Then he added a haiku for emphasis.

* Six or seven clans

* Did this already, on shore.
* We have precedent! *

Kaa realized there was nothing he could do to change
their minds. The sea would answer his best arguments with
its fine mineral smoothness and the enticing echoes of tasty
fish. in time, the deserters would come to miss the com-
forts of civilized life, or grow bored, or realize there are

464 David B r i n

dangers even on a world without big predators. The water
had a faint, prescient choppiness, and Kaa wondered if
either of the rebel fins had ever been outside during a truly
vicious storm.

But then, hadn 't other waves of settlers faced the same
choice? The g'Keks, qbeuens, and even human beings?

"The Jophur may make it hard on you," he told them.

"We'll take our chancess."

"And if you're caught by the Institutes?" Brookida asked.
"Your presence here would be a crime, reflecting badly
on—"

Mopol and Zhaki laughed. Even Kaa found that argu-
ment easy to dismiss. Humans and chimps were already on
Jijo. If Earthclan suffered collective punishment for that
crime, a few dolphins living offshore could hardly make
things worse.

"So, what do you plan to do with us?" Kaa asked.

"Why, nothing much-ch. You and Brookida are free to
swim back to your precious Gillian Basssskin, if you like."

"That could take a week!" Brookida complained. But
Kaa struggled against involuntary spasms in his harness
arms, set off by Zhaki's implication. Before he could un-
strangle his speech centers, Peepoe expressed his dread.

"Jussst Kaa and Brookida? You're insisting that I stay?"

Mopol chittered assent with such glee that it came out
sounding more like gutter Primal Delphin than Trinary.

"That's the p-plan," Zhaki confirmed. "We'd make a
poor excuse for a c-colony without at least one female."

Kaa abruptly saw their long-term scheme. Mopol's spell
of malingering sickness had been meant to draw one of
Makanee's nurses out here from the ship. Most were young
females, with Peepoe the best catch of all.

"Will you add kidnap-ping to the crime of desertion?"
she asked, sounding as fascinated as fearful.

Kaa's blood surged hot as Zhaki flipped around to streak
past Peepoe, gliding along her belly, upside down.

"You won't call it that-t after a while," Zhaki promised,
leaving a trail of bubbles as he rolled suggestively. "In
time, you'll c-call this your luckiessst day."

At that point, Kaa reached the limit of his endurance.
With a lashing of flukes, he charged—

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore  465

•     •     •

There was a blank time after that . . . and some more that
went by all in a haze—half-numb and half-pained.

Drifting, Kaa was sustained by instinct as his body per-
formed the needed motions. Staying upright. Kicking to
bring his blowhole above the watery surface. Breathing.
Submerging once again. Allowing his unraveled self to knit
slowly back together.

"C-come on now, my boy," the helper told him. "It'sss
only a bit farther."

Dutifully, Kaa swam alongside, doing as he .was told.
You learned this at an early age . . . when injured, always
obey the helper. It might be your mother, or an auntie, or
even some older male in the pod. Someone always was the
helper ... or else the sea would claim you.

In time, he recalled this helper's name—Brookida. He
also began recognizing the peculiar lap and texture of litto-
ral water, not far from shore. Kaa even recalled part of
what put him in this condition ... a state so dazed that
all speech thoughts were driven from his mind.

There had been a fight. He had charged against harsh
odds, hoping to take his enemies by surprise ... by the
sheer audacity of the attack.

It took just one blast of concentrated sound to knock
him in a double flip, with tremors shaking every muscle.
Paralyzed, he distantly sensed the two male foes move off
. . . taking his love with them.

"You feeling better now?" Brookida asked. The older
dolphin cast a sonar sweep through Kaa's innards, check-
ing on his progress. Some mental clouds were parting.
Enough to recall a few more facts. The shattered habitat—
not worth revisiting. The hopelessness of pursuing a speed
sled, even one burdened with three passengers, since night
was soon approaching.

Both arms of his harness twitched as his rattled brain
sent spasmodic commands down the neural link. Kaa man-
aged to lift his head a bit, the next time he breathed, and
recognized the shape of nearby coastal hills. Brookida was
herding him closer to the native fishing town.

"Mopol and Zhaki wrecked the cables and transmit-
tersss, back at the dome. But-t I figure we can find the lines

466   D a v i d B r i n

leading to the spy drones in Wuphon Port, tap into those,
and contact the ship-p."

Some order was slipping into Kaa's chaotic thoughts.
Enough to comprehend a bit of what the old fin said. This
return of sapiency left him with mixed feelings—relieved
that the loss was not permanent, plus regretful longing for
the simplicity that must now go away, replaced by urgent,
hopeless needs.

Trinary came back more easily than Anglic.

* We must pursue the—

* Spawn of syphilitic worms,

* While their sound spoor's fresh! *

"Yes, of course. I agree. How awful for Peepoe, poor
lass. But first let's contact Streaker. Maybe our crew mates
can help."

Kaa hearkened to the sense in that. One of the first prin-
ciples of human legality that dolphins clearly understood
was that of a posse, which had analogies in natural ceta-
cean society. When an offense is committed against the
pod, you can call for help. You should not face trouble
alone.

He let Brookida lead him to the site where fiber cables
from the onshore spy eyes all converged below. Booming
surf reminded Kaa unhappily of this morning's lovemak-
ing. The sound made him squeal a Primal protest, railing
against the unfairness of it all. To find a mate and lose her
on the same day.

The water tasted of qheuens and hoons . . . plus
wooden planks and tar. Kaa rested at the surface, sifting
his mind back together while Brookida dived down to es-
tablish the link.

A saser . . . Zhaki -shot me with a saser beam.

Dimly he realized that Zhaki might have saved his life. If
that bolt hadn't stopped him, Mopol would surely have
fired next, using the more powerful unit on the sled.

But saved me. . . . for what?

If ni tell me . . . what's the point?

Kaa didn't figure he still had his nickname anymore.

I n F i n i r i| ' s Shore 467

A few hours . . . now it's gone again. She took it with
her.

Brookida surfaced next to him, sputtering elation, hav-
ing achieved quick success.

"Got it-t! Come on, Kaa. I've got Gillian on the line. She
wants to talk to you."

Sometimes life is filled with choices. You get to select
which current to ride, which tide to pull your destiny.

Other times leave you torn . . . wrenched apart . . .
as if two orcas had a grip on you, one biting hard on your
flukes while the other plays tug-of-war with your snout.

Kaa heard the order. He understood it.

He wasn't at all sure he could obey.

"I'm sorry about Peepoe, " Gillian Baskin said, her voice
crackling over the makeshift comm line, conveyed directly
to Kaa's auditory nerves. "We'll rescue her, and deal with
•the deserters, when opportunity permits. Believe me, it's a
high priority.

"But this other task is crucial. Our lives may depend on
it, Kaa."
The human paused.

"/ want you to bead straight into Wuphon Harbor.
"It's time one of us went to town."

I n f I n i r u ' s Shore 469

DO NOT SQUIRM SO! Instead you should exult in this
recovery of something so important.
The Egg.

Sooners

wasx

MY RINGS, IT HAS FINALLY HAPPENED.
Rejoice! Your master torus has ultimately managed to
recover some of the fatty memories you/we/I had
thought forever lost! Those valuable recall tracks that were
erased when brave-foolish Asx melted the wax!

That act of wrong loyalty stymied the usefulness of this
hybrid ring stack for much too long. Some of the Polkjhy
crew called us/Me a failed experiment. Even the Captain-
Leader questioned this effort . . . this attempt to convert a
wild traeki into our loyal authority on Jijoan affairs.

Admittedly, our/My expertise about the Six Races has
been uneven and fitful. Mistakes were made despite/
because of our advice.

BUT NOW I/WE HAVE REACQUIRED THIS SECRET!
This conviction that once filled the mulch center of the
diffuse being called Asx.

Deep beneath the melted layers, a few memory tracks
remained.

So far, we have seen only insolence from the sooner
races—delays and grudging cooperation with the survey
teams we send forth.

No voluntary gathering of g'Kek vermin at designated
collection points.

No migration of traeki stacks for appraisal-and-conver-
sion.

Swarms of supervised robots have begun sifting the
countryside for groups of g'Kek and traeki, herding them
toward enclosures where their numbers can be concen-
trated at higher density. But this task proves laborious and
inefficient. It would be far more convenient if the locals
were persuaded to perform the task on their own.

'Worse, these fallen beings still refuse to admit any
knowledge of the Earthling prey ship.

IT PROVES DIFFICULT TO COERCE GREATER COOPERA-
TION.

Attacks on population centers are met with resignation
and dispersal.

Their dour religion confounds us with stoic passivity. It
is hard to deprive hope from a folk that never had much.

BUT NOW WE HAVE A NEW TARGET!

One more meaningful to the Six Races than any of their
campsite villages. A target to convince them of our ruthless
resolve.

We already knew something of this Great Egg. Its throb-
bing radiations were an irritant, disrupting our instruments,
but we dismissed it as a geophysical anomaly. Psi-resonant
formations exist on some worlds. Despite local mythology,
our onboard Library cube can cite other cases. A rare phe-
nomenon, but understood.

Only now we realize how deeply this stone is rooted in

471

470 David B r i n

the savages' religion. It is their central object of reverence.
Their "soul."

How amusing.
How pathetic.
And how very convenient.

ubben

THE LAST TIME HIS AGED WHEELS HAD ROLLED
| along this dusty trail, it was in the company of twelve
I twelves of white-robed pilgrims—the finest eyes, minds,
and rings of all six races—winding their way past sheer
cliffs and steam vents in a sacred quest to seek guidance
from the Holy Egg. For a time, that hopeful procession had
made the canyon walls reverberate with fellowship vibra-
tions—the Commons united and at peace.

Alas, before reaching its goal, the company fell into a
maelstrom of fire, bloodshed, and despair. Soon the sages
and their followers were too busy with survival to spend
time meditating on the ineffable. But during the weeks
since, Vubben could never shake a sense of unfinished
business. Of something vital, left undone.

Hence this solitary return journey, even though it
brought his frail wheels all too near the Jophur foe ship.
Vubben's axles and motive spindles throbbed from the
cruel climb, and he longingly recalled that a brave qheuen
had volunteered to carry him all the way here, riding in
comfort on a broad gray back.

But he could not accept. Despite creakiness and age,
Vubben had to come alone.

At last he reached the final turn before entering the Nest.
Vubben paused to catch his breath and smooth his ruffled
thoughts in preparation for the trial ahead. He used a soft
rag to wipe green sweat off all four eye hoods and stalks.

It is said thatg'Kek bodies could never have evolved on a
planet. Our wheels and wbiplike limbs better suit the artifi-
cial worlds where our star-god ancestors dwelled, before
they gambled a great wager, won their bet, and lost every-
thing.

n f i n i r n' s Shor

He often wondered what it must have been like to abide
in some vast spinning city whose inner space was spanned
by countless slender roadways that arched like ribbons of
spun sugar. Intelligent paths that would twist, gyre, and
reconnect at your command, so the way between any two
points could be just as straight or deliciously curved as you
liked. To live where a planet's grip did not press you re-
lentlessly, every dura from birth till death, squashing your
rims and wearing away your bearings with harsh grit.

More than any other sooner race, the g'Kek had to work
hard in order to love Jijo. Our refuge. Our purgatory.

Vubben's eyestalks contracted involuntarily as the Egg
once again made its presence known. A surge of tywush
vibrations seemed to rise from the ground. The sporadic
patterning tremors had grown more intense, the nearer he
came to the source. Now Vubben shivered as another wave
front stroked his tense spokes, making his brain resound in
its hard case. Words could not express the sensation, even
in Galactic Two or Three. The psi-effect provoked no im-
ages or dramatic emotions. Rather, a feeling of expectation
seemed to build, slowly but steadily, as if some long-
awaited plan were coming to fruition at long last.

The episode peaked . . . then passed quickly away,
still lacking the coherence he hoped for.

Then let us begin in earnest, Vubben thought. His motor
spindles throbbed, helped along by slender pusher legs, as
both wheels turned away from the sunset's dimming glow,
toward mystery.

The Egg loomed above, a rounded shelf of stone that
stretched ahead for half an arrowflight before curving out
of sight. Although a century of pilgrimages had worn a trail
of packed pumice, it still took almost a midura for Vubben
to roll his first circuit around the base of the ovoid, whose
mass pressed a deep basin in the flank of a dormant vol-
cano. Along the way, he raised slender arms and eyestalks,

472 David Brio

lofting them in gentle benediction, supplementing his
mental entreaty with the language of motion.

Help your people. . . . Vubben urged, seeking to atune
his thoughts, harmonizing them with the cyclical vibra-
tions.

Rise up. Waken. Intervene to save us. . . .

Normally, an effort at communion involved more than
one suppliant. Vubben would have merged his contribu-
tion with a hoon's patience, the tenacity of a qheuen, a
traeki's selfless affinity, plus that voracious will to know
that made the best urs and humans seem so much alike,
But such a large group might be detected moving about
close to the Jophur. Anyway, he could not ask others to
risk being caught in the company of a g'Kek.

With each pass around the Egg, he sent one eye wafting
up to peer at Mount Ingul, whose spire was visible beyond
the crater's rim. There, Phwhoon-dau had promised to sta-
tion a semaphore crew to alert Vubben in case of any ap-
proaching threat—or if there were changes in the tense
standoff with the aliens. So far, no warnings were seen
flashing from that western peak.

But he faced other distractions, just as disturbing to his
train of thought.

. Loocen hovered in the same western quarter of the sky,
with a curve of bright pinpoints shining along the moon's
crescent-shaped terminator, dividing sunlit and shadowed
faces. Tradition said those lights were domed cities. The
departing Buyur left them intact, since Loocen had no na-
tive ecosystem to recycle and restore. Time would barely
touch them until this fallow galaxy and its myriad star sys-
tems were awarded to new legal tenants, and the spiral
arms once more teemed with commerce.

How those lunar cities must have tempted the first g'Kek
exiles, fleeing here/row their abandoned space habitats,
just a few sneak jumps ahead of baying lynch mobs. Feel-
ing safe at last, after passing through the storms of
Izmunuti, those domes would have enticed them with re-
minders of home^ A promise of low gravity and clean,
smooth surfaces.

But such places offered no reliable, long-term shelter

Infinifu's Shore 473

against relentless enemies. A planet's surface was better for
fugitives, with a life-support system that needed no com-
puter regulation. A natural world's complex mossiness
made it a fine place to hide, if you were willing to live as
primitives, scratching a subsistence like animals.

In fact, Vubben had few clues of what passed through
the original colonists' minds. The Sacred Scrolls were the
only written records from that time, and they mostly ig-
nored the past, preaching instead how to live in harmony
on Jijo, and promising salvation to those following the Path
of Redemption.

Vubben was renowned for skill at reciting those hal-
lowed texts. But in truth, we sages stopped relying on the
scrolls a century ago.

He resumed the solitary pilgrimage, commencing his
fourth circuit just as another tywush wave commenced.
Vubben now felt certain the cycles were growing more
coherent. Yet there was also a feeling that much more
power lay quiescent, far below the surface—power he des-
perately needed to tap.

Hoon and qheuen grandparents passed on testimony
that the patterns were more potent in the last days of
Drake the Younger, when the Egg was still warm with birth
heat, fresh from Jijo's womb. Compelling dreams used to
flood all six races back then, convincing all but the most
conservative that a true revelation had come.

Politics also played a role in the great orb's acceptance.
Drake and Ur-Chown made eager proclamations, interpret-
ing the new omen in ways that helped consolidate the
Commons.

"This stone-of-ivisdom is Jijo's gift, a portent, sanctifying
the treaties and ratifying the Great Peace, " they declared,
with some success. From then on, hope became part of the
revised religion. Though in deference to the scrolls, the
word itself was seldom used.

Now Vubben sought some of that hope for himself, for
his race, and all the Six. He sought it in signs that the great
stone might be stirring once again.

/ can feel it happening! If only the Egg rouses far
enough, soon enough.

But the increasing activity seemed to follow its own

474 David B r i n

pace, with a momentum that made him feel like an insect,
dancing next to some titanic being.

Perhaps, Vubben suspected, my presence has nothing to
do with these changes.

What happens next may not involve me at all.

BLd

ade

THE WINDS WERE BLOWING HIM THE WRONG WAY. '
No real surprise there. Weather patterns on the Slope
had been contrary for. more than a year. Anyway, meta-
phorically, the Six Races were being buffeted by gales of
change. Still, at the end of a long, eventful day, Blade had
more than enough reason to curse the stubbornly perverse

breeze.

By late afternoon, slanting sunshine combed the forests
and boo groves into a panorama of shadows and light. The
Rimmers were a phalanx of giant soldiers, their armored
shells blushing before the lowering sun. Below, a vast
marsh had given way to prairie, which in turn became for-
ested hills. Few signs of habitation could be seen from his
great height, though Blade was handicapped by a basic
inability to look directly down. The chitinous bulk of his
wide body blocked any direct view of the ground.

How I would love, just once in my life, to see what lies
below my own feet!

His five legs weren't doing much at the moment. The
claws dangled over open space, snapping occasionally in
reflex spasms, trying futilely to get a grip on the clear air,
Even more disconcerting, the sensitive feelers around his
mouth had no earth or mud to brush against, probing the
many textures of the ground. Instead, they, too, hung use-
lessly. Blade felt numb and bare in the direction a qheuen
least liked being exposed.

That had been the hardest part to get used to, after take-
off. To a qheuen, life's texture is determined by its me-
dium. Sand and salt water to a red. Freshwater and mud to
a blue. A world of stony caverns to imperial grays. Al-
though their ancestors had starships, Jijo's qheuens seemed
poor candidates for flight.

nf \ i| ' s Shore 475

As open country glided majestically past, Blade pon-
dered being the first of his kind in hundreds of years to
soar.

Some adventure! It will be worth telling Log Biter and the
other matrons about, when I return to that homey lodge
behind Dolo Dam. The grubs, in their murky den, will
want to hear the story at least forty or fifty times.

If only this voyage would get a little less adventurous,
and more predictable.

I hoped to be communicating with Sara by now, not
drifting straight toward the enemy's toothy maw.

Above Blade's cupola and vision strip, he heard valves
open with a preliminary hiss—followed by a roaring burst
of heat. Unable to shift or turn his suspended body, he
could only envision the urrish contraptions in a wicker bas-
ket overhead, operating independently, using jets of flame
to replenish the hot-air bag, keeping his balloon to a
steady altitude.

But not a steady heading.

Everything was as automatic as the smiths' technology
allowed, but there was no escaping the tyranny of the
wind. Blade had just one control to operate—a cord at-
tached to a distant knife that would rip the balloon open
when he pulled, releasing the buoyant vapors and drop-
ping him out of the sky at a smooth rate—so the smiths
assured—fast, but not too fast. As pilot, he had one duty, to
time his plummet so it ended in a decent-sized body of
water.

Even arriving at a fair clip, no mere splash should harm
his armored, disklike form. If a tangle of rope and torn
fabric pinned his legs, dragging him down, Blade could
hold his breath long enough to chew his way free and
creep ashore.

Nevertheless, it had been hard to convince the survivors'
council, ruling over the ruins of Ovoom Town, to let him
try this crazy idea. They naturally doubted his claim that a
blue qheuen should be their next courier.

But too many human boys and girls have died in recent
days, rushing about in flimsy gliders. Urrish balloonists

476   D

have been breaking necks and legs. All I have to do is crash
into liquid and I'm guaranteed to walk away. Today's
crude circumstances make me an ideal aviator!

There was just one problem. While hooking Blade into
this conveyance, the smiths had assured him the afternoon
breeze was reliable this time of year, straight up the valley
of the Gentt. It should waft him all the way to splashdown
at Prosperity Lake within a few miduras, leaving more than
enough time to dash at a rapid qheuen gait and reach the
nearest semaphore station by nightfall. His packet of re-
ports about conditions at ravaged Ovoom would then slide
into the flashing message stream. And then Blade could
finally scratch his lingering duty itch, restoring contact with
Sara as he had vowed. Assuming she was at Mount Guenn,
that is.

Only the winds changed, less than a midura after take-
off. The promised quick jaunt east became a long detour
north.

Toward borne, he noted. Unfortunately, the enemy lay in
between. At this rate he'd be shot down before Dolo Vil-
lage ever hove into view.

To make matters worse, he was starting to get thirsty.

This situation—it is ridiculous, Blade grumbled as sun-
set brought forth stars. The breeze broke up into rhythmic,
contrary gusts. Several times, these bursts raised his hopes
by shoving the balloon toward peaks where he spied other
semaphore stations, passing soft flashes down the moun-
tain chain. There was apparently a lot of message activity
tonight, much of it heading north.

But whenever some large lake seemed about to pass
below the bulging gasbag, another hard gusset blew in,
pushing him at an infuriating angle, back over jagged rocks
and trees. Frustration only heightened his thirst.

If this keeps up, I'll be so dehydrated that I'd dive fora
little puddle.

Blade soon realized how far he had come. As the last
light of day vanished from the tallest peaks, he spied a cleft
in the mountains that any Sixer would recognize—the pass
leading to Festival Glade, where each year the Commons
of Six Races gathered to celebrate—-and mourn—another
year of exile. For some time after the sun was gone,

Infinltii's Shore 477

Loocen's bright crescent kept him company, illuminating
the foothills. Blade expected the surface to draw closer as
he was pushed northeast, but the simpleminded urrish al-
timeter somehow sensed changing ground levels and re-
acted with another jet of flame, preventing the balloon
from meeting the valley floor.

Then Loocen sank as well, abandoning him to a world of
shadows. The mountains became little more than black
bites, torn out of the starry heavens. It left Blade all alone
with his imagination, speculating how theJophur were go-
ing to deal with him.

Would there be a flash of cold flame, as he had seen
darting from the belly of the cruel corvette that devastated
Ovoom Town? Would they rip him to bits with scalpels of
sound? Or were he and the balloon destined for vaporiza-
tion upon making contact with some defensive force field?
The kind of barrier often described in garish Earthling
novels?

Worst of all, he pictured a "tractor beam," seizing and
dragging him down to torment in some Jophur-designed

hell,

The cord—should I pull it now? he wondered. Lest our
foes learn the secret of hot-air balloons?

Qheuens never used to laugh before coming to Jijo. But
somehow the blue variety picked up the habit, infuriating
their Gray Queens, even before hoons and humans could
be blamed as bad influences. Blade's legs now contracted,
quivering as a calliope of whistles escaped his breathing
vents.

Right' We mustn't allow this "technology" to fall into the
wrong hands ... or rings. Why, theJophur might make
balloons of their own, to use against us!

The upland canyons answered with faint repetitions of
his laughter—echoes that cheered him up a little, as if there
were an audience for his imminent parting from the uni-
verse. No qheuen likes to die alone, Blade thought, tighten-
ing his grip on the cord that would send him plunging to
Jijo's dark embrace. / only hope someone finds enough shell
fragments to dross. . . .

At that moment, a faint glimmer made him pause. It
came from dead ahead, farther up the narrowing valley,

I               I n f i n i \ i| ' s S h o r e   479

478 David B r i n

below the mountain pass. Blade tried focusing his visor,
but again had to curse the poor vision his race inherited
from ancient times. He peered at the pale shine.

Could it be . . . ?

The soft rays reminded him of starlight, glancing off wa-
ter, making him hold off yanking the cable for a few duras.
If it was an alpine lake, he might have just a little time to[
estimate the distance, include his rate of drift, and guess8
the right moment to pull. With my luck, it will turn out to;

be a mule spider's acid pit. At least that would take care of
the mulching problem.

The glimmer drew nearer, but its outline seemed
strangely smooth, unlike a natural body of water. Its profile
was oval, and the reflections had a convex quality that—

Ifni and the ancestors! Blade cursed in surprised dismay.
It is the Jophur ship!

He stared in blank awe at the size of the globular thing

5"o huge, I thought it was part of the landscape.

Worse, he measured his course and heading.

Soon, I'll be right on top of it.

If anything, the wind stiffened from behind, accelerating
his approach.

At once, Blade had an idea. One that changed his mind
about the cruelty of fate.

This is better, he decided. It will be like that novel I read
last winter, by that pre-contact human, Vonnegut. The
book ended with the hero making a bold, personal gesture
toward God.

The point seemed apropos then, and even more so now
When faced with casual extinction by an omnipotent force, i
sometimes the only option left to a poor mortal is to go out»
with defiance.

That proved remarkably feasible. Qheuen mouth parts
served many functions, including sexual. So Blade made i
virtue of his exposed posture, and got ready to present
himself to the enemy in the most deliberately offensive
manner possible.

Look THIS up in your Galactic Library! he thought, wav- (
ing his sensor feelers suggestively. Perhaps, before he was
vaporized, the Jophur would call up reference data dealing
with starfaring qheuens, and realize the extent of his inso

lence. Blade hoped his life would count for at least that
much. To be killed in anger, not as an afterthought.

Waves of tingling sensation coursed his feelers, and
Blade wondered if danger was provoking some perverted
version of the mating urge. Well, after all, here I am, veer-
ing toward a big, armored, dominant entity with my pri-
vates bared.

Log Biter would not approve of the comparison, I sup-
pose.

As the wind pushed him toward the battleship—a thing
so huge it rivaled nearby mountains—all sight of it van-
ished beneath the forward edge of his chitin carapace. It
would be out of sight during final approach, an irony
Blade did not find amusing.

Then, to his great surprise, there rushed into sight the
very thing he had been longing for—a lake. A. large one,
dammed up behind the great cruiser, drowning the Festival
Glade .under hectares of cool snowmelt.

If they don't shoot me down, he could not help speculat-
ing. If they fail to notice me, I might yet reach . . .

But how could they not spy this approaching gasbag?
Surely they must already have him pinned by star-god in-
struments.

Sure enough, the tingling of Blade's exposed feelers
multiplied in rapid waves, as if they were being stroked—
then stung—by a host of squirming shock worms. Not a
sexual stirring, though. Instead the sensation triggered for-
aging instincts, causing his diamond-tipped incisors to

snap reflexively, as if grabbing through mud at armored

prey.

The feelers pick up magnetic and electric vibrations from

hidden muck crawlers, he recalled.
Electromagnetic . . . I'm being scanned!
Each time he panted breath through a leg vent, another

dura passed. The lake swelled, and he knew the ship must

be almost directly below by now. What were they waiting
for?

Then a new thought occurred to Blade.
I'm being scanned . . . but can they see me?
If only he had studied more science at the Tarek Town
academy. Although grays tended to be better at abstrac-

480 David B r i n

tions—the reason why they took real names—Blade knewg
he should have insisted on taking that basic physics!

course.

Let's see. In human novels, they speak of "radar" . .
radio waves sent out to bounce of/distant objects, giving
away the location of intruders, for instance.

But you only get a good echo if it's something radio mill
bounce off. Metal, or some other hard stuff.           \

Blade quickly pulled his teeth back in. Otherwise, his:

bottom was his softest part, featuring multifaceted planes
that might deflect incoming rays in random directions. The
gasbag, he figured, must seem hardly more dense than a;

rain cloud!

Now, if only the urrish altimeter would wait awhile
longer before adjusting the balloon's height, shooting hot
flame with a roar to fill the night ...

The tingling peaked . . . then started to diminish. Mo-
ments later, coolness stroked Blade's underside and he
sensed the allure of water below. Tentative relief came ac-
companied by worry, for cold air would increase his rate of

sink.

Now? Shall I pull the cord, before the flames turn on and
give me away?

Water beckoned. Blade yearned to wash the dust fromt
his vent pores. Yet he held back. Even if his sudden plum-
, met from the sky didn't draw attention, he would land in
the worst lake on Jijo, deep inside the Jophur defense pe-
rimeter, presumably patrolled by all sorts of hunter ma-
chines. Perhaps the robots had missed him till now
because the possibility of floating qheuens had never been
programmed into them. But a swimming qheuen most cer-
tainly was.

Anyway, the water gave him a strange feeling. There
were flickerings under the surface—eerie flashes that rein-
forced his decision to hold back.

Each passing dura ratified the choice, as a separation
slowly increased between Blade and the giant dread-
nought, reappearing behind him as a dark curve with glim-
mering highlights, divided about a third of the way up by a
rippling, watery line. It made him feel distinctly creepy.

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 481

Abruptly, a pinpoint of brilliance flared from the side of
the globe ship, seeming to stab straight toward him.

Here it comes, Blade thought.

But the flaring light was no heat ray. No death beam,
after all. Instead, the pinpoint widened. It became a glow-
ing rectangular aperture. A door.

A mighty big door, Blade realized, wondering what
could possibly take up so much room inside a mammoth
star cruiser.

Apparently—another star cruiser.

From the gaping hangar, a sleek cigar shape emerged
with a low hum, moving gradually at first, then accelerating
toward Blade.

All right then. Not extinction. Capture. But why send
that big thing after me?

Perhaps they saw his obscene gesture, and understood
better than he expected.

Once more, Blade readied the rip cord. At the last mo-
ment, he would plummet from their grasp ... or else
they'd shoot him as he fell. Or hunter robots would track
him, underwater or overland. Still, it seemed proper to
make the effort. At least I'll get a drink.

Again, night vision gave him trouble. Estimating the cor-
vette's rate of closure proved futile. In frustration, Blade's
thoughts slipped from Anglic and into the easier grooves of
Galactic Six.

This specter of terror—I have seen it before.
This thing I saw last—as it burned down a city.
A city of felons—of sooners—my people.

His legs flexed spasmodically as the ship rushed toward
him without slowing ...
What the—

. . . and kept going, sweeping past with a roar of dis-
placed air.

Blade felt hooks of urrish steel yank his carapace at all
five suspension points. One anchor broke free, tearing chi-
tin armor like paper, then flinging wildly as the balloon
was sucked after the skyship's wake.

482 David B r i n

The world passed in a blur, teaching him what real Hy-
ing was about.

Then the Jophur vessel was gone, ignoring balloon and
passenger with contempt, or else indifference. He
glimpsed it once more, still climbing steadily toward the
Rimmer peaks, leaving him swirling in a backwash of con-
fusion and disturbed air.

Vuooen

RFTER A TIME, VUBBEN FINALLY SUCCEEDED IN
quelling his busy thoughts, allowing the tywush
resonance to pervade his soul, washing away distrac-
tions and doubts. Another midura passed, and another
prayer circuit, while his meditation deepened. After
Loocen set, a vast skyscape of constellations and nebulae
passed overhead. Twinkling abode of the gods,

As he rounded back to the west side, another kind of
winking light caught one of Vubben's eyes—a syncopated
flash unlike any gleaming star. Still wrapped in his trance,
Vubben had to labor just to lift a second stalk and recog-
nize the flicker as coded speech.

It took more effort, and yet a third eye, to decipher it,

JOPHUR SMALLSHIP/DEATHSHIP IN MOTION, flashed the lantern on
Mount Ingul. HEADING TOWARD EGG.

The message repeated. Vubben even glimpsed a distant
sparkle, echoing the words on a farther peak, and realized
that other semaphore stations must be relaying the mes-
sage. Still, his brain was tuned to another plane, preventing
him from quite grasping its significance.

Instead, he went back to the sensory phantasm that had
been drawing him inward—an impression of being
perched atop a swaying ribbon, one that slowly yawed and
pitched like some undulating sea.

It was not an unpleasant feeling. Rather, he felt almost
like a youngster again, growing up in Dooden Mesa,
zooming recklessly along a swaying suspension bridge,
feeling its planks rattle beneath his rims, swooping and

I n f i n i r IJ ' s Shore 483

banking without a safety rail while lethal drops gaped on
both sides. His taut spokes hummed as he sped like a bul-
let, with all four eyestalks stretched wide for maximum
parallax.

The moment came back to him whole—not as a distant,
fond memory, but in all its splendor. It was the closest
thing to paradise he had ever experienced on Jijo's rough
orb.

Amid the exhilaration, part of Vubben knew he must
have crossed some boundary. He was with the Egg now,
sensing the approach of a massive object from the west. A
deadly thing, complacent and terrible, cruising at a lei-
surely pace uphill from the Glade.

Leisurely—according to those aboard, that is.

Somehow, Vubben could sense gravitic fields pressing
down, tearing leaves from trees, scraping and penetrating
Jijo's soil, disturbing ancient rocks. He even knew intuitive
things about the crew within—multiringed entities, far
more self-assured and unified than traeki.

Strange rings. Egotistical and driven.

Determined to wreak havoc.

Blade

THE BALLOON'S ALTIMETER MUST BE MALFUNCTION-
ing, he realized. Or else the fuel tank was running low.

Either way, the automatic adjustments were growing
more sporadic. Unnerving sputtering sounds accompanied
each burst of heat, and the pulses came less frequently.

Finally, they halted altogether.

The lake had vanished behind him during those frantic
duras when the spaceship's wake dragged the balloon be-
hind it, past the ruined Glade into a narrow pass, toward
the Rimmer heights. Also gone was Blade's last chance to
pull the rip cord and land in deep water. Instead, trees
spired around him, like teeth of a comb you used to pluck
fleas from your pet lornik.

And I am the flea.

484 David B r i n

Assuming he survived when a forest giant snatched him
from the sky, someone might hear his cries and come. But
then, what will they think when they find a qheuen in a

tree?

The phrase was a popular metaphor for unlikeliness—a
contradiction in terms—like a swimming urs, or a modest
human, or an egotistical traeki.

This appears to be the year for contradictions.

A branch top brushed one of his claw tips. Blade yanked
back so reflexively that his whole body spun around. All
five legs were kept drawn in after that. Still, he expected
another impact at any moment.

Instead, the forest abruptly ended. Blade had an impres-
sion of craggy cliffs, and a sulfurous odor stroked his
tongue. Then came a sensation of upward motion!

And heat. His mouth feelers curled in reaction to a blast
from below.

Of course, he realized. Go east from the Glade for a few
leagues, and you 're in geyser country.

The balloon soared, its drooping canopy now buoyed by

a warm updraft.

TheJophur ship must have dragged me into a particular
canyon. The Pilgrimage Track.

The path leading to the Egg.

Blade's body kept spinning, even as the gasbag climbed.
To other beings, it" might have been disconcerting, but
qheuens had no preferred orientation. It never mattered
which way he was "facing." So Blade was ready when the
object he sought came into view.

There it is!

The corvette lay dead ahead. It had stopped motionless
and was now shining a searchlight downward, circling a
site that Blade realized could only be the Nest.

What is it planning to do?

He recalled Ovoom Town, where the aliens chose to
attack at night for maximum terror and visual effect. Could
that be the intent, once again?

But surely the Jophur would not harm the Egg!

Blade had never shown the slightest psi-ability. Yet it
seemed that feelings now crept inward from his extremities

I n f I n i I i| ' s Shore 485

to the flexing lymph pump at his body center. Expectation
came first. Then something akin to intrigued curiosity.

Finally, in rapid succession, he felt recognition, realiza-
tion, and a culminating sense of disappointed ennui. All
these impressions swept over him in a matter of moments,
and he somehow knew they weren't coming from the
Jophur.

Indeed, whatever had just happened—a psi-insult or
failed communication—it seemed to anger those aboard
the cruiser, goading them to action. The searchlight nar-
rowed from a diffuse beam to a needle of horrific brilliance
that stabbed down viciously. It took duras for sound to
follow ... a staccato series of crackling booms. Blade
could not see the obscured target, but glowing smoke bil-
lowed from the point of impact.

A shrill, involuntary whistle escaped Blade's vents and
his legs tightened spasmodically. Yet there was no impres-
sion of pain, or even surprise. It will take more than that,
he thought proudly. A lot more.

Of course, the Jophur could dish out whatever it took to
turn the defenseless Egg into a molten puddle. Their intent
was now clear. This act, more even than the slaying at
Ovoom Town, would tear the morale of the Six.

Blade urged his windblown vehicle onward, hoping to
arrive in time.

L^arl

THREE HUMANS IN A PRISON CELL WATCHED A PAN-
orama of destruction, reacting in quite different ways.
Lark stared at the holoscene with the same supersti-
tious thrill he felt months ago, encountering Galactic tech
for the first time. The images seemed to demand habits,
ways of seeing, learned at an early age. Things he should
recognize—the Rimmer mountains, for instance—pos-
sessed a slippery quality. Odd perspective foldings con-
veyed far more than you'd see through a window the same

486   D a

size . . . especially when the scene hovered over the
Holy Egg.

"Your obstinacy—joint and particular—brought yowl
people to this juncture, " the tall stack of rings said.

"Destroying mere towns did not sway you, since your so-
called Sacred Scrolls preach the/utility of tangible assets.

"But now, observe as our corvette strikes a blow atyow
true underpinnings."

A glaring needle struck the Egg. Almost at once, waves
of pain engulfed Lark's chest. Falling back with a cry, he
tore at his clothes, trying to fling away the stone amulet
hanging from a thong around his neck. Ling tried to help,
but could not grasp the meaning of his agony.

The ordeal might have killed him, but then it ended as
suddenly as it began. The cutting ray vanished, leaving a
smoking scar along the Egg's flank.

Ewasx burbled glad exhalations about "a signal" and
"gratifying surrender."

Lark bunched the fabric of his undershirt around the Egg
fragment, wrapping it to prevent contact with his skin.
Only then did he notice that Ling had his head on her lap,
stroking his face, telling him that everything was going to
be all right.

Yeah, sure it is, Lark thought, recognizing a well-meant
lie. But the gesture, the warm contact, was appreciated.

As his eyes unblurred, Lark saw Rann looking his way,
The big Danik had cool disdain in his eyes. Scorn that Lark
would react so to the superficial wounding of rock. Con-
tempt that Ling would soil her hands on a native. And
derision that the Six Races would give in so easily, surren-
dering to the Jophur in order to salvage a mere lump
of psi-active stone. Rann had already proved willing to
sacrifice himself and all his comrades, to protect his
patron race. Clearly, he thought any lesser courage unwor-
thy.

Go kiss a Rothen 's feet, Lark thought. But he did not
speak aloud.

The corvette had turned away from the Egg. Its transmis-
sion now showed the camera gaining altitude, sweeping
above dark ridgelines.

nf r i|' s Shore 487

The country was familiar. Lark ought to recognize it.

Lester Cambel . . . They're heading straight toward
tester . . . and the boo forest. . . .

So. The sages had chosen to give up whatever mystery
project kept them so busy at their secret base—the work of
months—just in order to safeguard the Egg.

It shouldn 't be surprising. It is our holy site, after all. Our
prophet. Our seer.

And yet, he was surprised.

In fact, it was the last thing he would have expected.

BlaJ, aae

SILENTLY, BLADE URGED HIS WINDBLOWN VEHICLE
onward, hoping to arrive in time. . . .
To do what? To distract the Jophur for a few duras
while they burned him to a cinder, giving the Egg just that
much respite before the main assault resumed? Or worse,
to float on by, screaming and waving his legs, trying fu-
tilely to attract attention from beings who thought him no
more important than a cloud?

Frustration boiled. Combat hormones triggered auto-
nomic reactions, causing his cupola to pull inward, taking
the vision strip down beneath his carapace, leaving just a
smooth, armored surface above.

That instinct response might have made sense long ago,
when presentient qheuens fought their battles claw to claw
in seaside marshes, on the distant planet where their pa-
trons later found and uplifted them. But now it was a
damned nuisance. Blade struggled for calm, schooling his
breathing to follow a steady rhythm, sequentially clock-
wise from leg to leg, instead of random stuttering gasps. It
took a count of twenty before the cupola relaxed enough
to rise and restore sight.

His vision strip whirled, taking in the dim canyons that
made a maze of this part of the Rimmers. At once, he real-
ized two things.

488   D a v i d B r i n

The balloon had climbed considerably in that brief time, |
widening his field of view.                           '

And the Jophur ship was gone!

But . . . where . . . ?

Blade wondered if it might be right below, in his blind
spot. That provoked a surging fantasy. He saw himself
slashing the balloon and dropping onto the cruiser from
above! Landing with a thump, he would scoot along the
top until he reached some point of entry. A hatch thai
could be forced, or a glass window to smash. Once aboard,
in close quarters, he'd show them. . . .

Oh, there it is.

The heroic dream image evaporated like dew when he'
spied the corvette, diminishing rapidly, heading roughly

northwest.

Could it have already finished off the Egg?
Scanning nearer at hand, he spied the great ovoid at last,
some distance in the opposite direction. It lay in full view
now, a savage burn scarring one flank. The stone glowed
along that jagged, half-molten line, casting ocher light
across jumbled debris lining the bottom of the Nest. Still,
the Egg looked relatively intact.

Why did they leave before finishing the job?
He tracked the corvette by its glimmer of reflected star-1
light.                                                 I
Northwest. It's beading northwest.
Blade tried to think.

That's where home is. Dolo Village. Tarek Town.
And Biblos, he then realized, hoping he was wrong.
Things might have just gone from bad to worse.

wasx

THE THREAT WORKED, MY RINGS!
|  Now our expertise is proven. Our/My worth is vindi-'
I cated before' the Captain-Leader and our fellow crew
stacks. As I/we predicted, just as our bomber began slicing
at their holy psychic rock, a signal came!

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 489

It was the same digital radiance they used last time, to
reveal the g'Kek city. Thus, the savages attempt once more
to placate us. They will do anything to protect their stone
deity.

OBSERVE THE HUMAN CAPTIVES, MY RINGS! ONE OF
them—the local male whom we/Asx once knew as Lark
Koolhan—quailed and moaned to see the "Egg" under at-
tack, while the other two seemed unaffected. Thus, a con-
trolled experiment showed that I/we were right about the
primitives and their religion.

Now the female comforts Lark as our cruiser speeds
away from the damaged Egg, toward the signal-emanation
point.

What will they offer us, this time? Something as satisfying
as the g'Kek town, now frozen with immured samples of
hated vermin?

The chief-tactician stack calculates that the sooners will
not sacrifice the thing we desire most—the dolphin ship.
Not yet. First they will try buying us off with lesser things.
Perhaps their fabled archive—a pathetic trove of primitive
lore, crudely scribed on plant leaves or some barklike sub-
stance. A paltry cache of lies and superstitions that simple-
tons dare call a library.

You tremor in surprise, 0 second ring-of-cognition? You
did not expect Me to learn of this other thing treasured by
the Six Races?

Well be assured, Asx did a thorough job of melting that
particular memory. The information did not come from this
reforged stack.

Did you honestly believe that our Ewasx stack was the
only effort at intelligence gathering ordained by the Cap-
tain-Leader? There have been other captives, other interro-
gations.

It took too long to learn about this pustule of contraband
Earthling knowledge—this Biblos—and the exact location
remained uncertain. But now we/I speculate. Perhaps
Biblos is the thing they hope to bribe us with, exchanging
their archive for the "life" of their Holy Egg.

490 David B r i n

If that is their intent, they will learn.
We will burn the books, but that won't suffice.
NOTHING WILL SUFFICE.

In the long mn, not even the dolphin ship will do.
Though it will make a good start.

aae

NORTHWEST. WHAT TARGET MIGHT ATTRACT THE
aliens' attention that way?

Nearly everything I know or care about, Blade con-
cluded. Dolo Village, Tarek Town, and Biblos.

As pale Torgen rose behind the Rimmer peaks, he
watched the slim ship glide on, knowing he would lose
sight of it long before the raider arrived at any of those I
destinations. Blade no longer cared where the contrary
winds blew him, so long as he did not have to watch de-
struction rain down on the places he loved.

A chain of tiny, flickering lights followed the cruiser as
scouts stationed on mountain peaks passed reports of its
progress. He deciphered a few snatches of GalTwo, and
saw they weren't words, but numbers.

Wonderful. We are good at describing and measuring
our downfall.

With combat hormones ebbing, Blade grew more aware
of physical discomfort. Nerves throbbed where one of the
urrish hooks had ripped away skin plates, exposing fleshy
integuments to cold air. Thirst gnawed at him, making
Blade wish he were a hardy gray.

The balloon passed beyond the warm updraft and
stopped climbing. Soon the descent would resume, send-
ing him spinning toward a landscape of jagged shadows.

Wait a aura.

Blade tried to focus his vision strip, peering at the distant
Jophur vessel.

Has it stopped?

Soon he knew it had. The ship was hovering again, cast-
ing its search beam to scan the ground below.

n f f U ' s Shore 491

Was I wrong? The next target may not be Biblos or
Tarek, after all.

But . . . there's nothing here! These bills are wilder-
ness. Just a useless tract of boo—

He was staring in perplexity when something happened
to the mountain below the floating ship. Reddish flickers
erupted, like marsh gas lit by static charges, at the swampy
border of a lake. Sparklike ripples seemed to spread amid
the dense stands of towering boo.

What are the Jophur doing now? he wondered. What
weapon are they using?

The flickers brightened, flaring beneath scores of giant
greatboo stems. The ship's searchlight still roamed, as if
bemused to find slender tubes of native vegetation emitting
fire from their bottoms . . . then starting to rise.

The first thunder reached Blade as he realized.

It's not the fophur at all! It's—

The corvette finally showed alarm, starting to back away.
Its beam narrowed to a slicing needle, sweeping through
one rising column.

An instant later, the entire northwest was alight. Volley
after volley of blazing tubes jetted skyward in a roar that
shook the night.

Rockets, Blade thought. Those are rockets!
The vast majority missed their apparent target. But accu-
racy seemed of no concern, so dense was the missile
swarm. The retreating corvette could not blast them fast
enough before three in a row made glancing blows.

Then a fourth projectile struck head-on. The warhead
failed, but sheer momentum crumpled one section of star-
ship hull, tossing it spinning.

Other warheads kept going off ahead of schedule, or
tumbling to explode on the ground, filling the night with
brilliant, fruitless incandescence. So great was the wastage
that it looked as if the Jophur ship might actually limp
away.

Then a late-rising rocket took off. It turned, and with
apparent deliberation, drove itself straight through the
groaning corvette.

A dazzling explosion ripped its belly open, cleaving the
skyship apart. Blade had to spin a different part of his half-

492 David B r i n

blinded visor around to witness the two halves plummet,
like twin cups filled with fire, to the forest floor.

More dross to clean up. Blade observed, as fires spread
across several mountainsides. But his body was content to
live in the moment, shrieking celebration whistles from all
his breathing vents, competing with the gaudy fireworks to
shout at the stars.

With qheuen vision, he could witness the corvette's de-
struction while also following as most of the missiles con-
tinued their flight—those that did not veer off course, or
explode on their own. Dozens still thrust noisily into the
upper sky, spouting red, flickering tails.

Blade screamed even louder when they finished their
brief arc and turned back toward Jijo, plummeting like hail
toward Festival Glade.

nf r u ' s Shore 493

Only they soon found the way blocked by fierce tongues
of fire. Lester and his companions had to retreat, back past
sheltered work camps whose blur-cloth canopies were
ablaze, where vats of traeki paste exploded one after an-
other . . . along with some of the traeki themselves.
Other figures could be seen fleeing through the clots of
smoke as all the labor of months, spent creating a hidden
center of industry, was consumed in a roiling maelstrom.

"There is no way out," the urs sighed.

"Then save yourself. I command it!"

Lester pushed her resisting flank, repeating the order un-
til the corporal let out a moan and plunged toward a place
where the flames seemed least intense. An urs just might
survive the passage. Lester knew better than to try.

Alone with his young assistant, he huddled in the center
of the clearing, holding one of her trembling wheels.

"It's all right," he told her, between hacking coughs. "We
did what we set out to do.

"All things come to an end.

"Now it all lies with Ifni."

THE FOREST ERUPTED IN FLAME AROUND LESTEE.
Failed missiles crashed back amid the secret launching
sites, setting off explosions of withering heat and igniting
tall columns of boo. South, a searing glow told where the
shattered spaceship fell. Still, Lester held fast to the clearing
where he and a g'Kek assistant had come to watch the
flickering sky.

An urrish corporal galloped to report. "Fires surround
us. Sage, you must flee!"

But Lester stayed rooted, peering at the fuming heavens.
His voice was choked and dry.                       (

"I can't see! Did any make it to burnout? Are they on f
their way?"

The young g'Kek answered, all four eyes waving up-
ward.

"Many flew true, 0 sage," she answered. "Several score
are airborne. Your design was valid. Now there's nothing j
more to do. It^s time to go."

Reluctantly, Lester let himself be pulled away from the
clearing, into the planned escape route through the boo. i

L^an

THE EARLIER HOLOSCENES HAD BEEN CONFUSING,
j but these new images left Lark stunned, breathless, con-
1 fused. He had no way to grasp the blazing spectacle
. . . mighty tubes of boo, their bottoms explosing in flame
. . . scores of them, jetting upward like a swarm of angry
fire bees.

The distant camera veered as the corvette struggled to
evade a volley of makeshift rockets. The view lurched so
suddenly, Lark's stomach reeled and he had to look away.

The others seemed just as amazed. Ling laughed aloud,
clapping both hands, while Rann's face mixed astonish-
ment with dismay. Then what's happening must be good.
Lark allowed a spark of hope to rise within.

Ewasx, the Jophur, vented gurgling sounds, along with
snatches of Galactic Two.

494 David

B f i n

. treacherous

unexpected

"Outrageous . .

unforeseen!"

Tremors shook its composite body, quivering from the
peak down to its basal segment. Most of the elderly, waxy
toroids were familiar to Lark. Once, they composed a
friend, a sage, wise and good. But a newcomer had taken
over—a glistening young collar, black and featureless,
without appendages or sensory organs.

Both Ling and Rann cried out. But when Lark turned:

around, the holoscene was all white—a blank slate.

"The corvette," Ling explained, her voice awed. "It's

been destroyed!"

A shrill sigh escaped the Jophur. The tremors turned into

convulsions.

Ewasx is having some kind of fit, Lark thought. Should I

attack now? Strike the master ring with all my might?

Ling was babbling excitedly about "the other rockets—"
But Lark had decided, striding toward the shuddering
Jophur. His sole weapons were his hands, but so what? ,

Lester, you pulled off a fantastic wolfling trick. Asx \
would have been proud of you.

Just as old Asx would have wanted me to do this.

He brought back a fist, aimed at the shivering master

ring.

Someone seized his arm, holding it back in a fierce grip.

Lark swiveled, cocking his other fist at Rann. But the bull-
headed Danik only shook his head.

"What will it prove? You'd just make them angry, native
boy. We remain trapped here, at their mercy."

"Get out of my way," Lark growled. "I'm gonna free my

traeki friend."

"Your friend is long gone. If you kill a master ring, the

whole stack dissolves! I knowthis, young savage. I've put it

in practice."

Lark was angry enough to turn his attack on the burly

Danik. Sensing it, Rann released Lark and stepped back,,
raising both hands in a combatant's stance.            I
Yeah, Lark thought, dropping to a crouch. You're a star-
god soldier. But maybe a savage knows some tricks you
don't.                                              '•

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 493

"Stop it, you two!" Ling shouted. "We've got to get
ready—"

She cut off as a chain of low vibrations throbbed the
metal floor—mighty forces at work, growling elsewhere in
the vast ship.

"Defensive cannon," Rann identified the din. "But what
could they be firing—?"

"The rockets!" Ling replied. "I told you, they're coming
this way!"

Realization dawned on Rann, that sooners might actually
threaten a starship. He cursed, diving for a corner of the
cell.

Lark allowed Ling to lead him as the battleship shivered,
its weapons firing frantically. A mutter of distant detona-
tions crept closer as they held each other. The moment had
a heady vividness, a hormonal rush, mixing the pleasure of
Ling's touch with sharp awareness of onrushing death.

Yet Lark found himself hoping, praying, that the next
few moments would end his life.

Come on. You can do it, Lester. Finish the job!

The fragment of the Egg lay against his chest, where its
last outburst had left seething weals. He clutched the stone
amulet with his free hand, expecting throbbing heat. In-
stead, Lark felt an icy cold. A brittleness that breath would
shatter.

I   PHUT NINE

^      FROM THE NOTES
v/     OF GILLIAN BASK1N

^ WE'RE ALL FEELING rattier down right now.
"; Juessi called trom the second dross pile where
f his work crew Just had an accident. Ihey were
f' trying to clear the area around an old Duyur
^ ore-hauler when a subsea quake hit. 1 he sur-
rounding heap ot Junk ships shiited and an
i ancient hulk came rolling down on a couple 01
. workers——Satima and Sup-peh. Neither ot
; them had time to do more than stare at the
'- onrushing wall betore it crushed them.
•       JO we keep getting winnowed down
^ where it hurts most. Our best colleagues——
' i the skilled and dedicated—inevitably pay the
^ price.

(       1 hen there s leepoe/ everyone s delight.

/\ terrible loss/ kidnapped by Z<haki and his
: pal. It only 1 could get my hands on that
; pair!

1 had to lie to poor Kaa/ though. Vve
cannot spare time to go hunting across the
ocean IOT leepoe.

That doesn t mean she [I be abandoned.
Friends will win her treedom/ someday. 1 his 1
vow.

but our pilot won t be one ol them.
Y\las/ 1 leap' i\.aa will never see her again.

M.AK.ANEE. finished her autopsies ot Kunn and Jass. The
prisoners apparently look poison rather than answer our questions.
Isht blames hersell tor not searching the Danik agent more care-
tully/ but who would have tigured Kunn would be so worried
about our amateur grilling'

And did he really have to take the hapless native boy
with him' Retys cousin could hardly know secrets worth dying

(or.

Kety hersell can shed no light on the matter. Without
anyone to interrogate/ she volunteered to help luesst/ who can
certainly use a hand. /viakanee recommends work as good therapy
lor the poor kid/ who had to see those gruesome bodies hrsthand

1 wonder. What secret was l\unn trying to protect' l\or-
mally/ Id drop everything to puwie it out. but too much is going
on as we prepare to make our move.

/\nyway/ irom the Jophur prisoners we know the Kothen
ship is irrelevant. We have more immediate concerns.

1 HL, Library cube reports no progress on that symbol—the one
with nine spirals and eight ovals. I he unit is now silting its older
hies/ a job that gets harder the lurther back it goes.

In compensation/ the cube has Hooded me with records ol
other recent sooner outbreaks ——secret colonies established on (al-
low worlds.

It turns out that most are quickly discovered by guardian
patrols ol the Institute or /Viigration. Jijo is a special case/ with
limited access and the nearby shrouding ot Ismunuti. /\tso/ this
time an entire galaxy was declared tallow/ making inspection a
monumental task.    .,

1 wondered——why set aside a whole galaxy/ when the basic
unit ol ecological recovery is a planet/ or at most a solar system'

i he cube explained that much larger areas ol space are
usually quarantined/ all. at once. Oxygen-breathing civilization
evacuates an entire sector or spiral arm/ ceding it to the parallel
culture ot hydrogen breathers——those mysterious creatures sometimes
generically called 2,ang. this helps keep both societies separated in
physical space/ reducing the chance ot triction.

It also helps the quarantine. 1 he ^ang are unpredictable/
and olten ignore minor incursions/ but they can be herce it large
numbers ol oxy-sapients appear where they don t belong.

Vve detected what must have been ^ang ships/ belore
diving past Igmunuti. '1 guess they took us lor a minor incursion/
since they left us alone.

The wholesale trading of sectors and ?ones makes more
sense now. Still/ t pressed the [-,lbrary cube.

Has an entire galaxy ever been declared oH-limits before'
1 he answer surprised me.

Not lor a very long time ... at least one hundred and
tiny million years.

Now/ where have 1 heard that number belore'

Wt^Kh, told there are eight orders ol sapience and quasi-
sapience. Uxy-lite is the most vigorous and blatant——or as lorn
put it/ strutting around/ acting like we own the place. In (act/
though/ I was surprised to learn that hydrogen breathers tar
outnumber oxygen breathers. But ^ang and their relatives spend
most ol their time down in the turbid layers ot Jovian-type
worlds.

Jome say this is because they tear contact with oxy-types.
Others say they could crush us anytime/ but have never

gotten around to it. lerhaps they will/ sometime in the next

olllion years.

1 he other orders are /Vlachine/ /Viemetic/ Quantum/ tly-
potlietical/ Ketired/ and Iranscendent.
why am 1 pondering this now'

Well/ our plans are in motion/ ana soon Streaker will be/
too. Its likely that in a lew Jays well be dead/ or else taken
captive. With luck/ we (nay buy something worthwhile with our
lives. But our chances 01 actually getting away seem vanishingly
small.

/\nd yet . . . what U we do manage it' y\rter all/ the
Jophur may get engine trouble at just the right moment. [hey
might decide were not worth the eilort.

I he sun might go nova.

In that case/ where can JtreaKer go next'

We ve tried seeking Justice irom our own oxy-culture——the
civilisation 01 the five Oalaxies——but the Institutes proved un-
trustworthy. We tried the Old Ones/ but those members 01 the
Ketired Larder proved less impartial than we hoped.

In a universe rilled with possibilities/ there remain hall a
do^en other quasi-sapient orders out there. /\lien in both
thought and substance. Kumored to be dangerous.

What have we got to lose"

K

aa

CLEAMING MISSILES STRUCK THE WATER WHENEVER
he surfaced to breathe. The spears were crude weap-
ons—hollow wooden shafts tipped with slivers of vol-
canic glass—but when a keen-edged harpoon grazed his
Hank, Kaa lost half his air in a reflexive cry. The harbor—
now a cramped, exitless trap—reverberated with his ago-
nized moan.

The hoonish sailors seemed to have no trouble moving
around by torchlight, rowing their coracles back and forth,
executing complex orders shouted from their captains'
bulging throat sacs. The water's tense skin reverberated
like a beaten drum as the snare tightened around Kaa. Al-
ready, a barrier of porous netting blocked the narrow har-
bor mouth.

Worse, the natives had reinforcements. Skittering sounds
announced the arrival of clawed feet, scampering down
the rocky shore south of town. Chitinous forms plunged
underwater, reminding Kaa of some horror movie about
giant crabs. Red qbeuens, he realized, as these new allies

502 David B r i n

helped the hoon sailors close off another haven, the wa-
ter's depths.

Ifni! What did Zhaki and Mopol do to make the locals so
mad at the mere sight of a dolphin in their bay? How did
they get these people so angry they want to kill me on sight?

Kaa still had some tricks. Time and again he misled the
hoons, making feints, pretending sluggishness, drawing
the noose together prematurely, then slipping beneath a
gap in their lines, dodging a hail of javelins.

My ancestors had practice doing this. Humans taught us
lessons, long before they switched from spears to scalpels.

Yet he knew this was a contest the cetacean could not
win. The best he could hope for was a drawn-out tie.

Diving under one hoonish coracle, Kaa impulsively
spread his jaws and snatched the rower's oar in his teeth,
yanking it like the tentacle of some demon octopus. The
impact jarred his mouth and tender gums, but he added
force with a hard thrust of his tail flukes.

The oarsman made a mistake by holding on—even a
hoon could not match Kaa, strength to strength. A sur-
prised bellow met a resounding splash as the mariner,
struck salt water far from the boat. Kaa released the oar
and kicked away rapidly. That act would not endear him to '
the hoon. On the other hand, what was there left to lose? I
Kaa had quite given up on his mission—to make contact j
with the Commons of Six Races. All that remained was |
fighting for survival.                                  (

/ should have listened to my heart.                  |

/ should have gone after Peepoe, instead.            \

The decision still bothered Kaa with nagging pangs of
guilt. How could he obey Gillian Baskin's orders—no mat-
ter how urgent—instead of striking off across the dark sea,
chasing after the thugs who had kidnapped his mate and
love?

What did duty matter—or even his oath to Terra—com-
pared with that?

After Gillian signed off, Kaa had listened as the sun set,
picking out distant echoes of the fast-receding speed sled,
still faintly audible to the northwest. Sound carried far in
Jijo's ocean, without the myriad engine noises that made
Earth's seas a cacophony. The sled was already so far

?          Infiniru's Shore 503

away—at least a hundred klicks by then—it would seem
forlorn to follow.

But so what? So the odds were impossible? That never
mattered to the heroes one found in storybooks and
holosims! No audience ever cheered a champion who let
mere impossibility stand in the way.

Maybe that was what swayed Kaa, in an agonized mo-
ment. The fact that it was such a cliche. All the movie
heroes—whether human or dolphin—would routinely for-
sake comrades, country, and honor for the sake of love.

Relentless propaganda from every romantic tale urged him
to do it.

But even if I succeeded, against all odds, what would
Peepoe say after I rescued her?

I know her. She'd call me a fool and a traitor, and never
respect me again.

So it was that Kaa found himself entering Port Wuphon
as ordered, long after nightfall, with all the wooden sail-
boats shrouded beneath camouflage webbing that blurred
their outlines into cryptic hummocks. Still hating himself
for his decision, he had approached the nearest wharf,
where two watchmen lounged on what looked like walk-
ing staffs, beside a pair of yawning noor. By starlight, Kaa
had reared up on his churning flukes to begin reciting his
memorized speech of greeting . . . and barely escaped
being skewered for his trouble. Whirling back into the bay,
he dodged razor-tipped staves that missed by centimeters.

"Wait-t-t!" he had cried, emerging on the other side of
the wharf. "You're mak-ing a terrible mistake! I bring news
from your own lossssst ch-ch-children! F-from Alvi— "

He barely escaped a second time. The hoon guards
weren't listening. Darkness barely saved Kaa as growing
numbers of missiles hurled his way.

His big mistake was trying a third time to communicate.
When that final effort failed, Kaa tried to depart . . . only
to find belatedly that the door had shut. The harbor mouth
was closed, trapping him in a tightening noose.

So much for my skill at diplomacy, he pondered, while
skirting silently across the bottom muck . . . only to
swerve when his sonar brushed armored forms ahead, ap-
proaching with scalloped claws spread wide.

504   0

Add that to my other failures . . . as a spy, as an of-
ficer . . . Mopol and Zhaki would never have antagonized
the locals so, with senseless pranks and mischief, if he had
led them properly.

. . . and as a lover. . . .

In fact, Kaa knew just one thing he was good at. And at
this rate, he'd never get another chance to ply his trade.

A strange, thrashing sound came from just ahead, toward
the bottom of the bay. He nearly swung around again,
dodging it to seek some other place, dreading the time
when bursting lungs would force him back to the sur-
face. . . .

But there was something peculiar about the sound. A
softness. A resigned, melodious sadness that seemed to fill
the water. Curiosity overcame Kaa as he zigzagged, casting
sonar clicks through the murk to perceive—

A boon!

But what was one of them doing down here?

Kaa nosed forward, ignoring the growing staleness of his
air supply, until he made out a tall biped amid clouds of
churned-up mud. Diffracted echoes confirmed his unbe- \
lieving eyes. The creature was undressing, carefully re- '
moving articles of clothing, tying them together in a string.

Kaa guessed it was a female, from the fact that it was a
bit smaller and had only a modest throat sac.

Is it the one I pulled overboard? But why doesn 't she
swim back to the boat? I assumed . . .

Kaa was struck by a wave of image-rupture alienation—
a sensation all too familiar to Earthlings since contact-
when some concept that had seemed familiar abruptly
made no sense anymore.

Hoons can't swim!

The journal of Alvin Hph-wayuo never mentioned this.
In fact, Alvin implied that his people passionately loved
boats and the sea. Nor were they cavalier about their lives,
but mourned the loss of loved ones even more deeply than
a human or dolphin would. Kaa suddenly knew he'd been
fooled by Alvin's writings, sounding so much like an Earth '
kid, never mentioning things that he simply assumed.

Aliens. Who configure?

He stared as the hoon tied the string of clothes around

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 505

her left wrist and held the other end to her mouth, calmly
exhaling her last air, inflating a balloonlike fold of cloth. It

floated upward, no more than two meters, stopping far
short of the surface.

She's not signaling for help, he fathomed as the hoon sat
down in the mud, humming a dirge. She's making sure
they can drag the bottom and retrieve her body. Kaa had

read Alvin's account of death rituals the locals took quite

seriously.

By now his own lungs burned fiercely. Kaa deeply re-
gretted that the breather unit on his harness had burned
out after Zhaki shot him.

He heard the qheuens approaching from behind, clack-
ing their claws, but Kaa sensed a hole in their line, confi-
dent he could streak past, just out of reach. He tried to turn
. . . to seize the brief opportunity.

Oh, hell, he sighed, and kicked the other way, aiming for
the dying hoon.

It took some time to get her to the surface. When they
broke through, her entire body shook with harsh, quiver-
ing gasps. Water jetted from nostril orifices at the same time

as air poured in through her mouth, a neat trick that Kaa
kind of envied.

He pushed her close enough to throw one arm over a
drifting oar, then he whirled around to peer across the bay,
ready to duck onrushing spears.

None came. In fact, there seemed a curious absence of
boats nearby. Kaa dropped his head down to cast suspi-
cious sonar beams through his arched brow—and con-
firmed that all the coracles had backed off some distance.

A moon had risen. One of the big ones. He could make
out silhouettes now , . . hoons standing in their row-
boats, all of them turned to face north ... or maybe
northwest. The males had their sacs distended, and a
steady thrumming filled the air. They Seemed oblivious to
the sudden reappearance of one of their kind from a brush
with drowning.

I'd have thought they'd be all over this area, dropping
weighted ropes, trying to rescue her. It was another exam-

506 David B r i n

pie of alien thinking, despite all the Terran books these
hoons had read. Kaa was left with the task of shoving her
with the tip of his rostrum, a creepy feeling coursing his
spine as he pushed the bedraggled survivor toward one of
the docks.

More villagers stood along the wharf, their torches flick-
ering under gusts of stiffening wind. They seemed to be
watching ... or listening ... to something.

A dolphin can both see and hear things happening
above the water's surface, but not as well as those who live
exclusively in that dry realm. With his senses still in an
uproar, Kaa could discern little in the direction they faced,
Just the hulking outline of a mountain.

The computerized insert in his right eye flexed and
turned until Kaa finally made out a flickering star near the
mountain's highest point. A star that throbbed, flashing on
and off to a staccato rhythm. He could not make anything
of it at first . . . though the cadence seemed reminiscent
of Galactic Two.

"Ex-x-xcuse me . . ." he began, trying to take advan-
tage of the inactivity. Whatever else was happening, this
seemed a good chance to get a word in edgewise. "I'm a
dolphin . . . cousin to humansss . . . I've been sssent
with-th a message for Uriel the—"

The crowd suddenly erupted in a moan of emotion that
made Kaa's sound-sensitive jaw throb. He made out
snatches of individual speech.

"Rockets!" one onlooker sighed in Anglic. "The sages
made rockets!"

Another spoke GalSeven in tones of wonder. "One small
enemy spaceship destroyed . . . and now the big one is
targeted!"

Kaa blinked, transfixed by the villagers' tension.

Rockets? Did I hear right? But—

Another cry escaped the crowd.

"They plummet!" someone cried. "They strike!"

Abruptly, the mountain-perched star paused its twin-
kling bulletin. 'All sound seemed to vanish with it. The
hoons stood in dead silence. Even the oily water of the bay
was hushed, lapping softly against the wharf.

Infinily'. „..„... Jui

s Shore 50';

The flashing resumed, and there came from the crowd a
moan of shaken disappointment.

"It survives, exists. The mother battleship continues,'

went the GalTwo mutter of a traeki, somewhere in the
crowd.

"Our best effort has failed.
"And now comes punishment."

Sooners

THE MOMENT LARK PRAYED FOR NEVER CAME. THE
walls did not shatter, torn by native-made warheads or
screaming splinters of greatboo. Instead, the sound of
detonations remained distant, then diminished. The floor-
throbbing vibration ofJophur defense guns changed tenor
now that the element of surprise was gone, from frantic to
complacent, as if the incoming missiles were mere nui-
sances.

Then silence fell. It was over.

He let go of the Egg fragment, and released Ling, as well,
Lark pulled his knees in, wrapped both arms around them,
and rocked miserably. He had never felt so disappointed to

be alive.

"Woorsh, that was close!" Ling exhaled, clearly savoring

survival. Not that Lark blamed her. She might still nurse
hopes of escape, or of being swapped in some Galactic
prisoner exchange. All this might become just another epi-
sode in her memoirs. An episode, like me, he thought. The
clever jungle boy she once met onJijo.

His old friend Harullen might have seen a bright side to

Infinifii's Shore 509

this failure. Now the angered Jophur might extinguish all
sapient life on the planet, not only their g'Kek blood ene-
mies. Wouldn't that fit in with Lark's beliefs? His heresy?

The Six Races don't belong here, but neither do they de-
serve annihilation. I wanted us to do the right thing peace-
fully, honorably, and of our own accord. Without violence.
All this burning of forests and valleys.

"Look!"

He glanced at Ling, who had stood up and was pointing
at Ewasx. The ring stack still quaked, but one torus in the
middle was undergoing full-scale convulsions. Throbbing
indentations formed on opposite sides, distending its
round shape.

Both men joined Ling, staring with unbelieving eyes as
the dents deepened and spread into circular bulges, strain-
ing outward until a sheer membrane was all that restrained
them. The Jophur's basal legs started pumping and Hexing.

The humans jumped back when Ewasx abruptly skit-
tered across the floor, first toward the armored door, then
away again, zigging and zagging three times before finally
sagging back down, like a heap of flaccid tubes.

The middle ring continued to throb and swell.

"What is it doing?" Ling asked in awe.

Lark had to swallow before answering.

"It's vienning. Giving birth, you'd say. Traekis don't do
this often, 'cause it endangers the union of the stack.
Mostly they bud embryos and let 'em grow in a mulch pile,
on their own."

Rann gaped. "Giving birth? Here?" Clearly, he knew
more about killing Jophur than about the rest of their life

cycle.

Lark realized—the catatonia of Ewasx was not caused
simply by the surprise rocket attack. That shock had trig-
gered a separate convulsion just waiting to happen.

Membranes started tearing. One of the new rings, almost
the size of Lark's head and colored a deep shade of purple,
began writhing through. The other was smaller and crim-
son, emerging through a mucusy pustule, trailing streamers
of rank, oily stuff. Both infant toruses slithered down the
flanks of the parent stack, then across the metal floor, seek-
ing shadows.

510 David B r i n

"Lark, you'd better have a look at this," Ling said.

He could barely yank his gaze away from the nauseat-
ing, bewitching sight of the greasy newborns. Upon stum-
bling over to join Ling, he found her pointing downward.

"When it ran back and forth, a dura ago ... it left this
trail on the floor."

5'o what? he thought. Lark saw smears, like grease stains
on the metal plating. Traeki often do that.

Then he blinked, recognizing Anglic letters. One, two,'
three . . . four of them.

REWQ

"What the . . . ?" Rann puzzled aloud.             '

Lark raised a hand to his forehead, where his rewq sym-
biont lay waiting for its next duty while supping lightly |
from his veins. At a touch, it swarmed over his eyes, recast- j
ing the colors in the room.                           \

At once, everything changed. Till that moment, the still-
quivering flanks of the Jophur had seemed a mottled jum-1
ble of distorted shades. But now, rows of letters could be I
seen, crisscrossing several older rings.                 '

lark, the first series began, one ring opens doors.
use it. rejoin the six. . . .

A squeal of pain interrupted from Lark's right, unlike any
shouted by a mammal. He whirled, and cried, "Stop!"

Rann stood over one of the newly vienned rings, his foot
raised to stomp on it a second time. The small creature
shook, bleeding waxy fluids from a rent along one flank.

"Why?" the Danik demanded. "You sooners signed our
death warrants with that crude missile attack. We might as
well get in some of our own."

Ling confronted her former colleague hotly. "Fool! Hyp- j
ocrite! You stopped Lark earlier, and now do this? Don't
you want to get out of here?"

She bent over the quivering ring and reached toward it
nervously, tentatively.

Lark turned back toward the ring stack . . . the corn-,
posite being that had somehow managed to become Asx
again, in a strange, limited way. The letters were already
fading as he read the second line.

I n f i n i I u ' s Shore 511

Give other to Phwhoon-dau/Lester. he/you/
they must

This time, the scream was human.
Ling! He spun around and rushed to her aid.
She held the little wounded torus in one hand while the
other clawed over her shoulder at Rann. The male Danik
throttled her from behind, his forearm around her throat,
closing her windpipe, and possibly her arteries.

Rann heard Lark's irate bellow and swiveled lightly, us-
ing Ling's body as a shield while he kept choking her.
Rann's face was contorted with pleasure as Lark feinted
right, then launched himself at the star warrior's other side.
There was no time for finesse as they all toppled together,
a grappling mass of arms and legs.

It might have been an even match, if Ling hadn't passed
out. But when her body slumped, insensate, Lark had to
face Rann's trained fury alone. He managed to get a few
blows in, but soon had his hands full just preventing the
Rothen agent from striking a vital spot. Finally, in despera-
tion, he threw his arms around Rann, seizing his broad
torso in a wrestler's embrace.

His opponent felt confident enough to spare some
strength for taunts.

"Darwinist savage , . ." Rann jeered, close to Lark's ear.
". . . devolved ape ..."

Lark managed an insult of his own—

"The . . . Rothen . . . are . . . pigs. ..."

Rann snarled and tried to bite his ear. Lark swung his

head aside just in time, then slammed it back into Rann's

face, breaking his lip.

Abruptly, a stench seemed to swell around their heads,
filling Lark's nostrils with a cloying, sickening tang. For an
instant he wondered if it was the Danik's body odor. Or
else the smell of death.

Rann managed to free a hand and used it to pummel
Lark's side. But the pain seemed distant, and the blows
vague, unsteady. Vision wavered as the awful smell in-
creased . . . and Lark grew aware that his opponent was
being affected, as well.

More so.

In moments, Rann's iron grip let go and the man col-

512 David B r i n

lapsed away from him. Lark backed up, gasping. Through
a haze of wavering consciousness, he noted the source of
the stench. The wounded traeki ring had climbed onto
Rann's shoulder and was squirting yet another dose of
some noxious substance straight into the star god's face. |

Should . . . make it . . . stop, now. Lark thought. An |
excess might not just knock Rann out, but kill him.     j

Life had priorities, though. Fighting exhaustion and the'
tempting refuge of sleep, Lark rolled over to seek Ling,',
hoping enough life still lingered to be coaxed back into the
world.

Blade

Dia

". . . THE MOST EFFECTIVE WARHEADS WERE THE
ones tipped with toporgic capsules, filled with traeki for-
mula type sixteen an' powdered Buyur metal. Kindle bee-
tles were useful in settin' off the solid rocket cores. A lot of
the ones that didn't use beetles either fizzled or blew up on
their launchpads. . . ."

Blade listened to the young human recite her report to
an urrish telegraph operator, whose keystrokes became
fast-departing beams of light. Jeni Shen winced as a phar-
macist applied unguents to her singed skin. Her face was
soot-covered and the left side of her jerkin gave off smol-
dering fumes. Jeni's voice was dry as slate and it must have
been painful for her to speak, but the recitation continued,
nonstop, as if she feared this mountaintop semaphore sta- \
tion might be the first target of any Jophur retaliation.

". . . Observers report that the best targeting happened,
in rockets that had message-ball critters aboard. Usin' 'ern
that way was just a whim of Phwhoon-dau's, so there
weren't many. But it seemed to work. Before everything
blew up, Lester said we should reexamine all the Buyur
critters we know about, in case they have other uses. . . ." i

The stone hut was crowded. The missile assault, and
subsequent fires, had sent refugees pouring through the
passes. Blade was forced to wade through the tide offugi-

1 n f i n i r u ' s Shore 513

lives in order to reach this militia outpost, where he might
make a report of his adventure.

He found the semaphore already tied up with frenzied
news—about the successful downing of the last Jophur
corvette . . . and then the failure of a single rocket even
to dent the mother ship. That night of soaring hopes
crashed further when casualties became known, including
at least one of the High Sages of the Six.

Yet a low level of elation continued. Bad news was only
expected. But a taste of victory came amplified by sheer
surprise.

Blade recalled vividly the fiery plummet of both burning
halves of the ruined starship, setting off firestorms. I'm glad
it only landed in boo, he thought. According to the scrolls,
Jijo's varied ecosystems weren't equal. Greatboo was a
trashy alien invader—like the Six themselves. The planet
was not badly wounded by tonight's conflagration.

Me neither, Blade added, wincing as a g'Kek medic tried
to set one of his broken legs.

"Just cut it off," he told the doctor. "The other one, too."

"But that will leave you with just three," the g'Kek com-
plained. "How will you walk?"

"I'll manage. Anyway, new ones grow back faster if you
cut all the way to the bud. Just get it over with, will you?"

Fortunately, he had managed to land on two legs spread
apart at opposite sides of his body. That left a tripod of
them to use, dragging himself from the fluttering tangle of
fabric and gondola parts. The moonlit mountainside had
been rocky and steep, a horrid place for a blue qheuen to
find himself stranded on a chill night. But the beckoning
glimmer of flashed messages, darting from peak to peak,
encouraged him to limp onward until he reached this sanc-
tuary.

So, I'll be able to tell Log Biter my tale, after all. Maybe I'll
even write about it. Nelo should provide backing for a
small print run, since half of my story involves his daugh-
ter. . . .

Blade knew his mind was drifting from thirst, pain, and
lack of sleep. But if he rested now he would lose his place
in line, right after Jeni Shen. The station commander, hear-

514 David B r i n

ing of his balloon adventure, had given him a priority just
after the official report on the rocket attack.

I should be flattered. But in fact, the rockets are used up.
Even if there are some left, the element of surprise is gone.
They'll never succeed against theJophur again.

But my idea's not been tried yet. And it'd work! I'm liv-
ing proof.

The smiths of Blaze Mountain have got to be told.

So he sat and fumed, half listening to Jeni's lengthy, i
jargon-filled report, trying to be patient.

When the amputation began, Blade's cupola withdrew
instinctively, shielding his eye strip under thick chitin,
preventing him from looking around. So he tried pulling
his mind back to the time when he briefly flew through the
sky . . . the first of his kind to do so since the sneakship
came, so long ago.

But a qheuen's memories aren't strong enough to use as
a bulwark against pain.

It took three strong hoons to keep the leg straight
enough for the medic to do it cleanly,                 j

Lark

n SECOND STENCH MET HIM WHEN HE WAKED.
H The first one had smothered cloyingly. When it filled
I Ithe little room, the world erased under a blanket of
sweet pungency.

The new smell was bitter, tangy, repellent, cleaving the
insensate swaddling of unconsciousness. There was no
transitory muzziness or confusion. Lark jerked upright
while his body convulsed through a series of sharp
sneezes. All at once he knew the cell, its metal floor and
walls, the cramped despair of this place.

A greasy doughnut shape—purple and still covered with
mucus—sent a final stream of misty liquid jetting toward
his face. Lark gagged, backing away.

"I'm up! Cut it out, dung eater!"

The room wavered as he turned, searching ... and

Infinifu's Shore 515

found Ling close behind, wheezing at the effort of sitting
up. Livid marks showed where Rann had throttled her,
nearly taking her life.

Lark turned again, scanning for his enemy.

In moments, he spied the Danik agent's bare feet, jutting
from beyond the rotund bulk of Ewasx.

Ewasx? Or is it still Asx?

The ring stack shivered. Trails of waxy pus trickled from
twin wounds on either side, where the vienned rings had
made their escape.

/ could try to find out. . . . Try talking to—

But Lark saw an orderliness to the trembling toruses. A
systematic rhythm. Almost regimented. Warbling sounds
escaped the speaking vent.

"H-h-h-alt, humans, . . . I/WE COMMAND . . . obe-
dience. ..."

The voice wavered unevenly, but gained strength with
each,passing dura.

Ling met his eyes. There was instant rapport.
Asx had gone to a lot of trouble to provide gifts.
Time to give them a try.

"STOP THAT!" Ewasx adjured. "You are required to ...

desist. ..."

Fortunately, the Jophur's limbs were still locked in rigor.
The lowermost set shivered with resistance when the mas-
ter ring tried to make them move.

Asx is still fighting for us, Lark realized, knowing it could
not last.

"Use the purple one," he told Ling, who cradled the
larger newborn torus. "Asx said it opens locks."

She lifted her eyes doubtfully, but presented the ring to a
flat plate beside the door. They had seen Ewasx touch it
whenever the Jophur wanted to leave the cell. Meanwhile,
Lark used his frayed shirt as a sling to carry the smaller,
crimson traeki. The one cruelly injured by Rann. The one
Lark was supposed to deliver to the High Sages—an im-
possible task, even if the mangled thing survived.

A moan echoed from behind Ewasx. It was the Danik
warrior, rousing at last. Come on! Lark urged silently,

516 David B r i n

though Ling almost surely had never used such a key to
force a lock.

The purple ring oozed a clear fluid from pores near the
plate. Clickety sounds followed, as the door mechanism
seemed to consider. ...

Then, with a faint hiss, it opened!

He hurried through with Ling, ignoring bitter Jophur
curses that followed them until the portal shut again.

"Where now?" Ling asked.

"You're asking me?" He laughed. "You said Galactic
ships are standardized!"

She frowned. "The Rothen don't have any battlecruisers
like this beast. Neither does Earth. We'd be lucky to
glimpse one from afar . . . and even luckier to escape
after seeing it."

Lark felt spooky, standing half-naked in an alien pas-
sageway filled with weird aromas. A Jophur might enter
this stretch of corridor at any moment, or else a war robot,
come to hunt them down.

- The floor plates began vibrating, low at first, but with a
rising mechanical urgency.

"Just guess," he urged, trying to offer an encouraging
smile.

Ling answered with a shrug. "Well, if we keep going in
one direction, sooner or later we're bound to reach hull,
Come on, then. Standing still is the worst thing we can do,"

The hallways were deserted.

Occasionally, they hurried past some large chamber and
glimpsed Jophur forms within, standing before oddly
curved instrument stations, or mingled in swaying groups,
communing with clouds of vapor. But the stacks rarely
moved. As a biologist, Lark could not help speculating.

They're descended from sedentary creatures, almost ses-
sile. Even with the introduction of master rings, they'd re-
tain some traeki ways, like preferring to work in one place,
relatively still.

Lark found it bizarre, striding past closed doors for more
than an arrowflight—then another, and a third—using their
passkey ring to open armored hatches along the way,

Infinity's Shore 517

meeting no one. Asx must have taken this into account,
giving us even odds of reaching an airlock and . . .

Lark wondered.

And then what? If there are sky boats or hover plates,
Ling might understand their principles, but how will she
operate controls made for Jophur tentacles?

Maybe we should just head for the engine room. Try to
break some machinery. Cause some inconvenience before
they finally shoot us down.

Ling picked up the pace, a growing eagerness in her
steps. Perhaps she sensed something in the thickness of
the armored doors, or the subtly curved wall joins, indicat-
ing they were close.

The next hatch slid aside—and without warning they
suddenly faced their first Jophur.

Ling gasped and Lark's knees almost failed him. He felt
an overpowering impulse to spin around and run away,
though it was doubtless already too late. The thing was
bigger than Ewasx, with component rings that shimmered
a glossy, extravagant health he had never seen on a Jijoan
traeki.

The way Rann compares to me, Lark thought numbly.

During that brief instant, his companion lifted the purple
ring, aiming it like a gun at the big Jophur.

A stream of scent vapor jetted toward the stack.

It hesitated . . . then raised up on a dozen insectoid
legs and sidled past the two humans, proceeding down the
hall.

Lark stared after it, numbly.

What was that? A recognition signal? A forged safe-
conduct pass?

He could imagine that Asx—wherever the traeki sage
had concealed a sliver of self—must have observed all the
chemical codes a Jophur used to get around the ship. What
Lark could not begin to picture was what kind of con-
sciousness that implied. How could one deliberately hide a
personality within a personality, when the new master ring
was in charge, pulling all the strings?

The Jophur rounded a corner, moving on about its busi-
ness.

518 David B r i n

Lark turned to look at Ling. She met his eyes and to-
gether they both let out a hard sigh.

The airiock was filled with machinery, though no boats or
hover plates. They closed the inner door and hurried to the
other side, applying the trusty passkey ring, eager to see
blue sky and smell Jijo's fresh wind. If they were lucky, and
this portal faced the lake, it might even be possible to leap
down to the water. Surviving that, their escape could be
cut off at any point, once they passed into the Jophur de-
fense perimeter. But none of that seemed to matter right
now. The two of them felt eager, indomitable.

Lark still cradled the injured red ring, wondering what
the sages were supposed to do with it.

Perhaps Asx expects us to recruit commandos and re-
turn with exploser bombs, using these rings to gain en-
try. . . .

His thoughts arrested as the big hatch rolled aside. Their
first glimpse was not of daylight, but stars.

An instant's shivering worry passed through his mind
before he realized—this was not outer space, but nighttime
in the Rimmers. A flood of bracing, cool air made Lark
instantly ebullient. I could never leave Jijo, he knew. It's my
home.

A pale glow washed out the constellations where a ser-
rated border crossed the sky-—the outline of eastern moun-
tains. It would be dawn soon. A time of hopeful
beginnings?

Ling held out her free hand for Lark to take as they
strode to the edge and looked down.

"So far, so good," she said, and he shared her gladness
at the sight of glinting moonlight, sparkling on water. "It's
still dim outside. The lake will mask our heat sign. And this
time there will be no computer cognizance to give us
away."

Nor convenient breathing tubes, to let us stay safe un-
derwater, he almost added, but Lark didn't want to
dampen her enthusiasm.

"Let's see if there's anything we can use to get down to
the lake, without having to jump," Ling added. Together

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 519

they inspected the equipment shelves lining one wall of
the airiock, until she cried out excitedly. "I found a stan-
dard cable reel! Now if only I can figure out the altered
controls ..."

While Ling examined the metal spool, Lark felt a change
in the low vibration that had been growling in the back-
ground ever since they escaped their prison cell. The
resonance began to rise in pitch and force, until it soon
filled the air with a harsh keening.
"Something's happening," he said. "I think—"
Just then the battleship took a sudden jerk, almost
knocking them both to the floor. Ling dropped the cable,
barely missing her foot.

A second noise burst in through the open door of the
airiock. An awful grinding din, as if Jijo herself were com-
plaining. Lark recognized the scraping of metal against
rock.

,"Ifni!" Ling cried. "They're taking off!"

Helping each other, fighting for balance, they reached
the outer hatch and looked down again, staring aghast at a
spectacle of pent-up nature, suddenly unleashed.

Well, so much for jumping in the lake, he thought. The
Jophur ship was rising glacially, but the first few dozen
meters were crucial, removing the dam that had drowned
the valley under a transient reservoir. At once, the Festival
Glade was transformed into a roiling tempest. Submerged
trees tore loose from their sodden roots. Stones fell crash-
ing into the maelstrom as mud banks were undermined.
While the battlecruiser climbed complacently, a vast flood
of murky water and debris rushed downstream, pummel-
ing everything in its path, pouring toward distant, unsus-
pecting plains.

Too late, Lark realized. We were too late making our
escape. Now we're trapped inside.

As if to seal the fact, a light flashed near the open hatch,
which began to close. An automatic safety measure, he
figured, for a starship taking off. Lark barely suppressed an
overpowering temptation to dive through the narrowing
gap, despite the deadly chaos waiting below.

Ling squeezed his hand fiercely as they caught a passing
glimpse of something shiny and round-shouldered—a

520 David B r i n

slick, elongated dome, uncovered by retreating waters.
Even under pale predawn light, they recognized the
Rothen-Danik ship, still shut within a prison of quantum
time.

Then the armored portal sealed with a boom and hiss,
cutting off the all-too-fleeting breeze. Trapped inside, they
stared at the cruel hatch.

"We're heading north," Lark said. It was the one last
thing he had noticed, watching the ravaged valley pass
below.

"Come on," Ling answered pragmatically. "There must
be someplace to hide aboard this bloated ship."

Ncl

CLO

STILL A FEW LEAGUES SHORT OF THEIR GOAL, THE
zealots realized they were surrounded. They spent the
night huddled in the marsh, counting the campfires of
regiments loyal to the High Sages. Squeezed between mili-
tia units from Biblos and Nelo's pursuing detachment, the
rebels surrendered at first light.

There was little ceremony, and few weapons for the
rabble to give up. Most of their fanatical ardor had been
used up by the hard slog across a quagmire where mighty
Buyur towers once reared toward the sky. Already bedrag-
gled, Jop and his followers marched in a ragged column
toward the Bibur, enduring taunts from former neighbors.

"Go ahead an' look!" Nelo pushed the tree farmer
toward a bluff where everyone could look across the wide
river at shimmering cliffs, still immersed in dawn's long
shadows. Oncoming daylight revealed a vast cave under-
neath, chiseled centuries ago by the Earthship Tabernacle.
Two dozen huge pillars supported the Fist of Stone, hover-
ing like a suspended sentence, just above a cluster of
quaint wooden buildings, each fashioned to resemble
some famed structure of Terran heritage—such as the Taj
Mahal, the Great Pyramid of Cheops, and the Main Library
of San Diego, California.

|          I n f i n i r ij s Shore 521

"The Archive stands," Nelo told his enemy. "You wanted
to bring the Fist crashing down, but it ain't gonna happen.
And in a couple o' years I'll be makin' paper again. It was
all for nothin', Jop. The lives you wasted, and the property.
You achieved nothing."

Nelo saw Jop's bitterness redouble when they reached a
new semaphore station, set up directly across the water
from Biblos, where they learned about the rocket attack,
the destruction of one Jophur ship, and the rumored dam-
age of another. Young militia soldiers shouted jubilation to
learn that last night's distant "thunderstorm" had instead

been the unleashed fury of the Six Races, taking vengeance
for the poor g'Kek.

A few older faces were grim. The militia captain warned
that this was but a single battle in a war the Commons of
Jijo could hardly hope to win.

Nelo refused to think about that. Instead, he kept his
promise to Ariana Foo, by handing over her message for
transmission. Light-borne signals flew better at night, but
the operator refired his lamp when he saw Ariana's name
on the single sheet of paper. While that bulletin went out,
the captain looked into getting transportation across the
Bibur, where showers and clean clothes waited.

And sleep, Nelo thought. Yet, despite fatigue, he some-
how felt younger than he had in ages, as if the tiring chase
through swamplands had stripped years away, leaving him
a virile warrior of long ago.

Leaning against a tree, Nelo let his eyes close for a little

while, his mind turning back to plans for a rebuilt paper
mill.

Our first job will be helping the blues put their dam back
together. Do it right, this time. Less worrying about camou-
flage and more about getting good power output. As long

as I'm at Biblos, I might as well look.into copying some
designs. . . .

Nelo's head jerked up when a carpentry apprentice from
Dob shouted his name. The lad had been reading last

night's semaphore messages, affixed on the wall of the re-
lay post.

"I just saw your daughter's name," the young man told
him. "She's on Mount Guenn!"

522 David B r i n

Nelo took three jerky steps forward ... as Jop did ex-
actly the same thing. The farmer's expression showed the
same surprise. His shock and dismay contrasted with
Nelo's joy at hearing that one of his children lived.

Sara! The papermaker's mind whirled. In the name of
the founders, how did she find herself on Mount Guenn?

He hurried over to the shed, eager to learn more. Per-
haps there would be word of Dwer and Lark, as well!

At that moment, a shout erupted from one of the opera-
tors inside the semaphore hut. While the sender kept on
clicking his key, transmitting Ariana Foo's message, the re-
ceiver burst out through the door, a middle-aged woman
waving a paper covered with hurried scrawls.

"Mess . . . mess . . ." She ran for the militia captain,
gasping urgently.

"Message from lookouts," she cried. "The Jophur . . , i
the Jophur ship is coming this way!"                  i

It did not swoop or plummet. The star vessel was far too
vast for that.

A haze of suspended dust accompanied its passage
above forest or open ground, but when the immense sky
mountain moved ponderously over the Bibur, the waters
went Ominously still. The glassy-smooth footprint spread
even wider than its shadow.

Keep going, Nelo prayed. Just pass us by. Keep go-
ing. . . .

But the great cruiser evidently had plans right here, ar-
resting its forward momentum directly over the river, in
plain sight of the Great Archive.

Now it was Nelo's turn to glower as he glimpsed grim
satisfaction pass overJop's face. Someone must've snitched,
he thought. Rumors told of Jophur emissaries, establishing
outposts in tiny hamlets, imperiously demanding informa-
tion. Sooner or later some zealot or scroll thumper would
have blabbed about this place.

No slashing rays fell from the mighty battleship. No rain
of bombs, taking vengeance for its little brother, lost the
night before.

Instead, a few small portals opened in its side. About

n f i n i r y ' s Shor

523

two dozen robots descended, fluttering lazily until they
reached hoon height above the water, where they turned
in formation and streaked toward Biblos.

A second wave emerged from the great ship, floating
down more slowly on wide plates of burnished black.
Tapered cones rode those flat conveyances, like stacks of
glossy pancakes, each pile on its own flying skillet.

Even before the Jophur party reached the walls of the
hidden city, the space dreadnought began moving again,
turning its massive bulk to head back the way it came,
roughly south by southeast, gaining altitude at an acceler-
ating pace. By the time Nelo lost it in the glare of the rising
sun, the cruiser had climbed above the highest clouds.

Crowds gathered at the riverbank, peering at the oppo-
site shore. Biblos still lay immersed in nightlike shadows.
By contrast, the robots glittered till they passed under the
Fist of Stone, followed by their Jophur masters.

After that, Nelo and the others had to rely on the militia
captain, peering through binoculars, to relate what was'
happening.

"Each Jophur is entering a different building, guarded by
several robots. Some use the front door . . . but one just
sent its servants to smash open a wall and go in that way.

"They're all inside now . . . and people are running
out! Humans, hoons, qheuens . . . there's a g'Kek . . .
his left wheel is smoking. I think he's been shot."

The crowd murmured frustration, but there was nothing
to do. Nothing anybody could do.

"I see militia squads! Mostly humans with some urs and
boons. They've got rifles . . . the new kind with mule-
tipped bullets. They're running toward the Science Build-
ing!

"They're splitting up, skirmish style, using opposite
doors to sneak in from both sides at once."

Nelo clenched his hands as he stared across the Bibur. At
the same time, he wondered why the great battleship
would come all this way, yet not tarry to destroy the center
ofJijoan intellectual life.

I guess the cruiser bad other matters to attend to. Any-
way, it'll be back to pick up their foray party.

There was one hope. Maybe there are some rockets left

524 David B f i n

after last night. Perhaps they'll catch the cruiser, before it

can return.

There was always that hope—though it seemed unlikely
the Jophur would be fooled a second time.

Across the river he could see a flood of refugees—schol-
ars, librarians, and students—pouring out of sally ports and
over the battlements. There weren't many g'Kek among the
fugitives. Nor traeki. Both races appeared doomed to stay
within, destined for different fates, both of them unpleas-
ant.

He wondered, What do the aliens want with our Li-
brary? To check out some books and take 'em back home to

read?

In fact, that bizarre notion made sense.

I'll bet the rocket attack made 'em realize we have trick
up our sleeve. Suddenly they're interested in what we
know, and how we know it. They'll scan our books to find
out what other nasty surprises we might come up with.

Something was happening in the shadowed cave. Dis-
tant popping sounds carried across the river, doubtless
from within the Hall of Science.

"They're coming out!" the captain announced. His grip
on the binoculars stiffened. "The rifle squads . . . they're
in retreat . . . dragging their wounded, trying to cover
each other. They're ..."

He lowered the glasses. The officer's eyes were bleak
and he stood silently, completely overcome.

A corporal gently took the binoculars and resumed re-
porting.

"Dead," was the first word she said.

"I see dead soldiers. They're all down."

A hush settled over the crowd. Across the Bibur nothing I
seemed to be moving anymore, except an occasional '
sharp-edged machine shape, flitting underneath the Fist of

Stone.

The explosers . . . Nelo wondered. Why didn't they set

off their charges?

The greatest secret of the Six Races. The most secure
fortress of humankind on Jijo. Biblos had been captured in
a matter of duras. Its treasured archive lay in the tight grip
of Jophur invaders.

wasx

IS IT SETTLED THEN, MY RINGS? HAVE WE ROOTED
out the last corners of your clandestine resistance? Can
we assume there will be no more episodes of surrepti-
tious rebellion?

The Priest-Stack threatened to dismantle us/Me after the
last embarrassment, when you silly rings foolishly/cleverly
managed to perform a vienning without your master torus
knowing. The priest aimed to scrape every drip trail of
waxy memory lining our core, seeking clues to the where-
abouts of the pair of wolfling vermin you (briefly, muti-
nously) released into our glorious Polkjhy ship.

But then the stack in change of psychological tactics re-
ported telemetry showing that Lark and Ling almost surely
departed the ship when instruments showed an airiock
hatch anomalously opening.

Humans are good with water. No doubt they imagined
themselves safe after entering the lake, never suspecting
that they were about to be swept downstream into a vortex
of ruin when our majestic Polkjhy took off!

The droll appropriateness of this fate—the dramatic
irony—so pleased the Captain-Leader that a ruling was
made, overturning the Priest-Stack's desire. For the time
being, then, our/My union is safe.

DO NOT COUNT ON CONTINUED TEMPERANCE/
FORGIVENESS, MY RINGS!

Forgiveness for what, you ask?

Now you worry Me. Is the shared wax so badly melted?
Did the Asx personality so damage us, with its second at-
tempt at suicide-by-amnesia? Must I provide memory of
recent events through the demi-electronic processes of the
master torus?

Very well, My rings, I shall do so. Then we will begin
again, restoring the expertise that made us useful to the
Jophur cause.

526 David B r i n

Together we watched while a party from our ship took
possession of the so-called Library used by the savage Six
Races. Though it contains a pathetically small amount of
bit-equivalent data, this is the source/font of their wolfling
trickery.

Feral scheming that has cost us dearly.

A fine thing happened when we/I caught sight of those
crude buildings made from sliced trees, sheltered in an
artificial cave. Many hidden waxy trails resonated with sud- ,
den recognition! Accessing these recovered tracks, we
were able to tell the Captain-Leader many secrets of this
trove of pseudo-knowledge. Secrets Asx had meant to
render inaccessible.                                   ;

Slowly, we regain our former reputation and esteem,
Does that make you glad, My rings?

How gratifying to feel your agreement come so readily
now! That brief rebellion, followed by a second suicide
amnesia, appears to have left you more docile than before.
No longer sovereign traeki rings, but parts of a greater
whole.

Now regard! Leaving a force behind to secure Biblos, our
Polkjhy turns to its main task. Too long have we let our-
selves be diverted/delayed. There will be no more negoti-
ating with Rothen sneak thieves. No more dickering with
savage races. Those six will meet their varied fates from
land forces already scattered across the Slope.

As for Polkjhy, we cruise toward that continental cleft,
that ocean abyss. Estimated locale of the dolphin ship.

IT IS DECIDED. THE ROTHEN HAD THE RIGHT IDEA,
AFTER ALL.

We'll bombard the depths, putting the fugitive Earthlings '
in peril. To preserve their lives, they will have no choice
but to rise up and surrender.

Until now, the Captain-Leader preferred patience over
rash action. We did not want to destroy the very thing we
seek! Not before learning its secrets. Since no competing
clan or fleet has come to Jijo, we appeared to have a
wealth of time.                                       '

But that was before we lost both corvettes. Before post-
ponements stretched on and on.

Now we are resolved to take the chance!

Infiniru's Shore 527

With depth bombs ready in great store, we plunge
toward the zone known as the Rift.

WHAT IS THIS? ALREADY?
DETECTORS BLARE.

IN THE WATERS AHEAD OF US—MOTION!
Joyous hunt lust fills the bridge. It must be the prey,

giving away their location as they scurry in search of a new
hiding place.

Then remote perceptors cry out upsetting news.
No single ship is making the vibrations we detect.

THERE ARE SCORES OF EMISSION SITES . . . HUN-
DREDS!

s,

'ara

EMERSON SEEMED CHEERFUL DURING THE LONG
ride down from Mount Guenn, pressing his face against
the warped window of the little tram, gazing at the sea.
How would he feel if he knew whom we were meeting?
Sara wondered as the car zoomed down ancient lava flows,
swifter than a galloping urs.

Would he be ecstatic, or try to jump out and flee?
Far below, a myriad bright sun glints stretched from the
surf line all the way to a cloud-fringed western horizon.
Jijo's waters seemed placid, but Sara still felt daunted by
the sight. A mere one percent ripple in that vastness would
erase every tree and settlement along the coast. The
ocean's constancy proved the ample goodness of this life
world—a nursery of species.

/ always hoped to see this, before my bones went to the
Midden as dross. I just never figured I'd come by horse-
back, across the Spectral Flow, over a volcano . . . and

finally by fabulous cable car, all toward confronting crea-
tures out of legend.

Sara felt energized, despite the fact that nobody on
Mount Guenn had slept much lately.

528   D a v i d B r i n

Uriel had finished using her analog computer barely in
time. Just miduras after sending the ballistics calculations
north, semaphore operators reported breathless news
about the consequences.

Stunning rocket victories.

Discouraging rocket failures.

Forest fires, dead sages, and the Egg—wounded, silent,
possibly forever.

Flash floods below Festival Glade, leaving countless
dead or homeless.

Nor was that all. Throughout the night, tucked amid
other tidings from across the Slope, came clipped summa-
ries of events bearing hard on Sara.

Elation surged when she learned of Blade's unqheuen-
ish aerial adventures. Then her father's report triggered
overpowering images of the destruction of Dolo Village,
forcing her to seek a place to sit, burying her head in her
hands. Nelo lived—that was something. But others she
had known were gone, along with the house she grew up
in.

Lark and Dwer . . . we dreamed what it might be like
when the dam blew. But I never really thought it could
happen.

Waves of sorrow kept Sara withdrawn for a time, till
someone told her an urgent message had come, addressed
specifically for her, under the imprimatur of a former High
Sage of the Six.

Ariana Foo, Sara realized, scanning the brief missive,
Ifni, who cares about the dimensions of the ship that
crashed Emerson into the swamp? Does it matter what kind
of chariot he used, when he was a star god? He's a
wounded soul now. Crippled. Trapped on Jijo, like the rest
of us.

Or was he?

After so many shocks that eventful night, Sara was just
lying down for a blotting balm of sleep when events close
at hand rocked Uriel and her guests.                   I

At dawn, the captains of Wuphon Port sent word of a
monster in their harbor. A fishlike entity who, after some
misunderstandings, claimed relatedness to human beings.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 529

Moreover, the creature said it bore a message for the

smith.

Uriel was overjoyed.

"The little sneak canera that scared us so ... the de-
vice cane fron the Earthling shif! Ferhafs the Jophur have
not found us, after all!"

That mattered. The sky battleship was said to be on the
move, perhaps heading in their direction. But Uriel could
not evacuate the forge with several projects still under way.
Her teams had never been busier.

"I'll go see the Terran at once," the smith declared.

There was no lack of volunteers to come along. Riding
the first tram, Sara watched Prity flip through Emerson's
wrinkled sketchpad, lingering over a page where sleek fig-
ures with finned backs and tails arched ecstatically through .
crashing waves. An image drawn from memory.

"They look other than I inagined," commented Uriel,
curling her long neck past the chimp's shoulder. "Till now,
I only knew the race fron descrifshuns in vooks."

"You should read the kind with pictures in 'em." Kurt the
Exploser laughed, nudging his nephew. But Jomah kept
his face pressed to the window next to Emerson, taking
turns pointing at features of the fast-changing landscape.
Ever-cheerful, the starman showed no awareness of what
this trip was about.

Sara knew what tugged her heart. Beyond all other wor-
ries and pangs, she realized, It may be time for the bird to
fly back to his own kind.

Watching the robust person she had nursed from the
brink of death, Sara saw no more she could offer him. No
cure for a ravaged brain, whose sole hope lay back in the
Civilization of the Five Galaxies. Even with omnipotent
foes in pursuit, who wouldn't choose that life over a
shadow existence, huddling on a stranded shore?

The ancestors, that's who. The Tabernacle crew, and all
the other sneakships.

Sara recalled what Sage Purofsky said, only a day ago.
"There are no accidents, Sara. Too many ships came to
Jijo, in too short time."

"The scrolls speak of destiny, " she had replied.
"Destiny!" The sage snorted disdain. "A word made up

530   D a vi d B r I n

by people who don't understand how they got where they
are, and are blind to where they're going."
' "Are you saying you know how we got here, Master?"

Despite all the recent commotion and tragedy, Sara
found her mind still hooked by Purofsky's reply.

"Of course I do, Sara. It seems quite clear to me.

"We were invited."

E.

•wasx

FOOLS!" THE CAPTAIN-LEADER DECLARES. "ALL BUT
fone of these emanations must come from decoy torpe-
1 does, tuned to imitate the emission patterns of a starship.
It is a standard tactical ruse in deep space. But such artifice
cannot avail if we linger circumspectly at short range!

"Use standard techniques to sift the emanations.

"FIND THE TRUE VESSEL WE SEEK!"

Ah, My rings. Can you discern the colors swarming
down the glossy flanks of our Captain-Leader? See how
glorious, how lustrous they are. Witness the true dignity of
Jophur wrath in its finest form.

Such indignation! Such egotistic rage! The Oailie would
be proud of this commander of ours, especially as we all
hear impossible news.

THESE ARE NOT DECOY DRONES AT ALL.

The myriad objects we detect . . . moving out of the
Rift toward open ocean . . . EVERY ONE OF THEM IS A
REAL STARSHIP!

The bridge mists with fearful vapors. A great fleet of
ships! How did the Earthers acquire such allies?

Even our Polkjhy is no match for this many.

We will be overwhelmed!

D

wer

I AM SORRY," GILLIAN BASKIN TOLD HIM. "THE DECI-

sion came suddenly. There was no time to arrange a spe-
cial ride to shore."

She seemed irked, as if his request were unexpected.
But in fact, Dwer had asked for nothing else since his sec-
ond day aboard this vessel.

The two humans drifted near each other in a spacious,
water-filled chamber, the control center of starship
Streaker. Dolphins flew past them across the spherical
room, breathing oxygen-charged fluid with lungs that had
been modified to make it almost second nature. At con-
soles and workstations, they switched to bubble domes or
tu.bes attached directly to their blowholes. It seemed as
strange an environment as Dwer had ever dreamed, yet the
fins seemed in their element. By contrast, Dwer and Gillian
wore balloonlike garments, seeming quite out of place.

"I'm not doing any good here," he repeated, hearing the
words narrowly projected by his globe helmet. "I got no
skills you can use. I can hardly breathe the stuff you call
air. Most important, there are folks waiting for me. Who

need me. Can't you just cut me loose in some kind of a
boat?"

Gillian closed her eyes and sighed—a brief, eerie set of
clicks and chuttering moans. "Look, I understand your pre-
dicament," she said in Anglic. "But I have over a hundred
lives to look after . . . and a lot more at stake, in a larger

sense. I'm sorry, Dwer. All I can hope is that you'll under-
stand."

He knew it useless to pursue the matter further. A dol-
phin at one of the bridge stations called for attention, and
Gillian was soon huddled with that fin and Lieutenant
Tsh't, solving the latest crisis.

The groan of Streaker's engines made Dwer's head
itch—a residual effect, perhaps, of the way his brain was
palped and bruised by the Danik robot. He had no proof
things would really be any better if he found his way back

532 David B r i n

to shore. But his legs, arms, and lungs all pined for wilder-
ness—for wind on his face and the feel of rough ground
underfoot.

A ghostly map traced its way across the bridge. The
realm of dry land was a grayish border rimming both sides
of a submerged canyon—the Rift—now filled with moving
lights, dispersing like fire bees abandoning their hives. So it
seemed to Dwer as over a hundred ancient Buyur vessels
came alive after half a million years, departing the trash
heap where they were consigned long ago.

The tactic was familiar. Many creatures used flocking to
confuse predators. He approved the cleverness of Gillian
and her crew, and wished them luck.

But I can't help them. I'm useless here. She ought to let
me go.

Most of the salvaged ships were under robotic control,
programmed to follow simple sets of instructions. Volun-
teers rode a few derelicts, keeping close to Streaker, per-
forming special tasks. Rety had volunteered for one of
those teams, surprising Dwer and worrying him at the
same time.

She never does anything unless there's an angle.

If he had gone along, there might have been a chance to
veer the decoy close to shore, and jump off. . . .

But no, he had no right to mess up Gillian's plan.

Dammit, I'm used to action! I can't handle being a pas-
sive observer.

But handle it he must.

Dwer tried to cultivate patience, ignoring an itch where
the bulky suit would not let him scratch, watching the
lights disperse—most heading for the mouth of the Rift,
spilling into the vast oceanic abyss of the Great Midden

itself.

"Starship enginesss!" The gravities detector officer an- .
nounced, thrashing her tail flukes in the water, causing j
bubbles in the supercharged liquid.

"P-passive detectors show Nova class or higher
it'sss following the path of the Riff ft. . . ."

wasx

REALIZATION EMERGES, ALONG WITH A STENCH OF
frustration.

The vast fleet of vessels that we briefly feared has
proved not to be a threat, after all. They are not warships,
but decommissioned vessels, long ago abandoned as use-
less for efficient function.

Nevertheless, they baffle and thwart our goal/mission.
A blast of leadership pheromones cuts through the dis-
appointed mist.

"TO WORK THEN," our Captain-Leader proclaims.
"WE ARE SKILLED, WE ARE MIGHTY. SO LET US DO
YOUR/OUR JOBS WELL.

"PIERCE THIS MYSTERY. FIND THE PREY. WE ARE
JOPHUR, WE SHALL PREVAIL."

D

wer

B GLITTERING LIGHT ENTERED THE DISPLAY ZONE,
much higher and much larger than any of the others,
and cruising well above the imaginary waterline.

That must be the battleship, he thought. His mind tried to
come up with an image. Something huge and terrible.
Clawed and swift.

Suddenly, the detection officer's voice went shrill.
"They're dropping ordnance!"
Sparks began falling from the big glow.
Bombs, Dwer realized. He had seen this happen before,
but not on such a profuse scale.
Lieutenant Tsh't shouted a warning.
"All handsss, prepare for shock waves!"

s.

'ara

RHOONISH WORK CREW SWARMED OVER THE TRAM
after the passengers debarked, filling the car with stacks
of folded cloth. Teams had been sending the stuff up to
the forge since dawn, stripping every ship of its sails. But
the urrish smith hardly glanced at the cargo. Instead, Uriel
trotted off, leading the way down to the cove with a
haughty centauroid gait.

The dense, salty air of sea level affected everybody. Sara
kept an eye on Emerson, who sniffed the breeze and com-
mented in song.

"A storm is a-brewin'
You can bet on it tonight.
A blow is a-stewin'
So you better batten tight."

The khutas and warehouses of the little port were
shaded by a dense lattice of melon vines and nectar creep-
ers, growing with a lush, tropical abundance characteristic
of southern climes. The alleys were deserted though. Ev-
eryone was either working for Uriel or else down by the
bay, where a crowd of hoons and qheuens babbled excit-
edly. Several hoons—males and females with beards of se-
niority—knelt by the edge of a quay, conversing toward
the water, using animated gestures. But the town officials
made way when Uriel's party neared.

Sara kept her attention on Emerson, whose expression
stayed casually curious until the last moment, when a sleek
gray figure lifted its glossy head from the water.

The starman stopped and stared, blinking rapidly.

He's surprised, Sara thought. Could we be wrong? Per-
haps he has nothing to do with the dolphin ship.

Then the cetacean emissary lifted its body higher, thrash-
ing water with its tail.

"Sssso, it's true. . . ." the fishlike Terran said in thickly

Infinil-ii's Shore 535

accented Anglic, inspecting Emerson with one eye, then
the other.

"Glad to see you living, Engineer D-D'Anite. Though it
hardly seems possible, after what we saw happen to you
back at the Fractal world.

"I confessss, I can't see how you followed us to this
whale-forsaken planet."

Powerful emotions fought across Emerson's face. Sara
read astonishment, battling surges of both curiosity and
frustrated despair.

"K-K-K—"

The dismal effort to speak ended in a groan.

"A-ah-ahh ..."

The dolphin seemed upset by this response, chuttering
dismay over the human's condition.

But then Emerson shook his head, seeking to draw on
other resources. At last, he found a way to express his
feelings, releasing a burst stream of song.

"How quaint the ways of paradox!
At common sense she gaily mocks!
We've quips and quibbles heard in

flocks,
But none to beat this paradox!"

Gilli

illian

THE ULTIMATUM BLANKETED ALL ETHERIC WAVE-
lengths—a scratchy caterwauling that filled Streaker's
bridge, making the oxy-water fizz. Streams of bubbles
swelled and popped with each Galactic Four syntax
phrase.

Most neo-dolphin crew members read a text translation
prepared by the Niss Machine. Anglic letters and GalSeven
glyphs flowed across the main holo screen.

HEAR AND COMPREHEND OUR FINAL COMMAND/OFFER!

536 David B r i n

•     •     •

Gillian listened for nuance in the original Jophur dialect,
hoping to glean something new. It was the third repetition
since the enemy dreadnought began broadcasting from
high in the atmosphere.

"YOU WHOM WE SEEK—YOU HAVE PERFORMED CLEVER
MANEUVERS, WORTHY OF RESPECT. AT THIS JUNCTURE,
WE SHALL NO LONGER WASTE BOMBS. WE SHALL CEASE
USELESSLY INSPECTING DECOYS."

The change in tactics was expected. At first, the foe had
sent robots into the lightless depths, to examine and elimi-
nate reactivated Buyur ships, one by one. But it was a
simple matter for Hannes Suessi's team to fix booby traps.
Each derelict would self-destruct when a probe ap-
proached, taking the automaton along with it.

The usual hierarchy of battle was thus reversed. Here in
the Midden, big noisy ships were far cheaper than robots
to hunt them. Suessi had scores more ready to peel off
from widely separated dross piles. It was doubtful the
Jophur could spend drones at the same rate.

There was a downside. The decoy ships were discards,
in ill repair when abandoned, half a million years ago.
Only the incredible hardiness of Galactic manufacture left
them marginally useful, and dozens had already burned
out, littering the Midden once more with their dead hulks.

"FAILING TO COERCE YOU BY THAT MEANS, WE ARE
NOW PREPARED TO OFFER YOU GENEROUS
TERMS. ..."

This was the part Gillian paid close attention to, the first
couple of times it played. Unfortunately, Jophur "generos-
ity" wasn't te'mpting. In exchange for Streaker's data,
charts, and samples, the Captain-Leader of the Greatship
Polkjhy promised cryonic internment for the crew, with a

I n f i n i f 4 ' s Shore 537

guarantee of revival and free release in a mere thousand
years. "After the present troubles have been resolved."

In other words, the Jophur wanted to have Streaker's
secrets . . . and to make sure no one else shared them
for a long time to come.

While the message laid out this offer, Gillian's second-in-
command swam alongside.

"We've managed to c-come up with most of the sup-
pliesss the local wizard asked for," Tsh't reported. One of
the results of making contact with the Commons of Six
Races had been a shopping list of items desperately
wanted by the urrish smith, Uriel.

"Several decoy ships are being diverted close to shore,
as you requested. Kaa and his new t-team can strip them of
the stuff Uriel wants, as they swing by."

The dolphin lieutenant paused. "I suppose I needn't add
that this increases our danger? The enemy might detect a
rhythm in these movementsss, and target their attention on
the hoonish seaport-t."

"The Niss came up with a swarming pattern to prevent
that," Gillian answered. "What about the crew separation?
How are Makanee's preparations coming along?"

Tsh't nodded her sleek head. Taking a break from the
laborious, underwater version of Anglic, she replied in Tri-
nary.

* Seasons change the tides,

* That tug us toward our fates,
" And divide loved ones . .'. *

To which she added a punctuating coda:

"'. . . forever. ... *

Gillian winced. What she planned—least awful of a
dozen grievous options—would sever close bonds among
a crew that had shared great trials. An epic journey Earth-
lings might sing about for ages to come.

Providing there are still Eartblings, after the Time of
Changes.

In fact, she had no choice. Half of Streaker's neo-

538 David B r i n

dolphin complement were showing signs of stress ata-
vism—a decay of the faculties needed for critical thought.
Fear and exhaustion had finally taken their toll. No client
race as young as Tursiops amicus had ever endured so
much for so long, almost alone.

It's time to make the sacrifice we all knew would some-
day come.

The chamber still vibrated with Jophur threats. Coming
from some other race, she might have factored in an ele-
ment of bluster and bravado, but she took these adversar-
ies precisely at their word.

The holo display glowed with menacing letters

Shore 539

f I n I t (| ' s

_ -- - . „       JJ7

"We'll slip in to shore between the fourth and fifth
decoys . . . about eight hours from now."

Gillian glanced at Pincer, his reddish carapace covered
with oxy-water bubbles, the qheuen visor spinning madly,
taking in everything with the avidness of adolescence. The
local youths should be glad about what was about to hap-
pen. And so will Dwer Koolhan. I hope this pleases him
. . . though it's not quite what he wanted.

Gillian admitted to herself she would miss the young
man who reminded her so much of Tom.

"All right, then," she told Tsh't. "Let's take the kids
home."

WE ARE THE ONLY GALACTIC WARSHIP IN THIS RE-
GION. NO ONE IS COMING TO HELP YOU. NOR WILL
ANY COMPETITORS DISTRACT US, AS HAPPENED ON
OTHER OCCASIONS.

WE CAN AFFORD TO WAIT YOU OUT, INVESTIGAT-
ING AND ELIMINATING DECOYS FROM SAFE RANGE,
OR ELSE, IP NECESSARY, THIS NOBLE SHIP WILL FORGO
SOLE HONOR AND SEND FOR HELP FROM THE VAST
JOPHUR ARMADA.

DELAY MERELY INCREASES OUR WRATH. IT AUG-
MENTS THE HARM WE SHALL DO TO YOUR TERRAN
COUSINS, AND THE OTHER SOONERS WHO DWELL IL-
LICITLY ON FORBIDDEN LAND. ...

Gillian thought of Alvin, Huck, and Ur-ronn, listening in a
nearby dry cabin—and Pincer-Tip, who represented them
on the bridge, darting to and fro with flicks of his red
claws.

We already drew hell down on the locals, when the,
Rothen somehow tracked us toJijo. There must be a way to
spare them further punishment on our account.

Soon it will be time to end this.

Gillian turned back to Tsh't. "How much longer before;

it's our turn?" "•

The lieutenant communed with the tactics-and-
movement officer.

arl

TOGETHER, THEY PROVED ONLY HALF-BLIND, STUM-
| bling down the musty corridors of a vast alien ship filled
I with hostile beings. Ling knew more than he did about
starships, but Lark was the one who kept them from get-
ting completely lost.

For one thing, there were few symbols on the walls, so
their knowledge of several Galactic dialects proved almost
useless. Instead, each closed aperture or intersection
seemed to project its own, unique smell, effective at short
range. As a Jijoan, Lark could sniff some of these and dimly
grasp the simplest pheromone indicators—about as well as

a bright human four-year-old might read street signs in a
metropolis.

One bitter tang reminded him of the scent worn by
traeki proctors at Gathering Festival, when they had to
break up a fight or subdue a belligerent drunk.

SECURITY, the odor seemed to say. He steered Ling
around that hallway.

She had a goal, however, which was one up on him.
With his head full of fragrant miasmas, Lark gladly left the
destination up to her. No doubt any path they chose would
eventually lead to the same place—their old prison cell.

Three more times, they encountered solitary Jophur. But

540 David B r i n

puffs from the purple ring caused them to be ignored.
Doors continued sliding open on command. The gift from
Asx was incredible. A little too good, in fact.

I can't believe this trick will work for long, he thought as
they hurried deeper into the battleship's heart. Asx proba-
bly expected us to need it for a midura or so, just till we
made it outside. Once the crew was alerted about escaped
prisoners, the ruse must surely fail. The Jophur would use
countermeasures, wouldn't they?

Then he realized.

Maybe there's been no alert. The Jophur may assume we
already fled the ship!

Perhaps.

Still, each encounter with a gleaming ring stack in some
dank passage left him feeling eerie. Lark had lived among
traeki all his life, but till this moment he never grasped how
different their consciousness must be. How strange for a
sapient being to look right at you and not see, simply be-
cause you gave off the right safe-conduct aroma. . . .

At the next intersection, he sniffed all three corridor
branches carefully, and found the indicator Ling wanted—
a simple scent that meant LIFE. He pointed, and she nod-
ded.

"As I thought. The layout isn't too different from a type-
seventy cargo ship. They keep it at the center."

"Keep what at the center?" Lark asked, but she was al-
ready hurrying ahead. Two human fugitives, bearing their
only tools—she cradling the wounded red traeki ring,
while he carried the. purple one.

When the next door opened, Ling stepped back briefly
from a glare. The place was more brightly lit than the nor-
mal dim corridors. The air smelled better, too. Less cloying
with meanings he could not comprehend. Lark's first im-
pression was of a large chamber, filled with color.

"As I hoped," Ling said, nodding. "The layout's standard.
We may actually have a chance."

"A chance for what?"

She turned back to look into the vault, which Lark now
saw to be quite vast, filled with a maze of crisscrossing
support beams ... all of them draped with varied types
of vegetation.

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 541

"A chance to survive," she answered, and took his hand,
drawing him inside.

A jungle surrounded them, neatly organized and regi-
mented. Tier after tier of shelves and platforms receded
from view, serviced by machines moving slowly along
tracks. Arrayed on this vast network there flourished a riot
of living forms, broad leaves and hanging vines, creepers
and glistening tubers. Water dripped along some of the
twisted green cables, and the two of them rushed to the
nearest trickle, lapping eagerly.

Now Lark understood the meaning of the aroma symbol
that had led them here.

In the middle of hell, they had found a small oasis. At
that moment, it felt like paradise.

HE DID NOT LIKE GOING DOWN TO THE WATER. THE
harbor was too frenzied.

It hardly seemed like a joyous reunion to see Kaa and
other friends again. He recognized good old Brookida, and
Tussito, and Wattaceti. They all seemed glad to see him,
but far too busy to spend time visiting, or catching up.
Perhaps that was just as well. Emerson felt ashamed.
Shame that he could not greet them with anything more
than their names . . . and an occasional snippet of song.

Shame that he could not help them in their efforts—
hauling all sorts of junk out of the sea, instructing Uriel's
assistants, and sending the materials up by tram to the
peak of Mount Guenn.

Above all, he felt shame over the failure of his sacrifice,
back at that immense space city made of snow—that fluffy
metropolis, the size of a solar system—called the Fractal

System.

Oh, it seemed so noble and brave when he set forth in a
salvaged Thennanin scout, extravagantly firing to create a
diversion and help Streaker escape. With his last glimpse—
as force fields closed in all around him—he had seen the

542 David B r i n

beloved, scarred hull slip out through an opening in the
vast shell of ice, and prayed she would make it.

Gillian, he had thought. Perhaps she would think of
him, now. The way she recalled her Tom.

Then the Old Ones took him from the little ship, and had
their way with him. They prodded and probed. They made
him a cripple. They gave him forgetfulness.

And they sent him here.

The outlines are still hazy, but Emerson now saw the
essential puzzle.

Streaker had escaped to this forlorn planet, only to be
trapped. More hard luck for a crew that never got a break.

But . . . why . . . send . . . me . . . here?       \

That action by the Old Ones made no sense. It seemed
crazy.

Everyone would be better off if he had died, the way he
planned.

The whole population of the hoonish seaport was dashing
about. Sara seemed preoccupied, spending much of her
time talking rapidly to Uriel, or else arguing heatedly with
the gray-bearded human scholar whose name Emerson
could not recall,                                    j

Often a messenger would arrive, bearing one of the pale'
paper strips used for transcribing semaphore bulletins
Once, the urrish courier came at a gallop, panting and
clearly shaken by the news she bore. An eruption of dis-
mayed babble swelled as Emerson made out a single re-
peated word—"Biblos."

Everyone was so upset and distracted, nobody seemed
to mind when he indicated a wish to take the tram back up
to Uriel's forge. Using gestures, Sara made clear that he
must come back before sunset, and he agreed. Clearly i
something was going to happen then. Sara made sure Prity
went along to look after him.

Emerson didn't mind. He got along well with Prity. They;

were both of'a kind. The little chim's crude humor, ex-
pressed with hand-signed jokes, often broke him up.

Those fishie things are cousins? she signaled at one

Infiniru's Shore 543

point, referring to the busy, earnest dolphins. / was hoping
they tasted good!

Emerson laughed. Earth's two client-level races had an
ongoing rivalry that seemed almost instinctive.

During the ride upslope, he examined some of the ma-
chinery Kaa and the others had provided at Uriel's request.
Most of it looked like junk—low-level Galactic computers,
ripped out of standard consoles that might be hundreds or
millions of years old. Many were stained or slimy from long
immersion. The melange of devices seemed to share just
one trait—they had been refurbished enough to be turned
on. He could tell because the power leads were all

wrapped in tape to prevent it. Otherwise, it looked like a
pile of garbage.

He longed to squat on the floor and tinker with the
things. Prity shook her head though. She was under orders
to prevent it. So instead Emerson looked out through the
window, watching distant banks of dense clouds roll omi-
nously closer from the west.

He fantasized about running away, perhaps to Xi, the
quiet, pastoral refuge hidden in a vast desert of color. He
would ride horses and practice his music . . . maybe fix
simple, useful tools to earn his keep. Something to help
fool himself that his life still had worth.

For a while he had felt valued here, helping Uriel get
results from the Hall of Spinning Disks, but no one seemed
to need him anymore. He felt like a burden.

It would be worse if he returned to Streaker, a shell. A
fragment. The chance of a cure beckoned. But Emerson
was smart enough to know the prospects weren't promis-
ing. Captain Creideiki once had an injury like his, and the

ship's doctor had been helpless to correct such extensive
damage to a brain.

Perhaps at home, though . . . On Earth . . .

He painted the blue globe in his mind, a vision of beauty
that ached his heart.

Deep inside, Emerson knew he would never see it again.
The tram docked at last. His mood lifted for a little while,
helping Uriel's staff unload cargo. Along with Prity, he fol-
lowed the urs and qheuens down a long, twisty corridor
toward a flow of warm air. At last they reached a big un-

544   D a v i d B r i n

derground grotto—a cave with an opening at the far end,
facing north. Hints of color gleamed far beyond, reminding
him of the Spectral Flow.

Workers scurried about. Emerson saw g'Kek teams busy
sewing together great sheets of strong, lightweight cloth.
He watched urs delicately adjust handmade valves as gray
qheuens bent lengths of pipe with their strong claws. Al-
ready, breaths of volcanically heated air were flowing into
the first of many waiting canopies, creating bulges that
soon joined together, forming a globe-ended bag.

Emerson looked across the scene, then back at the sal-
vaged junk the dolphins had donated.

Slowly, a smile spread across his face.

To his great satisfaction, the urrish smiths seemed glad
when he silently offered to lend a hand.

K

aa

THE SKIES OPENED AROUND NIGHTFALL, LETTING
down both rain and lightning.

The whale sub Hikahi delayed entering Port Wuphon
until the storm's first stinging drizzle began peppering the
wharves and huts. The sheltered bay speckled with the
impact of dense droplets as the submersible glided up a
slanted coastal shelf toward an agreed rendezvous.

Kaa swam just ahead, guiding her through the narrow
channel, between jagged shoals of demicoral. No one i
would have denied him the honor. / am still chief pilot, he
thought. With or without my nickname.

The blunt-nosed craft mimicked his long turn around the .
sheltering headland, following as he showed the way with ;

powerful, body-arching thrusts of his tail. It was an older
piloting technique than wormhole diving, not highly tech-
nical. But Kaa's ancestors used to show human sailors the ,'
way home in this manner, long before the oldest clear I
memory of either race.

"Another two hundred meters, Hikahi, "he projected us- j

I n f i n i r 4 ' s Shore 545

ing sonar speech. "Then a thirty-degree turn to port. After
that, it's three hundred and fifty meters to full stop."

The response was cool, professional.

"Roger. Preparing for debarkation."

Kaa's team—Brookida and a half-dozen neo-fins who
had come out earlier to unload Uriel's supplies—moored
the vessel when it reached the biggest dock. A small crowd
of dignitaries waited on the pier, under heavy skies. Um-
brellas sheltered the urrish delegates, who pressed to-
gether in a shivering mass, swaying their long necks back
and forth. Humans and hoons made do with cloaks and
hats, while the others simply ignored the rain.

Kaa was busy for a time, giving instructions as the
helmsman fine-tuned her position, then cut engines. Amid
a froth of bubbles, the Hikahi brought her bow even with
the wharf. Clamshell doors opened, like a grinning mouth.

Backlit by the bright interior, a single human being
strode forward. A tall female whose proud bearing seemed
to say that she had little left to lose—little that life could
take from her—except honor. For a long moment, Gillian
Baskin looked on the surface ofJijo, inhaling fresh air for
the first time in years.

Then she turned back toward the interior, beckoning
with a smile and an extended arm.

Four silhouettes approached—one squat, one gangly,
one wheeled, and the last clattering like a nervous colt.
Kaa knew the tall one, although they had never met. Alvin,
the young "humicking" writer, lover of Verne and Twain,
whose journal had explained so much about the strange
mixed culture of sooner races.

A moan of overjoyed release escaped those waiting,
who flowed forward in a rush.

So—embraced by their loved ones, and pelted by rain—
the adventurous crew of Wuphon's Dream finally came
home.

There were other reunions . . . and partings.

Kaa went aft to help Makanee debark her patients.
Streaker's chief physician seemed older than Kaa remem-
bered, and very tired, as she supervised a growing throng

546   0 a v i d B r i n

of neo-dolphins, splashing and squealing beyond the
Hikahi's starboard flank. While some appeared listless,
others dashed about with antic, explosive energy. Two
nurses helped Makanee keep the group herded together at
the south end of the harbor, using occasional low-voltage
discharges from their harnesses to prevent their patients
from dashing off. The devolved ones wore nothing but
skin.

Kaa counted their number—forty-six—and felt a shiver
of worry. Such a large fraction of Streaker's crew! Gillian
must be desperate indeed, to contemplate abandoning
them here. Many were probably only experiencing fits of
temporary stress atavism, and would be all right if they just
had peace and quiet for a time.

Well, maybe they'll get it, onJijo, he thought. Assuming
this planet sea turns out to be as friendly as it looks. And \
assuming the Galactics leave us alone.

In becoming Jijo's latest illegal settler race, dolphins had
an advantage over those who preceded them. Fins would
not need buildings, or much in the way of tools. Only the j
finest Galactic detectors might sieve their DNA resonance
out of the background organic stew of a life world, and just
at close range.                                        ;

There are advantages, he admitted. This way, some of)
our kind may survive, even if Earth and her colonies
don't. And if dolphins are caught here, so what? Haw ,
could we Terragens get into any more trouble than we'
already are?                                        '

Kaa had read about local belief in Redemption. A species
that found itself in trouble might get a second chance, re-
turning to the threshold state, so that some new patron
might adopt and guide them to a better destiny. Tursiofs
amicus was less than three hundred years old as a tool-
using life-form. Confronted by a frolicking mob of his own
kind—former members of an elite starship crew, now
screeching like animals—Kaa knew it shouldn't take fins
long to achieve "redemption."

He felt burning shame.

Kaa joined Brookida, unloading Makanee's pallet of sup-
plies. He did not want to face the nurses, who might re-

1 n f i n i r i|' s Shore 547

proach him for "losing" Peepoe. At least now there's a
chance to find her. With our own colony in place, I can
serve Makanee as a scout, patrolling and exploring . . .

in time I'll catch up with Zhaki andMopol. Then we'll have
a reckoning.

The aft hatch kept cycling after the last dolphin was
through. Excited squeaks resonated across the bay as an-
other set of emigres followed Makanee to an assembly
point, on a rocky islet in the middle of the harbor. Eager
six-limbed amphibian forms, with frilly gill fringes waving
about their heads. Transplanted from their native Kithrup,
the Kiqui would not qualify as sooners, exactly. They were
already a ripe, presapient life-form—a real treasure, in fact.
It would have been good to bring them home to Earth in
triumph and lay a claim of adoption with the Galactic Up-
lift Institute. But now Gillian clearly thought it better to
leave them here, where they had a chance.

According to plan, the dolphin-Kiqui colony would stay
in Port Wuphon for a few days, while a traeki pharmacist
analyzed the newcomers' dietary needs. If necessary, new
types of traeki stacks would be designed to create symbi-
otic supplements. Then both groups would head out to
find homes amid islands offshore.

I'm coming, Peepoe, Kaa thought. Once we get everyone

settled, nothing on Jijo or the Five Galaxies will keep me
from you.

A happy musing. Yet another thought kept nagging at
him.

Gillian isn 't just stripping the ship of nonessential per-
sonnel. She's putting everyone ashore she can spare . . .
for their own safety.

In other words, the human Terragens agent was plan-
ning something desperate . . . and very likely fatal.
Kaa had an uneasy feeling that he knew what it was.

At

vin

I GUESS REUNIONS CAN BE KIND OF AWKWARD, EVEN
when they're happy ones.

Don't get me wrong! I can't imagine a better moment
than when the four of us—Huck, Ur-ronn, Pincer, and
me—stepped out of the metal whale's yawning mouth to
see the hooded lanterns of our own hometown. My senses
were drenched with familiarity. I heard the creaking dross
ships and the lapping tide. I smelled the melon canopies
and smoke from a nearby cookstove—someone making
chubvash stew. My magnetic earbones tickled to the famil-
iar presence of Mount Guenn, invisible in the dark, yet a ^
powerful influence on the hoonish shape-and-location i
sense.

Then there came my father's umble cry, booming from
the shadows, and my mother and sister, rushing to my .
arms.                        .                     •

I confess, my first reaction was hesitant. I was glad to be
home, to see and embrace them, but also embarrassed by
the attention, and a little edgy about moving around with-
out a cane for the first time in months. When there came a
free moment, I bowed to my parents and handed them a
package, wrapped in complex folds of the best paper I
could find on the Streaker, containing my baby vertebrae.
It was an important moment. I had gone away a disobedi-
ent child. Now I was returning, an adult, with work to do.

My friends' homecomings were less emotional. Of
course Huck's hoonish adoptive parents were thrilled to
have her back from the dead, but no one expected them to
feel what my own folks did after giving up their only son
for lost, months ago.

Pincer-Tip touched claws briefly with a matron from the
qheuen hive, and that was it for him.

As for Ur-ronn., she and Uriel barely exchanged greet-
ings. Aunt and niece had one priority—to get out of the
rain. They fled the drizzle to a nearby warehouse, swiftly

Infinirii's Shore 549

immersing themselves in some project. Urs don't believe in
wasting time.

Does it make me seem heartless to say that I could not
give complete attention to my family? Even as they clasped
me happily, I kept glancing to see what else was going on.
It will be up to me—and maybe Huck—to tell later genera-
tions about this event. This fateful meeting on the docks.

For one thing, there were other reunions.

My new human friend, Dwer Koolhan, emerged from
the Hikahi, a tall silhouette, as sturdy looking as a preteen
hoon. When he appeared, a shout pealed from the crowd
of onlookers, and a young woman rushed to him, her arms
spread wide. Dwer seemed stunned to see her . . . then
equally enthused, seizing her into a whirling hug. At first, I
thought she might be some long-separated lover, but now I
know it is his sister, with adventures of her own to recount.

The rain let up a bit. Uriel returned, wearing booties and
a heavy black waterproof slicker that covered all but the tip
of her snout. Behind came several hoons, driving a herd of
ambling, four-footed creatures. Glovers. At least two dozen
of the bulge-eyed brutes swarmed down the pier, their
opal skins glistening. A few carried cloth-wrapped burdens
in their grasping tails. They did not complain, but trotted
toward the opening of the whale sub without pause.

This part of the transaction, I did not—and still do not—

understand. Why Earthling fugitives would want glavers is
beyond me.

Gillian Baskin had the hoons carry out several large
crates in exchange. I had seen the contents and felt an old
hunger rise within me.

Books. There were hundreds of paper books, freshly
minted aboard the Streaker. Not a huge amount of mate-
rial, compared with the Galactic Library unit, or even the
Great Printing, but included in the boxes were updates
about the current state of the Five Galaxies, and other sub-
jects Uriel requested. More than enough value to barter for
a bunch of grub-eating glavers!

Later, I connected the trade with the dolphins and Kiqui
who also debarked in Wuphon Harbor, and I realized,
There's more to this deal than meets the eye.

550 David B r i n

Did I mention the tall prisoner? As everybody moved off to
the great hall for a hurried feast, I looked back and
glimpsed a hooded figure being led down the pier toward
the submarine, guarded by two wary-looking urs. It was a
biped, but did not move like a human or hoon, and I could
tell both hands were tied. Whoever the prisoner was, he
vanished into the Hikahi in a hurry, and I never heard a
word about it.

The last reunion took place half a midura later, when we
were all gathered in the town hall.

According to a complex plan worked out by the Niss
Machine, the whale sub did not have to depart for some
time, so a banquet was held in the fashion of our Jijoan
Commons. Each race claimed a corner of the hexagonal
chamber for its own food needs, then individuals migrated
round the center hearth, chatting, renewing acquaintance,
or discussing the nature of the world. While Gillian Baskin
was engrossed in deep conversation with my parents and
Uriel, my sister brought me up to date on happenings in
Wuphon since our departure. In this way I learned of
school chums who had marched north to war, joining mili-
tia units while we four adventurers had childish exploits in
the cryptic deep. Some were dead or missing in the smol-'
dering ruins of Ovoom Town. Others, mostly qheuens, had
died in the plagues of late spring.

The hoonish disease never had a chance to take hold
here in the south. But before the vaccines came, one ship
had been kept offshore at anchor—in quarantine—be-
cause a sailor showed symptoms.

Within a week, half the crew had died.

Despite the gravity of her words, it was hard to pay close
attention. I was trying to screw up my courage, you see
Somehow, I must soon tell my family the news they would
least want to hear.

Amid the throng, I spotted Dwer and his sister huddled
near the fire, each taking turns amazing the other with tales
about their travels. Their elation at being reunited was
clearly muted by a kind of worry familiar to all of us-
concern about loved ones far away, whose fates were still

r U ' s Shore 551

n f i n i

unknown. I had a sense that the two of them knew, as I
did, that there remained very little time.

Not far away I spied Dwer's noor companion,
Mudfoot—the one Gillian called a "tytlal"—perched on a
rafter, communing with others of his kind. In place of their
normal, devil-may-care expressions, the creatures looked
somber. Now we Six knew their secret—that the tytlal are a
race hidden within a race, another tribe of sooners, fully
alert and aware of their actions. Might some victims of past
i pranks now scheme revenge on the little imps? That

seemed the least of their worries, but I wasted no sympa-
thy on them.

Welcome to the real world, I thought.

Tyug squatted in a corner of the hall, furiously puffing
away. Every few duras, the traeki's synthi ring would pop
out another glistening ball of some substance whose value
the Six Races had learned after long experience. Supple-
ments to, keep glavers healthy, for instance, and other
chemical wonders that might serve Gillian's crew, if some
miracle allowed them to escape. If Tyug finished soon,
Uriel hoped to keep her alchemist. But I would lay bets

that the traeki meant to go along when the Earthhngs de-'
parted.

The occasion was interrupted when a pair of big hoons
wearing proctors' badges pushed through leather door
strips into the feasting hall, gripping the arms of a male
human I had never seen before. He was of middle height
for their kind, with a dark complexion and an unhappy
expression. He wore a rewq on his forehead, and hair
combed to hide a nasty scar near his left ear. A small chimp
followed close behind, her appearance rueful.

I wasn't close enough to hear the details firsthand, but
later I pieced together that this was a long-lost crew mate
of the Streakers, whose appearance onJrjo had them mysti-
fied. He had been on Mount Guenn, helping Uriel's smiths
work on some secret project, when he suddenly up and
tried to escape by stealing some kind of flying machine!

As the guards brought him forward, Gillian's face
washed with recognition. She smiled, though he cringed,
as if dreading this meeting. The dark man turned left to
hide his mutilation, but Gillian insistently took his hands.

552 David B r i n

She expressed pleasure at seeing him by leaning up to kiss
one cheek.

Perhaps later I'll learn more about where he fits in all
this. But time is short and I must close this account before
the Hikahi sets sail to rejoin the dolphin-crewed ship. So \
let me finish with the climax of an eventful evening.    I

A herald burst in. His vibrating sac boomed an alert um-
ble.

"Come! Come and see the unusual!"

Hurrying outside, we found the rain had stopped tempo-
rarily. A window opened in the clouds, wide enough for \
Loocen to pour pale, liquid luminance across a flank of \
Mount Guenn. Swathes of brittle stars shone through, in-
cluding one deep red, cyclopean eye.

In spite of this lull, the storm was far from over. Light-
ning flickered as clouds grew denser still. The west was,
one great mass of roiling blackness amid a constant back-;

ground of thunder. In miduras, the coast was really going
to get hit.

People started pointing. Huck rolled up near my right
leg and gestured with all four agile eyestalks, directing my'
gaze toward the volcano.

At first, I couldn't tell what I was seeing. Vague, ghostlike
shapes seemed to bob and flutter upward, visible mostly as
curved silhouettes that blocked sporadic stars. Sometimes
lightning caused one of the objects to glow along a
rounded flank, revealing a globelike outline, tapered at the
bottom. They seemed big, and very far away.

I wondered if they might be starships.

"Balloons," Huck said at last, her voice hushed in awe
"Just like Around the World in Eighty Days\"

Funny. Huck seemed more impressed at that moment
than she ever had been aboard Streaker, by all the glit-
tering consoles and chattering machines. I stared at the
flotilla of fragile gasbags, wondering what kind of volun-
teers were brave enough to pilot them on a night like this,
surrounded by slashing electricity, and with ruthless foes
prowling higher still. We watched as scores wafted from
Mount Guenn's secret caves. One by one, they caught the
stiff west wind and flowed past the mountain, vanishing
from sight.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 55;

I happened to be standing near Gillian Baskin so

know what the Earthwoman said when she turned to Urie
the Smith.

"All right. You kept your side of the bargain. Now it''
time to keep ours."

PflBHEII

Vuboen

SMASHED UP. Wheels torn or severed. His
braincase leaking lubricant. /Viotivator spindles
shredded and discharging slowly into the
ground.                               '

Vubben lies crumpled next to his deity/
reeling lire drain away.

1 hat he still lives seems remarkable.
When the Jophur corvette slashed brutally
at the Holy Cgg/ he had been partway
around the great stones Hank/ almost on the
other side. But the moatlike channel 01 the
Nest (unneled explosive heat like a river/
outracing his Iruttless enort at retreat.

Now Vubben lies in a heap/ aware ol
two tacts.

/\ny surviving glxeks would need a new
High lay.

/\nd something else.
the bgg still lives.

He wonders about that. Why didnt the
Jophur (inish It on' Surely they had the
power.

lerhaps they were distracted.

lerhaps they would be back.

Or else/ were they subtly persuaded to 30 away
1 he t,gg s patterning rhythms seem subdued/ and yet more
clear than ever. He ponders whether it might be an artilact ot his
approaching death. Or perhaps his irayed spindles——draped across
the stony race——are picking up vibrations that normal senses could

not.

crystalline lucidity calls him/ but Vubben reels restrained by
the tenacious hold 01 lite. I hat was what always kept sages and
mystics Irom mlly communing with the sacred ovoid/ he now sees.
A/iortal beings——even traeki——have to care about continuing/ or
else the game ot existence cannot properly be played. But the
caring is also an Impediment. It biases the senses. AAakes you
receptive to noise.

Me lets go ot the impediment/ with a kind ot gladness.
Surrender clears the way/ opening a path that he plunges along/
like a youth just released irom training wheels/ spinning ecstati-
cally down a swooping ramp he never knew beiore/ whose curves
change in dellghtiulty ominous ways.

Vuboen leels the world grow transparent around him. y\nd
with blossoming clarity/ he begins to perceive connections.

In legend/ and in human lore/ gods were depicted speaking to
their prophets/ and those on the verge ot death. But the great
stone does not vocalise. Psio words come to Vubben/ or even
images. )4t he (inds himseir able to trace the Lggs torm/ its
vibrating unity. l_ike a runnel/ it draws him down/ toward the

bowels o( Jt)o.

rhat is the tirst surprise. From its shape alone/ the Six s\aw
assumed the L,gg was sell-contained/ an oval stone birthed out ol
Jijos inner heat/ now wholly part ol the upper world.
/\pparently it still maintains links to the world below.
Vubben s da^ed mind beholds the realm beneath the Slope
. . . not as a pic!,ure but in its gestalt/ as a vast domain
threaded by dendritic patterns or lava heat/ like branches 01 a
magma (orest/ iceding and maintaining a growing mountain range

1 he forest roots sink into [(queried pools/ unimaginably deep and
broad—measureless chambers where molten rock strains under the
steady grinding or an active planet.

/et/ even here the pattern tormations persist. Vubben hnds
himselt ama?ed by their revealed source.

, Dross!

Deep beneath the Slope/ there plunges a great sheet 01 heavier
stone ... an oceanic plate/ shoving hard against the continent
and then diving deeper still/ dragging eons-old basalt down to
rejoin slowly convecting mantle layers. 1 he process is not entirely
mysterious to Vubben. He has seen illustrations in Biblos texts.
/\s it scrapes by/ the plunging ocean plate leaves behind a scum/
a irothy mix 01 water and light elements . . .

. . . and also patterns.

latterns or dross! Or ancient buildings/ implements/ machines/
all discarded long ago/ ages before the Duyur won their leasehold
on this world. Deiore even their predecessors.

I he things themselves are long gone/ melted/ smeared out/ their
atoms dispersed by pressure and heat. Yet somehow a remnant
persists. 1 he magma does not quite rorget.

Uross Is supposed to be cleansed/ Vubben thinks/ shocked by
the Implications. When we dump our bones and tools in the
Midden/ it should lead to burial and purihcation by Jijos lire.
I here isn t supposed to be anything lelt!

/\nd yet . . . who is he to question/ it Jijo chooses to
remember something 01 each tenant race that abides here (or a
while/ availing itseli ot her resources/ her varied liie-iorrns/ then
departing according to Oalactic law'

Is that what you are' tie Inquires or the Holy h-gg. /\
distillation or memory 1 he crystallised essence of species who
came oelore/ and are now extinct'

j\ transcendent thought/ yet it makes him sad. Vubben s own
unique race verges on annihilation. He yearns ror some kind ot
preservation/ some reluge Irom oblivion. But in order to leave such

a remnant/ sophonts must dwell for a long time on a tectonic
world.

tor most 01 its sapiency period/ his kind had lived in space.
] hen you don t care aoout us living oelngs/ after all/ he
accuses the Lgg. /ou are like that craved mule spider ol the hills/
your lace turned to the past.                                     .

./Again/ there is no answer in word or image. What Vubben
(eels instead is a further extension of the sense of connectedness/
now sweeping upward/ through channels of friction heat/ climbing
against slow cascades ol moist/ superheated rode/ until his mind
emerges in a cool dark kingdom——the seas deep/ most private
place.

I he /vildden. Vubben (eels around him the great dross piles ol
more recent habitation waves. Lven here/ amid relics of the Duyur;

the Lgg seems linked. Vubben senses that the graveyard of ancient
instrumentalities has been disturbed, Heaps of archaic refuse still
quiver from some [ate intrusion.

1 here is no anger over this. iNor anything as overt as Interest.
But he does sense a reaction/ like some prodigious reflex.

I he sea is involved. Disturbance in the dross piles has provoked
shifts in the formation of waves and tides. Of heat and evaporation.
Like a sleeping giant/ responding heavily to a tiny itch. A massive
storm begins rolling both the surface and the ocean floor/ sweeping
things back where they belong.

Vubben has no idea what vexed the /Vildden so. lerhaps the
Jophur. Or else the end or dross shipments from the lix Kaces'
/\nyway/ his thoughts are coming more slowly as death swarms in
from the extremities. Vvorldly concerns matter less with each pass-
ing dura.

Jtill/ he can muster a few more cogencies-

Is that all we are to you' he inquires of the planet, /\n itch'

tic realises now^that l_)rake and Ur-Ohown had pulled a
fast one when they announced their revelation/ a century ago.
1 he Lgg is no god/ no conscious being. Ko-kenn was right/

calling it a particle of psi-active stone/ more compact and well

ordered than the Spectral Flow. A distillation that had proved

helpful in uniting the Six Races.

Useful in many ways ... but not worthy of prayer.
We sensed what we desperately wanted to sense, because tfi.

alternative was unacceptable——to face the fact that ive sooners a

alone. We always were alone.

That might have been Vibben's last thought. But at the final
moment there comes something else. A glimmer of meaning that
merges with his waning neuronic flashes. In that narrow moment/
he leels a wave of overwhelming certainty.

More layers lie beneath the sleeping strata. Layers that are

aware.

Layers that know.

Despair is not his final companion. Instead/ there comes in
rapid succession——
expectation . . .
satisfaction . . .
awareness of an ancient plan, patiently unfolding.

K

aa

CAN'T-T YOU USE SOMEBODY ELSE?"
"Who else? There is no one."
"What about Karkaett-t?"

"Suessi needs him to help nurse the engines. This effort
will be hopeless unless they operate above capacity."

Hopeless; Kaa used to think it such a simple word. But
like the concept of infinity, it came freighted with a wide
range of meanings. He slashed the water in frustration.
Ifni, will you really trap me this way? Dragging me across
the universe again, when all I want to do is stay?

Gillian Baskin knelt on the quay nearby, her raincoat
glistening. Distant lightning flashes periodically lit up the
bay, revealing that the Hikahihad already closed her clam-
shell doors, preparing to depart.

"Besides," Gillian added. "You are our chief pilot. Who
could be as well qualified?"

Gratifying words, but in fact Streaker used to have a bet-
ter pilot, by far.

"Keepiru ought to've stayed with the crew, back on
Kithrup-p. I should have been the one who went on the
skiff with Creideiki."

The woman shrugged. "Things happen, Kaa. I have con-
fidence in your ability to get us off this world in one
piece."

And after that? He chuttered a doubt-filled raspberry.
Everyone knew this would be little more than a suicide
venture. The odds had also seemed bad on Kithrup, but at
least there the eatee battle fleets'chasing Streaker had been
distracted, battling each other. Fleeing through that mael-
strom of combat and confusion, it proved possible to fool
their pursuers by wearing a disguise—the hollowed-out
shell of a Thennanin dreadnought. All that ploy took was
lots of skill . . . and luck.

I     Here in Jijo space there was no sheltering complexity.
No concealing jumble of warfare to sneak through. Just

562 David B r i n

one pursuer—giant and deadly—sought one bedraggled ;

prey.                                                   I

For the moment, Streaker was safe inJijo's sea, but what
chance would she have once she tried to leave?

"You don't have to worry about Peepoe," Gillian said, '
reading the heart of his reluctance. "Makanee has some
solid fins with her. Many are Peepoe's friends. They'll scan
relentlessly till they find Zhaki and Mopol, and make them
let her go.

"Anyway," the blond woman went on, "isn't Peepoe bet-
ter off here? Won't you use your skill to keep her safe?"

Kaa eyed Gillian's silhouette, knowing the Terragens
agent would use any means to get the job done. If that
meant appealing to Kaa's-sense of honor ... or even
chivalry . . . Gillian Baskin was not too proud.

"Then you admit it-t," he said.

"Admit what?"

"That we're heading out as bait, nothing elsssse. Our aim
is to sacrifice ourselves."

The human on the quay was silent for several seconds,
then lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

"It seems worthwhile, don't you think?"

Kaa pondered. At least she was being honest—a decent
way for a captain to behave with her pilot.

A whole world, seven or eight sapient races, some near
extinction, and a unique culture. Can you see giving up
your life for all that?

"I guesss so," he murmured, after a pause.

Gillian had won. Kaa would abandon his heart on Jijo,
and fly out to meet death with open eyes.

Then he recalled. She had made exactly the same choice,
long ago. A decision that still must haunt her sleep, though
it could have gone no other way.

Yet it surprised Kaa when Gillian slipped off the stone
quay, entering the water next to him, and threw her arms
around his head. Shivers followed her hands as she stroked
him gratefully.

"You make me proud," she said. "The crew will be glad,
and not just because we have the best pilot in this whole
galaxy."

Kaa's flustered confusion expressed itself in a sonar in-

n f i n i r 4 • s Shore

563

terrogative, casting puzzled echoes through the colonnade
of a nearby pier. Gillian wove her Trinary reply through
that filtered reverberation, binding his perplexity, braiding
a sound fabric whose texture seemed almost like a melody.

* Amid the star lanes,

* Snowballs sometimes thrive near
flame. . . .

* Don't you feel Lucky? *

R

ety

THE DOLPHIN ENGINEER SHOUTED AT HER FROM
the airlock of the salvaged dross ship.

- "C-come on, Rety! We gotta leave now, t-to make the
rendezvous!"

Chuchki had reason to be agitated. His walker unit
whined and jittered, reacting to nervous signals sent down
his neural tap. It was cramped in the airlock, which also
held the speed sled to carry them from this ghost ship back
to Streaker. Providing all went according to plan.
Only I ain't part of the plan anymore, Rety thought.
Stepping in front of Chuchki, with the sill of the hatch
between them, she removed the tunic they had given her,
as an honorary member of the crew. At first the gesture had

pleased Rety—till she saw the Terrans were just another
band of losers.

Rely tossed the garment in the airlock.

"Tell Dr. Baskin an' the others thanks, but I'll be makin'
my own way from here on. Good luck. Now scram."

Chuchki stared at first, unable to move or speak. Then
servos whirred. The walker started to move.

"Hit the button, yee!" Rety shouted over her left shoul-
der.

Back in the control room, her little "husband" pressed a
lever triggering the airlock's emergency cycle. The inner
hatch sljd shut, severing Chuchki's wail of protest. Soon, a

564 David B r i n

row of purple lights showed the small chamber rilling with
water as the outer door opened.

A few duras later, she heard engine noise—the now-
familiar growl of the speed sled that had brought the two
of them here—ebbing with distance as the machine fled.
She ordered the outer door closed and locked against the
possibility that Chuchki might try something "heroic."
Some still thought of her as a child, and many dolphins
also had a mystical attachment to their human patrons.

But I'll be just fine. A lot better off than those fools, in

fact.

Several low, squat hallways led away from the lock, but
only one was lit by a string of glow bulbs. Following this
trail, she made her way back toward the control room,
sometimes lingering to stroke a panel or gaze into a cham-
ber filled with mysterious machines. For the last few days
she had looked over this salvaged starship—once a Buyur
packet boat, according to Chuchki. Though a mess, it was
one of the "best" recovered derelicts, capable of life sup-
port as well as full engine maneuvering, owing its remark-
able state to the Midden's chill, sterile waters. Durable
Galactic machines might lie there unchanged forever, or
until Jijo sucked them underground.

It's mine now, she mused, surveying her prize. I've got
my own starship.

Of course it was still a hunk of dross. All odds were
against her getting anywhere in this moving scrap pile.

But the odds always had been against her, ever since she
was born into that filthy tribe of savages, so proud of their
sickly ignorance. And especially since she realized she'd
rather be whipped for speaking up than be a slave to some
bully with rotting teeth and the mind of a beast.

Rety had suffered some disappointments lately. But now
she saw what each of the setbacks had in common. They
all came about because of trusting others—first the sages of
the Commons, then the Rothens, and finally a ragtag band

of helpless Earthlings.

But all that was in the past. Now she was back doing
what she did best—relying on herself.

The control room spanned roughly thirty paces in width,
featuring about a dozen wide instrument consoles. All

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 565

were dark, except one jury-rigged station festooned with
cables and makeshift bypass connections. Lights blazed
across that panel. On the floor nearby, a portable holosim
display revealed a staticky map of the ancient vessel's sur-
roundings, a dart-shaped glow threading its way through a
maze of ridges at the bottom of the great ocean.

Most of the decoy ships cruised with simple autopilots,
but a few moved more flexibly, crewed by volunteer
teams, making adjustments to the swarm pattern planned
by the Niss Machine. In this effort, Rety's intelligence and
agile hands had been helpful to Chuchki, making up for
her lack of education. She felt justified in having earned
her starship.

"hi captain!"

Her sole companion pranced on the instrument console,
each footstep barely missing a glowing lever or switch. The
little urrish male greeted her with a shrill ululation.

"we did, it! like pirates of the plains! like in legends of the
battle aunties! now we free. no more noor beasts, no more
yuckity ship full of water-loving fish!"

Rety laughed. Whenever loneliness beckoned, there was
always yee to cheer her up.

"so where to now, captain?" the diminutive creature
asked, "shake free of Jijo? head someplace good and
sunny, for a change?"

She nodded.

"That's the i.dea. Only we gotta be patient a little while
longer."

First Streaker must collect Chuchki and other scattered
workers. Rety had an impression that the Earthlings were
waiting for events to happen onshore. But after hearing the
Jophur ultimatum she knew—Gillian Baskin would soon
be forced to act.

I helped them, she rationalized. An' I won't interfere with
their plan . . . much.

But in the long run, none o' that'll matter. Everybody
knows they're gonna get roasted when they try to get away.

Or else thejophur'll catch 'em, like a ligger snatchin' up a
gallaiter faun.

Nobody can blame me for tryin' to find my own way out
of a trap like that.

566 David B r i n

And if someone did cast blame her way?
Rety laughed at the thought.

In that case, they can try to out/art a traeki, for all I
care. This ship is mine, and there's notbin' anybody can

do about it!
She was getting away from Jijo—one way or another.

D

wer

THE NIGHT SKY CRACKLED.
At random intervals his hair abruptly stood on end.
Static electricity snapped the balloon's canopy with a
basso boom, while pale blue glows moved up and down
the rope cables, dancing like frantic imps. Once, a flicker-
ing ball of greenish white followed him across the sky for
more than a midura, mimicking each rise, fall, or sway in
the wind. He could not tell if it was an arrowflight away, or
several leagues. The specter only vanished when a rain
squall passed between, but Dwer kept checking nervously,

in case it returned.

Greater versions of the same power flashed in all direc-
tions—though from a safe distance, so far. He made a habit
of counting kiduras between each brilliant discharge and
the arrival of its rumbling report. When the interval grew
short, thunder would shake the balloon like a child's rag

doll.

Uriel had set controls to keep Dwer above most of the
gale ... at least according to the crude weather calcula-
tions of her spinning-disk computer. The worst fury took
place below, in a dense cloud bank stretching from hori-
zon to horizon.

Still, that only meant there were moonlit gaps for his frail
craft to drift through. Surrounding him towered the mighty
heat engines of the storm—churning thunderheads whose
lofty peaks scraped the boundaries of space.

Though insanely dangerous, the spectacle exceeded
anything in Dwer's experience—and perhaps even that of
any star god in the Five Galaxies. He was tempted to climb

Infinirii's Shore 567

the rigging for a better view of nature's majesty. To let the
tempest sweep his hair. To shout back when it bellowed.
But he wasn't free. There were duties unfulfilled.
So Dwer did as he'd been told, remaining huddled in a
wire cage the smiths had built for him, lashed to a wicker
basket that dangled like an afterthought below a huge gas-
bag. The metal enclosure would supposedly protect him
from a minor lightning strike.

And what if a bolt tears the bag instead? Or ignites the
fuel cylinder? Or ...

Low clicks warned Dwer to cover his face just half a dura
before the altitude sensor tripped, sending jets of flame
roaring upward, refilling the balloon and maintaining a
safe distance from the ground.

Of course, "safe" was a matter of comparison.

"In theory, this vehicle should convey you welt past the
Rinner Range, and then veyond the Poison Plain," the
smith had explained. "After that, there should ve an end to
the lightning danger. You can leave the Faraday cage and
guide the craft as we taught you."

As they taught me in half a rushed midura, Dwer
amended, while running around preparing one last bal-
loon to launch.

All the others were far ahead of him—a flotilla of flimsy
craft, dispersing rapidly as they caught varied airstreams,
but all sharing the same general heading. East, driven by
near-hurricane winds. Twice he had witnessed flares in
that direction, flames that could not have come from light-
ning alone. Sudden outbursts of ocher fire, they testified to
some balloon exploding in the distance.

Fortunately, those others had no crews, just instruments
recovered from dross ships. Dwer was the only Jijoan
loony enough to go flying on a night like this.

They needed an expendable volunteer. Someone to ob-
serve and report if the trick is successful.

Not that he resented Uriel and Gillian. Far from it. Dwer
was suited for the job. It was necessary. And the voyage
would take him roughly where he wanted to go.

Where I'm needed.

To the Gray Hills.

What might have happened to Lena and Jenin in the

568 David B r i n

time he'd spent as captive of a mad robot, battling Jophur
in a swamp and then trapped with forlorn Terrans at the
bottom of the sea? By now, the women would have united
the urrish and human sooner tribes, and possibly led them
a long way from the geyser pools where Danel Ozawa
died. It might take months to track them down, but that
hardly mattered. Dwer had his bow and supplies. His skills
were up to the task.

All I need is to land in roughly the right area, say within
a hundred leagues . . . and not break my neck in the
process. I can hunt and forage. Save my traeki paste for
later, in case the search lasts through winter.

Dwer tried going over the plan, dwelling on problems
he could grasp—the intricacies of exploring and survival in
wild terrain. But his mind kept coming back to this wild
ride through an angry sky . . . or else the sad partings
that preceded it.

For a time, he and Sara had tried using words, talking
about their separate adventures, sharing news of friends
living and dead. She told what little she knew about Nelo
and their destroyed hometown. He described how Lark
had saved his life in a snowstorm, so long ago that it'
seemed another age.

Hanging over the reunion was sure knowledge that it
must end. Each of them had places to go. Missions with
slim chance of success, but compelled by duty and curios-
ity. Dwer had lived his entire adult life that way, but it took
some effort to grasp that his sister had chosen the same
path, only on a vaster scale.

He still might have tried talking Sara out of her inten-
tion—perhaps suicidal—to join the Earthlings' desperate
breakout attempt. But there was something new in the way
she carried herself—a lean readiness that took him back to
when they were children, following Lark on fossil hunts,
and Sara was the toughest of them all. Her mind had al-
ways plunged beyond his comprehension. Perhaps it was
time for her to stride the same galaxies that rilled ha
thoughts.                                           •

"Remember us,'when you're a star god," he had told her,'
before their final embrace.

Her reply was a hoarse whisper.                   '

Shore   569

I n f i n i r u ' s

"Give my love to Lark and ..."

Sara closed her eyes, throwing her arms around him.
". . . and toJijo."

They clung together until the urrish smiths said it was
the last possible moment to go.

When the balloon took off, Mount Guenn leaped into
view around him, a sight unlike any he ever beheld. Light-
ning made eerie work of the Spectral Flow, sending brief
flashes of illusion dancing across his retinas.

Dwer watched his sister standing at the entrance of the
cave, a backlit figure. Too proud to weep. Too strong to
pretend. Each knew the other was likely heading to obliv-
ion. Each realized this would be their last shared moment.

/'// never know if she lives, he had thought, as clouds
swallowed the great volcano, filling the night with flashing
arcs. Looking up through a gap in the overcast, he had
glimpsed, a corner of the constellation Eagle.

Despite the pain of separation, Dwer had managed a
smile.

It's better that way.

From now until the day I die, I'll picture her out there.
Living in the sky.

Al

vin

BS IT TURNED OUT, I DIDN'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN
things to my parents. Gillian and Uriel had already laid it
out, before it was time to depart.

The Six Races should be represented, they explained.
Come what may.

Furthermore, I had earned the right to go. So had my

friends.

Anyway, who was better qualified to tell Jijo's tale?
Mu-phauwq and Yowg-wayuo had no choice but to ac-
cept my decision. Was Jijo any safer than fighting the
Jophur in space? Besides, I had spine-molted. I would
make my own decisions.

570 David B r i n

Mother turned her back to me. I stroked her spines, but
she spoke without turning around.

"Thank you for returning from the dead," she mur-
mured. "Honor us by having children of your own. Name
your firstborn after your great-uncle, who was captain of
the Auph-Vuhoosh. The cycle must continue."

With that, she let my sister lead her away. I felt both
touched and bemused by her command, wondering how it
could ever be obeyed.

Dad, bless him, was more philosophical. He thrust a
satchel in my arms, his entire collection of books by New
Wave authors ofJijo's recent literary revival—the hoon, urs,
and g'Kek writers who have lately begun expressing them-
selves in unique ways on the printed page. "It's to remind
you that humans are not in complete command of our cul-
ture. There is more than one line to our harmony, my son."

"I know that, Dad," I replied. "I'm not a complete
humicker."

He nodded, adding a low umble.

"It is told that we hoons were priggish and sour, before
our sneakship came to Jijo. Legends say we had no word
for 'fun.'

"If that is true—and in case you meet any of our stodgy
cousins out there—tell them about the sea, Hph-wayuo!
Tell them of the way a sail catches the wind, a sound no
mere engine can match.

"Teach them to taste the stinging spray. Show them all
the things that our patrons never did.

"It will be our gift—we happy damned—to those who
know no joy in heaven."

Others had easier leave-takings.

Qheuens are used to sending their males out on risky
ventures, for the sake of the hive. Pincer's mothers did
emboss his shell with some proud inlay, though, and saw
him off in good style.

Urs care mostly about their work, their chosen loyalties,
and themselves. Ur-ronn did not have to endure sodden
sentimentality. Partly because of the rain, she and Uriel
made brief work of their good-byes. Uriel probably saw it

I n f i n i r 4 ' s Shore 571

as a good business transaction. She lost her best appren-
, tice, but had adequate compensation.

:    Uriel seemed far more upset about losing Tyug. But
there was no helping it. The Earthers need a traeki. And
not just any traeki, but the best alchemist we can send. No

; pile of substance balls can substitute. Besides, it will be
good luck for all races to be along.

Huck's adoptive parents tried to express sorrow at her
parting, but their genuine fondness for her would not
make them grieve. Hoons are not humans. We cannot
transfer the full body bond to those not of our blood. Our

affections run deeper, but narrower than Earthlings'. Per-
haps that is our loss.

So the five of us reboarded as official representatives,
and as grown-ups. I had molted and Pincer showed off his
cloisonne. Ur-ronn did not preen, but we all noticed that
one of her brood pouches was no longer virgin white, but
blushed a fresh shade of blue as her new husband wrig-
gled and stretched it into shape.

Huck carried her own emblem of maturity—a narrow
wooden tube, sealed with wax at both ends. Though hum-
ble looking, it might be the most important thing we
brought with us from the Slope.

Huphu rode my shoulder as I stepped inside the whale
sub. I noted that the tytlal-style noor, Mudfoot, had also
rejoined us, though the creature seemed decidedly un-
happy. Had he been exiled by the others, for the crime of
letting their ancient secret slip? Or was he being honored,
as we were, with a chance to live or die for Jijo?

Sara Koolhan stood between her chimp and the
wounded starman as the great doors closed, cutting us off

from the wharf lanterns, our village, and the thundering

sky.

"Well, at least this is more comfortable than the last time

we submerged, inside a dumb old hollow tree trunk,"
Huck commented.

Pincer's leg vents whistled resentfully. "You want comfy?
Poor little g'Kekkie want to ride my back, an' be tucked
into her beddie?"

"Shut uf, you two," Ur-ronn snapped. "Trust Ifni to stick
ne with a vunch of ignoranuses for confanions."

572 David B r i n

Huphu settled close as I umbled, feeling a strange, re-
signed contentment. My friends' bickering was one un-
changed feature of life from those naive days when we
were youngsters, still dreaming of adventure in our
Wupbon's Dream. It was nice to know some things would
be constant across space and time.

Alas, Huck had not mentioned the true difference be-
tween that earlier submergence and this one.

Back then, we sincerely thought there was a good
chance we'd be coming home again.

This time, we all knew better.

wasx

RLARMS BLARE.! INSTRUMENTS CRY OUT SIRENS OF
danger!

Behold, My rings, how the Captain-Leader recalls the
robots and remote crew stacks who were engaged in prob-
ing the deep-sea trench.

Greater worries now concern us!

For days, cognizance detectors have sieved through the
deep, trying to separate the prey from its myriad decoys. It
even occurred to us/Me that the Earthling ship may not be
one of the moving blips at all! It might be sheltering silently
in some dross pile. In operating the swarm by remote con-
trol, they might bypass all the normal etheric channels,
using instead their fiendish talent at manipulating sound.

I/we are/am learning caution. I did not broach this pos-
sibility to the Captain-Leader.

Why did I refrain? A datum has come to our attention.
Those in power often ask for the "truth," or even the best
guesses of their underlings. But in fact, they seldom truly
wish to hear contradiction.

Anyway, the tactics stacks estimated improved odds at
sifting for the quarry. Only one more day, at worst. We of
the Polkjhy could easily afford the time.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 573

Until we detected disturbing intruders. Interlopers that
could only have come from the Five Galaxies!

"THERE ARE AT LEAST SIX SIXES OF THEM!"

So declares the cognizance detector operator. "Hover-
ing, almost stationary, no more than fifteen planetary de-
grees easterly. One moment they were not there. The next
moment, they appeared!"

The etherics officer vents steam of doubt.
"I/we perceive nothing, nor have our outlying satellites.
This provokes a reasonable hypothesis: that your toruses
are defective, or else your instruments."
But routine checks discover no faults in either.
"They may have meme-suborned our satellites," sug-
gests one tactician stack. "Combining this with excellent
masking technology—"

"Perhaps," interrupts another. "But gravities cannot be
fooled so easily. If there are six sixes of ships, they cannot
be larger than hull type sixteen. No match for us, then. We
can annihilate the entire squadron, forthwith,"

"Is that why they operate in stealth?" inquires the Cap-
tain-Leader, puffing pheromones of enforced calm into the
tense atmosphere. "Might they be lingering, just beyond
line of sight, while awaiting reinforcements?"

It is a possibility we cannot ignore. But, lacking cor-
vettes, we must go investigate ourselves.

Reluctantly, gracefully, the Polkjhy turns her omnipo-
tence around, heading toward the ghostly flotilla. If they
are scouts for an armada—perhaps the Soro or Tandu, our
mortal foes—it may be necessary to act swiftly, decisively.
Exactly the kind of performance that best justifies the exis-
tence of master rings.

Others must not be allowed to win the prize!
As we move ponderously eastward, a new thought bur-
bles upward. A streak of wax, secreted by our once-
rebellious second torus-of-cognition.
What is it, My ring?

You recall how the savage sooners called to our corvette,
not once, but twice, using minute tickles of digital power
to attract our attention?

574 David B r i n

The first time, they used such a beacon to bribe us with
the location of a g'Kek hideout.

The second time? Ah, yes. It was a lure, drawing the
corvette to a trap.

VERY CLEVER, MY RING!

Ah, but the comparison does not work.

There are many more sources, this time.

They are stronger, and the cognizance traces have spoor
patterns typical of starship computers.                 |

But above all, My poor ring, did you not hear our detec-
tion officer stack?

These signals cannot come from benighted sooners.

THEY FLY!                                 I

ara

6RAVITIGSS!"

The detection officer thrashed her flukes.
"Movement signs! The large emitter departss its sta-
tionary hover position. Jophur battleship now moving east
at two machsss. Ten klickss altitude."

Sara watched Gillian Baskin absorb the news. This was j
according to plan, yet the blond Earthwoman showed'
hardly any reaction. "Very good," she replied. "Inform me
of any vector change. Decoy operator, please engage
swarming program number four. Start the wrecks drifting
upward, slowly."

The water-filled chamber was unlike any "bridge" Saa
had read about in ancient books—a Terran vessel, con-
trolled from a room humans could only enter wearing
breathing masks. This place was built for the convenience
of dolphins. It was their ship—though a woman held com-
mand.

A musty smell made Sara's nose itch, but when her hand
raised to scratch, it bumped the transparent helmet, star-i
tling her for die fiftieth time. Fizzy liquid prickled Sara's
bare arms and legs with goose bumps. Yet she had no
mental space for annoyance, fear, or claustrophobia. This

Infinifu's Shore 575

place was much too strange to allow such mundane reac-
l tions.

Streaker's overall shape and size were still enigmas. Her '
, one glimpse of the hull—peering through a viewing port
: while the whale sub followed a searchlight toward its hur-
ried rendezvous—showed a mysterious, studded cylinder,
like a giant twelk caterpillar, whose black surface seemed
to drink illumination rather than reflect it. The capacious
airlock was almost deserted as Kaa and other dolphins de-
barked from the Hikahi, using spiderlike walking ma-
chines to rush to their assigned posts. Except for the
bridge, most of the ship had been pumped free of water,
reducing weight to a minimum.

The walls trembled with the rhythmic vibration of en-
gines—distant cousins to her father's mill, or the Tarek

Town steamboats. The familiarity ran deep, as if affinity
flowed in Sara's blood.

"Battleship passing over Rimmer mountains. Departing
line-of-sight!"

"Don't make too much of that," Gillian reminded the
crew. "They still have satellites overhead. Maintain swarm

pattern four. Kaa, ease us to the western edge of our
group."

"Aye," the sturdy gray pilot replied. His tail and fins
wafted easily, showing no sign of tension. "Suessi reports
motors operating at nominal. Gravities charged and ready."

Sara glanced at a row of screens monitoring other parts
of the ship. At first, each display seemed impossibly small,
but her helmet heeded subtle motions of her eyes, enhanc-
ing any image she chose to focus on, expanding it to 3-D
clarity. Most showed empty chambers, with walls still moist
from recent flooding. But the engine room was a bustle of
activity. She spied "Suessi" by his unique appearance—a
torso of wedgelike plates topped by a reflective dome, en-
casing what remained of his head. The arm that was still

human gestured toward a panel, reminding a neo-fin oper-
ator to make some adjustment.

That same arm had wrapped around Emerson after the
Hikahi docked, trembling while clutching the prodigal
starman. Sara had never seen a cyborg before. She did not
know if it was normal for one to cry.

576 David B r i n

Emerson and Prity were also down there, helping Suessi
with their nimble hands. Sara spied them laboring in the
shadows, accompanied by Ur-ronn, the eager young urs,
fetching and carrying for the preoccupied engineers. In-
deed, Emerson seemed a little happier with work to do.
After all, these decks and machines had been his life for
many years. Still, ever since the reunion on the docks, Sara
had not seen his accustomed grin. For the first time, he
seemed ashamed of his injuries.                      \

These people must be hard, up to need help from an ape,
an urrish blacksmith, and a speechless cripple. The other
youngsters from Wuphon were busy, too. Running errands
and tending the glaver herd, keeping the creatures calm in j
strange surroundings.

I'm probably the most useless one of all. The Egg only
knows what I'm doing here.

Blame it on Sage Purofsky, whose cosmic speculations
justified her charging off with desperate Earthlings. Even if
his reasoning holds, what can I do about the BuyurpW.
Especially if this mission is suicidal—

The detection officer squealed, churning bubbles with

her flukes.

"Primary gravities source decelerating! Jophur ship near-
ing estimated p-position of mobile observer."

Mobile observer, Sara thought. That would be Diver.

She pictured him in that frail balloon, alone in the wide
sky, surrounded by nature's fury, with that great behemoth
streaking toward him.                               . j

Keep your head down, little brother. Here it comes.

D

'wer

WITH THE RIMMERS BEHIND HIM AT LAST, THi'
storm abated its relentless buffeting enough to glimpse
some swathes of stars. The gaps widened. In time Dwei;

spied a pale glow to the west. Gray luminance spread
across a vast plain of waving scimitar blades.

Dwer recalled slogging through the same bitter steppe

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 577

months ago, guiding Danel, Lena, and Jenin toward the
Gray Hills. He still bore scars from that hard passage, when

knifelike stems slashed at their clothes, cutting any ex-
posed flesh.

This was a better way of traveling, floating high above.
That is, if you survived searing lightning bolts, and thunder
that loosened your teeth, and terrifying brushes with
mountain peaks that loomed out of the night like giant
claws, snatching at a passing morsel.

Maybe walking was preferable, after all.

He drank from his water bottle. Dawn meant it was time
to get ready. Dormant machines would have flickered to
life when first light struck the decoy balloons, electric cir-
cuits closing. Computers, salvaged from ancient starships,
began spinning useless calculations.

The Jophur must be on the move, by now.

He reached up to his forehead and touched the rewq he
had been given, causing it to writhe over his eyes. At once,
Dwer's surroundings shifted. Contrasts were enhanced. All
trace of haze vanished from the horizon, and .he was able
to look close to the rising sun, making out the distant glim-
mers of at least a dozen floating gasbags, now widely dis-
persed far to the east, tiny survivors of the tempest that had
driven them so far.

Dwer pulled four crystals from a pouch at his waist and
jammed them into the gondola wickerwork so each glit-
tered in the slanted light. A hammer waited at his waist, but
he left it there for now, scanning past the decoys, straining
to see signs of the Gray Hills.

I'm coming, Jenin. I'll be there soon, Lena.
I've just got a few more obstacles to get by.
He tried to picture their faces, looking to the future
rather than dwelling on a harsh past. Buried in his
backpack was a sensor stone that would come alight on
midwinter's eve, if by some miracle the High Sages gave
the all clear. If all the starships were gone, and there was
reason to believe none would return. By then Dwer must
find Lena and Jenin, and help them prepare the secluded
tribe for either fate destiny had in store—a homecoming to

the Slope, or else a life of perpetual hiding in the wilder-
ness.

578 David B r i n

Either way, it's the job I'm trained/or. A duty I know
how to fulfill.

He found it hard to settle his restless mind, though. For
some reason Dwer thought instead about Rety, the irascible
sooner girl who had chosen to stay with the Streaker crew,
No surprise there; she wanted nothing in life more than to
leave Jijo, and that seemed the most likely, if risky, way.

But Dwer's mind roamed back to their adventure to-
gether—as captives of the Danik robot, when Dwer used ;

to carry the machine across rivers by wearing it like a hat,
conducting its suspensor fields through his own throbbing
nervous system. . . .

All at once he realized. The recollection was no accident.;

No random association.

It was a warning.

Creepy shivers coursed his spine. Eerily familiar.      ;

"Dung!" he cried out, swiveling to the west—

—just in time to spy a tremendous object, blue and
rounded, like a demon's face, soar past the Rimmer peaks
and hurtle silently toward him, outracing sound.

It was like watching the onrush of an arrow, aimed i
straight at your nose. In moments the starship grew from a'
mere speck, burgeoning to fill the world!              i

Dwer shut his eyes, bracing for erasure. ...         l

Kiduras passed, two for each racing heartbeat. After
twenty or so, the gondola was struck by a wall of sound,
shaking him like thunder,                            j

But sound was all. No impact.                    |

It must have missed me!

He forced an eye open, turning around . . .

. . . and spied it to the east, bearing toward the decoy
balloons.

Now he could tell, the behemoth moved at a higher alti-
tude. The imminent collision had been a mirage. It never
came within a league of him, or gave Dwer any notice.

But it can't miss the decoys, he thought. They're in open
view.

Blade, his childhood qheuen playmate, had reported
that balloons seemed transparent to Jophur instruments,
But that was at night. It's almost broad daylight now.
Surety they see the gasbags by now.

I n f i n i r (J ' s Shore 579

Or maybe not. Dwer recalled how excited the balloon
concept made the Niss Machine, which understood a lot

about Jophur ways. Perhaps Gillian Baskin knew what she
was doing.

The idea was to get the Jophur confused. To send them

searching around for supposed enemy ships they could
detect only vaguely.

Sure enough, the space titan decelerated ponderously,
descending in a long spiral around the general area. An
aura of warped air seemed to bend all light passing within
half a radius of the tremendous globe. The rewq made
clear this was a shield of some sort—apparent grounds for
the Jophur assumption of invincibility.

Dwer reached for the hammer at his waist . . . and
waited.

L^an

WE WANTED TO MAKE LOVE AGAIN.
Who wouldn't, after the way Ling had writhed and

clutched at him, with animal-like cries that belied her
background as an urbane sky god? He, too, had felt a seis-
mic quake of passion. Ardor that reached out of something

wild within . . . followed by a release that was blissfully
free of any sapient thought.

Despite their dire circumstance, trapped in a ship filled

with mortal enemies, Lark felt fine. Better than he had
since—

Since ever. Somehow, this climax did not leave him in a
state of lassitude, but filled with energy, a postcoital anima-
tion he had never experienced before. 5'o much for my vow
of celibacy, he thought. Of course, that vow had been for
the sake of Jijo. And we're not on Jijo anymore.

He reached for Ling. But she stopped him with an up-
raised hand, sitting up, her breasts still glistening with their
commingled sweat.

Ling's eyes were distant. Her ears twitched, listening.
A jungle surrounded them—supported by lattice scaf-

580 David B r i n

folding that filled a chamber larger than the artificial cave
of Biblos. A maze of fantastic, profusely varied vegetation
nearly filled the cavity. In this far corner, apparently ill-
tended by the maintenance drones, the two fugitive
hominids had built a nest. Ling, the trained spatiobiologist,
had no trouble spotting several types of fruits and tubers to
eat. They might live weeks or months this way ... or
perhaps the rest of their lives. Unless the universe intruded.

Which it did, of course.

"They've turned on their defensive array," she told him.
"And I think they're slowing down."

"How can you tell?" Lark listened, but could make out
no difference in the mesh of interlacing engine sounds,
more complex than the verdant jungle.

Ling slipped into the rag of a tunic that was her sole
remaining garment. "Come on," she said.

With a sigh, he put on his own torn shirt. Lark picked up
the leather thong holding his amulet—the fragment of the
Holy Egg he had chipped off as a child. For the first time in
years, he considered not slipping it on. If the ship had left i
Jijo, might that make him free at last from the love-hate |
burden?                                             t

"Come on!" Ling was already scooting along the lat-'
ticeway, heading toward the exit. In a torn cloth sling, she
carried the wounded red torus—one of the traeki rings i
provided by Asx.

He slipped the thong around his neck and reached for
the crude sack that contained the purple ring and their few
other possessions.

"I'm on my way," he murmured, clambering out of the
nest, wondering if they would ever be back.

Ling had her bearings now. With Lark to sniff scent indica-
tors at tunnel intersections, and the purple ring serving as a
passkey, they had little trouble hurrying "north" up the
ship's axis. Twice they sped along by using antigravity
drop tubes. Lark's stomach did somersaults as his bodyi
went careening up a jet-black tunnel. The landings were
always soft, though. Even better, they did not meet a single
Jophur or robot along the way.                       ,

Infinity's Shore 581

"They're at battle stations," she explained. "Here. Their
control room should be just below this level. If I'm right,
there should be an observers' gallery. ..."

Lark smelled an oddly familiar aroma, much like the fra-
grance traeki used when they referred to Biblos.

Ling pointed to a rare written symbol inscribed on the
wall. She crowed. "I was right!"

Lark had seen the glyph before—a rayed spiral with five
swirling arms. Even Jijo's fallen races knew what it stood

for. The Great Galactic Library. Symbol for both patience
and knowledge.

"Hurry!" Ling said as he applied the purple ring to the
entrance plate. The barrier slid open, giving access to a
dim chamber whose sole illumination came through a
broad window, directly opposite the door. It took just
a few strides to cross over and stare through the glass at a
bright gallery below. A chamber filled with Jophur.

There were scores of the tapered stacks. Taller and more
slickly perfect than any Jijoan traeki, they squatted next to
instrument stations, many of them surrounded by flashing
panels and lighted controls. At the very center, one gleam-
ing torus pile perched on a raised dais, surveying the la-
bors of the crew.

"A lot of big ships have observation decks, like the one
we're in," Ling explained in a low voice. "They're for when
legates from any of the great Institutes come aboard—say

on an inspection tour. Most of the time, though, they just

contain a watcher."

"A what?"

She gestured to her left, where Lark now saw a roughly

man-sized cube with a single dark lens in the middle, look-
ing over the Jophur control room.

"It's a WOM ... or Write-Only Memory. A witness. Any
capital ship from a great clan is supposed to carry one,
especially if engaged in some major venture. It takes a
record that can then be archived in deep storage so later
generations may learn from the experience of each race,
after a certain time period expires."

"How long?"

Ling shrugged. "Millions of years, I guess. You hear

582 avid r i n

about watchers being sent for storage, but I've never
known of a WOM being read during the present epoch.
I guess when you put it that way, it kind of sounds
like a contradiction in terms. A typical Galactic hypo-
crisy. Or maybe I don't grasp some subtlety of the con-
cept."

You and me, both, Lark thought, dismissing the watcher
from his mind, like a slab of stone.

"Look," he said, pointing toward one end of the Jophur
headquarters chamber. "Those big screens show the out-
side! Seems we just passed over the Rimmers."

"Toward the sun." Ling nodded. "Either it's morning
or—"

"Nothing on the Slope looks like that prairie. That's poi-
son grass. So it is morning and that's east."

"See the clouds," Ling commented. "They're breaking
up, but it must've been some stor—" She stopped, blink-
ing. "Hear that? The Jophur are excited. Maybe I can adjust
these knobs and—"

Sound abruptly boomed through the observation deck.
A screech and ratchet of accented GalTwo.

". . . COMMANDED TO CORRECT THE DISSONANCE/
DISAGREEMENTS BETWEEN YOUR VARIED REPORTS/JUS-
TIFY THIS PATTERNED SEARCH! EXPLAIN REASONS WW ,
WE SHOULD NOT RETURN TO OUR PRIMARY MISSION-
SIFTING FOR THE WOLFLJNG CRAFT.'"

Lark saw the Jophur on the central dais gesticulate along
with these word glyphs, so perhaps that one was in com-
mand. If only I had a weapon, he mused. But the glasslike
barrier was probably too strong for anything as crude as a
Jijoan axe or rifle.

"We/I cannot recommend departing this area until w
verify/rebuke the possibility of foe ships/smallships, "replied
a nearby stack, using a less imperious version of the same
dialect. "Starship cognizances hover nearby, undetectabk
on any other band! But how can that be? Flight without
gravities? The Jophur, great and mighty, must have/pierce
this secret, for safety's sake/"

Another ring stack edged forward, and Lark felt a shiver
of recognition. That awkward pile of ragged toruses had

I n f i n i f ij ' s Shore 583

once been the former traeki High Sage, though its speech
held none of the unassuming gentleness of Asx.

"I/we offer this wisdom—that the scent indicators we
pursue have all the stink of an elaborate ruse! Recall the
flame-tube weapons that the savage sooners used against
our corvette/ Now our comrades in the captured Biblos
Archive report they have identified the wolfling trick as
'rockets.' Contradicting the tactics officer, I/we must point
out that these rockets flew quite successfully without gravit-
ies! I/we further maintain that—"

Another stack interrupted.

"Localization! One of the nearby cognizance sites has
remained active long enough to verify its location."

The commander vented compact clots of purple vapor.

"PROCEED ON ATTACK VECTOR/PREPARE A CAPTURE
BOX FOR SEIZURE OF SOURCE/ WHETHER IT IS A SO-
PHISTICATED STAR ENEMY OR ANOTHER SOONER RUSE,
WE SHALL SECURE IT FOR LATER INSPECTION, THEN RE-
TURN TO OUR PRINCIPAL OBJECTIVE."

The ring piles reacted more swiftly than Lark had ever
witnessed traeki move, setting to work in a whirl of base
feet and flailing tendrils. Soon the outside monitors
showed clouds and prairie rushing by in a blur, depicted in
many spectral bands. On some displays, flashing concen-
tric circles closed in.

"Targeting brackets—" Ling explained. But the circles
seemed to contain nothing. Only open space.

Lark's right hand drifted under his shirt, stroking the
sliver of the Egg. "I feel ..."

Ling tugged his arm. "Look at the far left screen!"

He squinted, and began to make out something small
and round. A ghostly shape, depicted as nearly transpar-
ent. Blur cloth, he realized, recognizing the effects of that
specialized g'Kek weaving. All at once Lark understood.
The Jophur were streaking toward an object that was invis-
ible to nearly all their sensors, because it was made of
nothing but air and fabric plaited to smear light.

If only his rewq had not lapsed into exhausted hiberna-
tion! The hazy globe loomed larger, even as Lark's heart
beat faster. His amulet throbbed in response.

"What is it?" Ling wondered, perplexed.

384 David B rj n

Before he could answer, without warning, all the for-
ward viewing screens abruptly went black.

One Jophur let out a shrill wail. Several vented colored
steam. The commander flexed and blared.

"HOSTILITIES ALERT! ROBOTIC DEFENSE! ALL STA-
TIONS PREPARE FOR THE DRAWBA— "

Gtlli ULian

DETONATION!"                                    I
Streaker's detection officer shouted excitedly. "One I
of our proximity bombs just went off, almost on t-top of
the Jophur!"                                        t

The bridge filled with neo-dolphin cheers. "Maybe that
got the bastardss," someone chittered hopefully.

Gillian called for quiet.

"Keep it down, everyone. That firecracker won't do
more than scratch their paint." She took a deep breath. It
was the crucial moment of decision, for commitment to the

plan.

"Launch the swarm!" she ordered. "Get us up, Kaa. Ex-
actly the way we planned."

"Aye!" The pilot's back showed momentary waves of
tension as he sent commands down his neural tap. Streaks
responded instantly, engines ramping up to full power for
the first time in almost a year. The sound was thrilling,
though the act would surely give them away once Jophur
sensors recovered.

Telemetry showed the motivators running well. Gillian
glanced at viewers showing the engine room. Hannes
Suessi darted back and forth, checking the work of his
well-trained crew. Even Emerson D'Anite seemed en-
grossed, running his long, dark hands over the prime
resonance console, his old duty station during so many;

other rough scrapes. Speech seemed hardly relevant an
this point, when physical insight and tactile skill mattered •
most.                                               j

I n f i n I r (J ' s Shore 585

Perhaps this time, too, the ship would hear Emerson's
rich baritone victory yell.

If the repairs all worked. If we get full use out of the spare
parts we mined from discarded wrecks. If the decoys run

as planned. If the enemy does what we hope . . . if . . .
if...

Overhead, the stress crystal dome of the control room
changed color. The jet black of the abyss faded rapidly as
Streaker aimed upward, lightening to a royal blue, then a
clear pale green. The engine's roar changed tone as Jijo's
ocean reluctantly let go its heavy grasp.

Streaker blew out of the sea with explosive force, al-
ready traveling faster than a bullet, trailed by a spoor of
superheated steam.

From submarine, back to ship of space. Here we go
again.

Go, old girl.

Go! •

R

ety

WAKENED FROM A HALF-MILLION-YEAR SLEEP, THE
ancient wreck clattered and shrieked. Forced into furi-
ous effort, it howled, like some beast screaming in ag-
ony.

Rety screamed back, pressing both hands over her ears.
Harsh fists seemed to pummel her against the arching pillar
where she had tied herself down. With each shake, strips
of rope and electrical cable dug into her skin.

From Rety's belt pouch, yee's head waved toward her

face.

"wife! wife don't cry! don't worry, wife!"
But the piping words were lost amid a maelstrom of

sound. Soon his calls merged into a wail, an urrish ulula-

tion.

Overwhelmed with dread of being trapped, Rety tore at
the straps with her nails, struggling for release.
She never noticed the transition from water to air. The

586   D a v I d B r i n

little holosim display showed whitecaps stretching to a
sandy shore, then the tops of clouds.

Crawling across the hard metal floor, Rety toiled toward
the airlock, seeing only a narrow tunnel through a haze of
pain.

,wasx

THE EFFECTS START TO WEAR OFF.
| I emerge from stun state, blind and alone. More duras
I pass before I coalesce My sense of oneness. Of purpose.

Sending trace signals down the tendrils of control, I rees-
tablish rapport with subservient rings. Soon I have access
to their varied senses, staring in all directions with eye
buds that flutter and twitch.

HELLO, MY RINGS. Report now and prepare for urgent
movement. Clearly we have experienced—and survived—
an episode of the Drawback.

The what?

Truly, you do not know, My rings? You have no experi-
ence of the chief disadvantage of the Oailie gift?

Certain weapons exist which can render us Jophur in-
sensate for a time, forcing us to rely on robotic protection
for the duration of that brief incapacity.

What incapacity? you ask.

I/we look around. We are no longer near the Captain-
Leader, but stand instead at the main control panel, our
tendrils wrapped around the piloting wheels.

WHAT ARE WE DOING?

I command the tendrils to draw back, and they obey.
Viewscreens show a blur of high-speed motion as the
Polkjhy races across a landscape of jagged, twisty canyons,
unlike anything our memory tracks recall from the Slope.
Inertial indicators show us racing east, ever farther from
the sea. Away from the prey.

Other stacks are beginning to stir, as their master rings

Infinifii's Shore 587

rouse from the Drawback. Hurriedly, I send our basal torus
in motion, taking us away from the pilot station. We scurry
around behind the Captain-Leader, who is just now rous-
ing from torpor.

In all likelihood others will assume that our sophisticated
robotic guardians—programmed to serve/protect during a
Drawback interlude—had good reason to send Polkjhy ca-
reening in this unfavorable direction. Feigning innocence,
I/we watch as the pilot stacks resume control, arresting this
headlong flight, preparing to regain altitude once more.

MY RINGS, WHAT WAS YOUR AIM? WHAT WERE YOU
TRYING TO ACCOMPLISH WHILE YOUR MASTER TORUS
WAS INCAPACITATED? TO SEND US CRASHING INTO A
MOUNTAIN, PERHAPS?

The robots would not have allowed that. But diverting
the course of Polkjhy—that was in your power, no?

I perceive we are not finished learning the arts of coop-
eration.

Gilti

i man

THRILLING AS IT WAS TO BE MOVING AGAIN, GILLIAN
knew this wasn't the same old Streaker. It ran sluggishly

for a snark-class survey ship. The nearby landmass re-
ceded with disheartening slowness compared with the rab-
bitlike agility she used to show. Suessi's motors weren't at
fault. It was the damned carbon-carbon coating, sealing
Streaker's hull under countless tons of dead weight, clog-
ging the probability flanges and gravities radiators, costing
valuable time to gain orbital momentum. Minutes of vul-
nerability.

Gillian glanced at the swarm display. A scatter of bright
dots showed at least twenty decoys out of the water, with a
dozen more now rising from their ancient graves, scream-
ing joy—or agony—over this unwonted mass resurrection.
Groups of bait ships speared away in different directions,
disbanding according to preset plans, though empty of life.

All empty, except one.

588 David B rIn

Gillian thought of the human girl, Rety, self-exiled
aboard one of those glimmering lights. Would it have been
better to break into her hijacked ship? Or try to seize con-
trol of the computer, reprogramming it to bring Rety

ashore?

The Niss didn't think either effort would succeed in the
slim time allowed. Anyway, Alvin and Huck had convinced

Gillian not to try.

"We know what you Earthlings are trying to do with this

breakout attempt," the young g'Kek had said.

"And yet you volunteered to come?"

"Why not? We risked the Midden in a hollow tree trunk.
All sooners know life is something you just borrow for a
while. Each person must choose how to spend it.

"All our families and all our septs depend on your ven-
ture, Dr. Baskin. This Rety person selected her destiny. Let

her follow it."

As Streaker gradually accelerated, Gillian turned to the '
dolphin in charge of psi-ops. "Let me know when you get
anything at all from the observer," she ordered.

"No sssignal yet-t," the fin answered. "It'sss well past
due, if you ask me."

"No one asked," Gillian snapped.

Without wanting to, she glanced at the Jijoan mathemati-
cian, Sara Koolhan, whose brother took off in a hot-air
balloon, knowing that if the gale did not get him, the
Jophur probably would. Sara floated in a swarm of bub-
bles, watching intently. But behind the visor of her breath-
ing helmet, Gillian saw a single soft tear, running down the

young woman's cheek.

Gillian did not need more guilt. She tried hard to think

pragmatically.

I just wish the boy hadn't died for nothing. We're going

to have to decide ...
She checked the swarm monitors.
. . . in moments. . . .

D

wer

THE DAZZLING BLAST JOLTED HIS REWQ, CAUSING IT
to retreat, almost comatose. But the creature served its

purpose, saving Dwer's eyes. Except for a few purple
spots, vision soon returned almost to normal.

There'll be a shock wave, he thought. After the abuse of
last night and morning, he wondered if the balloon would
survive another shaking.

Dwer readied his hammer over the row of crystals, each
jammed into the wicker gondola. He peered east, trying to
figure out which message to send.

All the decoy balloons were gone—no surprise there.

But dammit, where's the Jophur ship?

Dwer could not act without data, so he held on and rode
out the explosion's booming echo when it came rolling by,
flattening the serrated grass of the Venom Plain.

The balloon survived. Solid urrish workmanship. Picking
up binoculars, he sought again for the Jophur, scanning the
horizon.

Could it have been blown up by the aerial mine? Gillian
Baskin had thought the prospect nearly impossible. No
weapon in Streaker's arsenal could pierce the defense of
such a dreadnought, even with the element of surprise. But
it might be possible to inconvenience the enemy for a cru-
cial time.

Finally, he made out the distant glint. In fact, the ship
seemed to be receding^. He had the illusion that it was
heading toward the rising sun.

Dwer hesitated over the message crystals. There were
only four. None of the prearranged codes toek in this pos-
sibility . . . that the foe would flee the scene. Not upward
toward space, or west back to the Midden, or even stand-
ing still, but away from any chance to spy the Earthling
ship!

If I don't send anything, they'll think I'm dead.
He thought of Sara, and was tempted to smash all the
crystals, just to reassure her.

David B r i n

590

But then they might make a wrong decision, and she
might die instead of me. Because of me.

By now, squadrons of salvaged decoy spaceships would
be heading out beyond Jijo's atmosphere, spiraling toward
orbit and beyond. Gillian Baskin had to decide which
group to go with. Dwer's signal was supposed to help.

Frustration locked him in a rigor of indecision. Raising
the binoculars once more, he found theJophur ship again,
a bare pinpoint near the horizon.

Then he noticed something.

The distant dot ... it had stopped receding. Instead, it
seemed to hover beyond a range of craggy highlands.

The Gray Hills, Dwer realized. If only I can give the right
signal, I'll be able to start descending in time to land where

I want!

The glittering pinpoint hesitated, then began to move
again. Dwer soon confirmed—it was growing larger. The
Jophur were heading back this way!

Now I know what to send, he thought with satisfaction.
Dwer raised the hammer and brought it smashing down on
the second crystal. That instant, his back swarmed with a
curious tingling. The feeling came and left quickly.

His duty done at last, Dwer reached for the gas-
discharge rope. The battleship was going to pass close
again, and the only way he had to maneuver was to lose

height.

Easy does it, he thought. Let her down slowly. Might as
well reach the foothills before you have to . . .

The great ship loomed rapidly, then streaked westward
while gaining altitude, missing him by hundreds of arrow-
flights.

Alas, this time it did not ignore Dwer.

As it hurried by, the mighty blue globe dropped a tiny
speck. A minuscule dot that arced away and then dropped
rapidly, glittering as it came. Dwer did not have to know
much about Galactic technology to recognize a missile

when he saw one.

Gillian mentioned that I might attract attention when 1'.,

signaled.
Dwer sighed, watching the fleck turn a gentle curve and :

then plunge straight toward him.                     ;

Infiniru's Shore 591

Ah, well, he thought, picking up his prize possession—
the bow made for him by the master carvers of Ovoom

Town, in honor of his skill as tracker for the Commons of
Six Races.

When the explosion came, it was unlike anything he
expected.

Gitli

illian

THAT'S IT!" SHE CRIED OUT, GLAD OF THE NEWS.
Even more elated was Sara, who let out an urrish-
sounding yelp, on learning that her brother yet lived.
The signal also confirmed Gillian's best guess. The
Jophur had been slow reacting, but they were doing as she
hoped.

'"They are predictable," commented the Niss, whose
whirling hologram passed through oxy-water bubbles un-
perturbed. "The delay only means we get more of a head

start."

Gillian agreed, but in her thoughts added:

We'll need ten times this much of a lead, in order to
make it all the way.

Aloud, she told the pilot:

"Punch us out of here, Kaa. Stay with swarm number
two. Put us second from the front of the pack."

The pilot shouted, "Aye!"

Soon the low, driving harmonies of the motivators
notched upward in pitch. Gillian glanced at the engine-
room display. Morale seemed high among Suessi's
crewfen. As she watched, Emerson D'Anite threw his head
back to sing9. Gillian only picked up a fragment, though the
lyrics had Emerson's coworkers in stitches.

"JVo.JiJo . . .
It's off to war we go!"

Even suffering from brain affliction, his puns were terri-
ble. It was good to have some of the old Emerson back
again.

592   D a

External displays showed the planet swiftly receding, a
gentle blue-brown globe, swathed in a slim envelope of
life-giving weather. Numerous sharp-bordered green
patches testified to where some metropolis once stood, be-
fore the site was scoured and seeded. Whether now cov-
ered with swamp, forest, or prairie, the regions still
showed regular outlines that would take eons to erase.

Earth has such scars, she thought. In even greater abun-
dance. The difference is that we were ignorant and didn't
know better. We had to learn the hard way how to manage
a world, by teaching ourselves.

Gillian glanced at Sara, whose eyes bore pain and won-
der, watching her homeworld diminish to a small orb—the
first of her sooner line to look down at Jijo, ever since her
ancestors fled here, centuries ago.

A place of refuge. A sanctuary for Earthlings and others.
They all meant to bunker down, cowering away from the
cosmos, each race redeeming its heritage in its own pecu-
liar 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 meticu-
lous 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. Di-
verting 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.

I n f i n i r i| ' s Shore 593

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 kilome-
ters 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 be-
tween 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 Civili-
zation 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 say-

594 David B r i n

ing. 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.

TheS :e Jages

THE LATEST GROUP OF PILGRIMS UNDERSTOOD
| more now, about the Holy Egg.

I  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 con-
spired to exploit the Egg for their own religious and politi-
cal 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 Ga-
lactic Library, calls the Egg—a psi-active geomorph. A phe-
nomenon 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 reassem-
bled Council of Sages approached the sacred site, walking,
slithering, and rolling toward the place they had all sepa-
rately 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 coals-1
cence. A crystalline tip consisting of pure memory and pur- \
pose.

At last he understood the puzzle of why every sooner j

I n f i n i r 4's Shore ^^

595

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 hon-
ored. 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?

R

ety

THE 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
ofJijo 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

596 David B r i n

stroked her little husband while munching a food-concen-
trate 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,            i

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. t

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 t
Jophur. Maybe they give off some sort of light or noise to t
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 mefitty-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. Is'pose it'll take more than
just shining a light out through a window. Guess I better
study some more about radio and that hyperu'ave stuff. '•

As wonderful and patient as the teaching unit was, Rety j

I n f i n i r IJ ' s Shore 597

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 be-
hind. The separation between the convoys also grew larger,
with each passing dura.

One dot lagged behind, brighter than the others, gleam-
ing 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.

The red symbol accelerated, slowly closing the distance
to its intended prey.

Boy, I pity whoever's in that swarm, when the stink rings
catch up with 'em.

It took Rety a while longer to fathom the unpleasant

truth.

That swarm was the one that contained her own ship.
The Jophur were coming for her first.

My usual luck, she complained, knowing better than to
think the universe cared,.

D

wer

EVERYTHING CHANGED.

One moment, he had been surrounded by sky. Moun-
tains, clouds, and prairies stretched below his wicker
gondola. The urrish balloon bulged and creaked overhead.

From the high northwest, a glittering object fell toward
him, like a stoop raptor, unstoppable once it has chosen its
prey.

That's me, he thought, feeling transfixed, like a grass
mouse who, caught in the open, knows there is no escape,
and so has little choice but to watch the terrible beauty of
Death on the wing.

Death came streaking toward him.

He felt an explosion, a shrill brilliance . . .

. . . and found himself here.

A gilded haze surrounded Dwer as he took stock.

I'm alive.

The sensations of a young, strong body accompanied
irksome itches and the sting of recent scrapes. His clothes
were as they had been. So was the gondola, for that mat-
ter—a basket woven out of dried river reeds—its contents
undamaged.

The same could not be said of the balloon itself. The
great gasbag lay collapsed in a curved heap of blur cloth,
its upper half apparently cleaved off. Remnant folds lay
spread across the interior of what Dwer came to realize
must be a prison of some sort.

A spherical jail. He now saw it clearly. A sphere whose
inner surface gave off a pale, golden light, confusing to the |
eye at first.                                            •

"Huh!"

To Dwer's surprise, his principal reaction was intrigue.
In those final moments, as the missile fell, he had bid fare-
well to life. Now each added moment was profit. He could
spend it as he chose.

N ' s Shore 599

n f

t   He decided on curiosity.

I   Dwer clambered out of the basket and eased his mocca-
sins onto the gold surface. He half expected it to be slick,
but the material instead clung to his soles, so that he had to
pull with some effort each time he took a step. After a few

tentative strides, he came to yet another startling revela-

• tion.

"Down" is wherever I happen to be standing!
From Dwer's new position, it looked as if the gondola
was tilted almost sideways, about to topple onto him.
He squatted, looking down at the "floor" between his

legs, riding out the expected wave of disorientation. It
wasn't too bad.

/'// adapt. It'll be like learning to ice-walk across a gla-
cier. Or probing face caves at the end of a rope, dangling
over the Desolation Cliffs.

Then he realized something. Looking down, he saw
more than just a sticky golden surface. Something glittered
beneath it. Like a dusting of tiny diamonds. Gemstones,
mixed with dark loam.

He leaned closer, cupping hands on both sides of his
eyes to keep out stray light.

All at once Dwer fathomed; the diamonds were stars.

LaA

i^ari

CROUCHING BEHIND AN AROMATIC OBELISK, TWO
humans had an unparalleled chance to view events in
the Jophur control room.

Lark would much rather they had stayed in the quiet,
safe "observation chamber."

Towering stacks of sappy toruses loomed nearby, puff-
ing steam as each Jophur worked at a luminous instrument
station. The density of smells made Lark want to gag. It
must be worse for Ling, who hadn't grown up near traeki.
Yet she seemed enthralled to be here.

Well, this was a terrific idea, he groused mentally, recall-

600   0 a v i d B r i n

ing the impulse that had sent them charging into a pit of
foes.

Hey, look! The Jophur seem stunned/ Let's rush down
from this nice, safe hiding place and sabotage their instru-
ments while they're out!

Only the Jophur didn't stay out long enough. By the time
he and Ling made it halfway across the wide control room,
several ring piles abruptly started puffing and swaying as
they roused from their torpor. While machine voices re-
ported status to their reviving masters, the two humans
barely managed to leap behind this cluster of spirelike ob-
jects, roughly the shape of idealized Jophur, but twice as
tall and made of some moist, fibrous substance.

Lark dropped down to the floor. All he wanted was tc
scrunch out of sight, close his eyes, and make objective
reality go away.

Responding to his racing heartbeat, the purple ring
twitched in its cloth bag. Lark put his hand on it and the
thing eventually calmed down.

"I think I can tell what's going on!"

Lark glanced up the twin, tanned columns of Ling's legs,
and saw that she was leaning around one of the soggy
pillars, staring at the Jophur data screens. Reaching up, he
seized her left wrist and yanked her down. She landed on
her bare bottom beside him.

"Make like vermin," was his advice. On matters of con-1
cealment and survival, Ling had a lot to learn from a Jijoan I
sooner.                                             '

"Okay, brother rat." She nodded with surprising cheer-
fulness, then went on eagerly. "Some of their screens are
set to spectra I can't grok. But I could tell we're in space
now, racing toward Izmunuti."

A wave of nausea struck Lark—a sensation akin to panic
Unlike his siblings, who used to talk and dream about star-
flight when they were little, he had never wanted to leave
Jijo. The very thought made him feel sick. Sensing his dis-
comfort, Ling took his head and stroked it, but that did not
stop her from talking, describing a complex hunt through j
space that Lark failed to visualize, no matter how he tried •

"Apparently there must have been a fleet of ships on or
near Jijo," she explained. "Though I can't imagine howl

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 601

they got there. Maybe they came snooping from Izmunuti
and the Jophur are chasing them away. Anyway, the mys-
tery fleet seems to have split into five groups, all of them

heading separately for the flare star. And from there to the
transfer point, I suppose.

"There's also a couple of small objects trailing behind
this ship . . . connected to it, as far as I can tell, by a

slender force string. I don't know what their purpose is.
But give me time. . . ."

Lark wanted to laugh out loud. He would give Ling the
world. The universe! But right now all he really wanted
was their nest. Their little green hideaway, where sweet
fruits dangled within reach and no one could find them.

Lark was starting to push the vertigo away at last, when a
noise blared from across the room.

"What's that?" he asked, sitting up. He did not try to stop
Ling from rising partway and peering around for a look.

"Weapons release," she explained. "The Jophur are fir-
ing missiles at the nearest squadron. They must be pretty
confident, because they sent just one for each ship."

Lark silently wished the new aliens luck, whoever they
were. If any of them got away, they might report what they
saw to the Galactic Migration Institute. Although Jijo's Six
Races had lived in fear of the law for two thousand years,
the intervention of neutral judges would be far better than
any fate the Jophur planned to mete out, in private.

"The small ships are trying evasive maneuvers, but it's
doing no good," Ling said. "The missiles are closing in."

Rety

SHE CURSED THE DROSS SHIP, FOR NOT GIVING HER

control.

She cursed Gillian Baskin and the dolphins, for put-
ting her in a position where she had no choice but to es-
cape from their incompetence into this impossible trap.

She cursed the Jophur for sending missiles after this de-
coy flotilla, instead of expertly finding the right prey.

602 David B r i n

Above all, Rety swore an oath at herself. For in the end,
she had no one else to blame.

Her teaching unit explained the symbols representing
those deadly arrows, now clearly visible in the display,
catching up fast.

One by one, the ships behind hers met their own aveng-
ing predators. Surprisingly, the amber pinpoints did not
snuff out, -but turned crimson instead. Each then drifted
backward, toward a meeting with the big red dot.

The Jophur did not swallow their captives. That would
take too much time. Instead, they were snagged at the end
of a chain—like a tadpole's tail—that waved behind the
mighty ship.

Rety wondered. Maybe they don't want to kill, after all.
Maybe they just want prisoners!

If so, Rety would be prepared. She held yee with one
arm, and the teaching unit with the other, setting it to begin
teaching her Galactic Two—Jophur dialect.

When her own missile arrived, Rety was calmer than she
expected.

"Don't worry, yee," she said, stroking her little husband.
"We'll find somethin' they want, an' make a deal. Just you
wait an' see."

With desperate confidence, she held on as the ancient
Buyur vessel suddenly quivered and shook. In moments,
the motors' grating drone cut off ... and then so did the
downward tug of the deck beneath her. In its place, a gen-
tler pull seemed to draw her toward the nose of the dis-
abled ship.

The lights went out. But Rety could see a bit. Stepping
and sliding carefully along the slanted floor and walls, she
followed the source of illumination to an unobstructed
viewing port, where she peered outside and saw a world
of pale yellow dawn.

yee commented dryly.

"beats being dead, i guess."

Rety agreed. "I guess." Then she shrugged.

"At least we'll see, one way or t'other."

Gdt,

lan

\ | FOUND A LIBRARY REFERENCE. THEY ARE CALLED
. | capture boxes, "the Niss explained. "This weapon offers a
I clever solution to the Jophur dilemma."
"How do you figure?" Gillian asked.

"We thought we had them in an awkward situation,

where they must come close and inspect every decoy in
i orderto find us. A cumbersome, time-consuming process.
1    "But this way, the Jophur need only get near enough to
| dispatch special missiles. They can then move on, dragging

a string of captives behind them."

I   "Won't all that additional mass slow them down?" asked
? Kaa, the pilot.

"Yes; and that works in our favor. Alas, not enough to
make up for the advantage this technique gives them."

Gillian shook her head. "Too bad we didn't know about
this in time to incorporate it in our plans."

The Niss answered with a defensive tone. "Great clans

can access weaponry files spanning a billion years of Ga-
lactic history."

Silence reigned on the bridge, until Sara Koolhan spoke,

her voice transposed by the amplifying faceplate of her

helmet.

"What happens if we get caught by a missile?"
"It creates a field related to the toporgic cage your Six
Races found enveloping the Rothen ship. Of course that one
was meters thick, and missiles cannot carry that much

pseudo-material. The chief effect of a capture box is to
suppress digital cognizance."

Sara looked confused, so Gillian explained.
"Digital computers are detectable at a distance, and can
be suppressed by field-effect technologies. A principal rea-
son why organic life-forms dominate the Five Galaxies, in-
stead of machines.

"Unfortunately, this means our decoys can be disabled

easily, by enclosing them in a thin shell of warped space-
time."

604 David B r i n

"Indeed, it seems an ideal weapon to use against resur-
rected starships lacking crews. TheJopbur may be malign
and limited in many ways, but they do not lack for skill or
reasoning power."

Sara nodded. "You mean the method won't work as well
against Streaker?"

"Exactly," Gillian said. "We'll prepare our computers to
stand a temporary shutdown without inconvenience—"

"Speak for yourself," the Niss muttered.

"As soon as the capture box surrounds us, organic crew
members can use simple took to dissolve it from the in-
side. Estimated period of shutdown, Niss?"

The hologram whirled.

"I wish we had better data from the expedition the soon-
ers sent to the Rothen vessel. They reported major quantum
effects from a toporgic layer meters thick.

"But the Jophur missiles will cast thin bubbles. If pre-
pared, crews should burst us free in mere minutes."

A happy sigh escaped Kaa and several dolphins. But
then the Niss Machine went on.

"Unfortunately, when we pop the bubble, it will alert the
Jophur which captured vessel contains living prey. After
that, our restored freedom will be brief, indeed."

D

wer

THE STUFF FELT STRANGE. IT SEEMED TO REPEL HIS
hand slightly, until he got within a couple of centimeters.
Then it pulled. Neither effect was overwhelming. He
could yank his hand back fairly easily.

He could not quite place why it was eerily familiar.
Dwer walked all the way around his circular cage, stop-
ping on occasion to bend down and examine the starscape
beyond. He recognized most of the constellations, except
for one patch that had always been invisible from the
Slope. So that's what the southern sky is like. Undimmed by
dust or atmosphere, the entire Dandelion Cluster lay before

I n f i n i r IJ ' s Shore 605

him, a vast unwinking spectacle. It would be even more
fantastic without the filmy golden barrier in the way.

Thank Ifnifor that barrier, he reminded himself. There
is no air out there.

In one direction lay a tremendously bright star he did not
recognize at first.

Then he knew ... it was the sun, much diminished,
and getting smaller all the time.

In the opposite direction lay Izmunuti's fierce eye. The
red glare grew more pronounced, until he began to make
out an actual disk. Yet he realized it must still be farther
away than the sun. Izmunuti was said to be a giant among
stars.

In time he noticed other objects. Not stars or nebulae,
but gleaming dots. At first they all seemed rather distant.
But over the course of a midura, they drew ever closer,
rounded shapes that revealed themselves more by their
glimmering rims, occulting the constellations, than for any
brightness they themselves put out.

One of them—a rippled sphere on the side toward
Izmunuti—had to be a starship. It loomed larger with each
passing dura. Soon he recognized it as the behemoth that
had twice crossed the sky over the Poison Plain, shaking
his hapless balloon with each passage,

When Dwer crossed his prison to peer through the
membrane on the other side, he saw a line of yellowish
globes, even closer than the starship. Their color made him
realize, They're other captives, like me.

Pressing close to the barrier, a tingle coursed his scalp
and spine. He felt similarities to when the Danik robot sent
its fields through his body, changing his nervous system in
permanent, still-uncertain ways.

Well, I was unusual even before that. For instance, no
one else I know ever talked to a mule spider. . . .

Dwer yanked his head back, recalling at last what this
stuff reminded him of. The fluid used by the mad old spi-
der of the mountains—One-of-a-Kind—to seal its victims
away, storing its treasured collections against the ravages
of time. Months back, a coating of that stuff had nearly
smothered him, until he escaped the spider's trap.

606   D a v i d B r i n

A strange sensation came over Dwer. An odd idea.
/ could talk to spiders, not just in the mountains, but the
one in the swamp, too.

I wonder if that means ...

Once again, he put his hand against the golden material,
pushing through the initial resistance, pressing his finger-
tips ahead. The resistance was springy. The material
seemed adamant.

But Dwer let his mind slide into the same mode of think-
ing that used to open him to communion with mule beings.
Always before, he had felt that the spider was the one
doing most of the work, but now he realized, It's my own
talent. My own gift. And by the Holy Egg, I think I can—

Something gave way. Resistance against his fingertips
suddenly vanished and they slipped through, as if pene-
trating some greasy fluid.

Abrupt cold struck the exposed hand, plus a feeling as if
a thousand vampire ants were trying to drink his uncov-
ered veins through straws. Dwer jerked back his arm and it
popped out, the fingers red and numb, but mostly undam-
aged. The membrane flowed back instantly, never leaving
an opening to space.

Lucky me, he thought.

When Dwer next checked, the starship had grown to
mammoth size. A great bull beast, bearing down on him
rapidly, with a hunter's complacent confidence.

I'm a fish on a line. It's reeling me in!

On the other side, the captive globes bobbed almost
touching, like toy balloons gathered along an invisible
string. The separating distances diminished rapidly.

Dwer sat and thought for a while.

Then he started gathering supplies.

TheS .e Jages

PHWHOON-DAU LED THE NEW SEXTET, COMMENC-
ing the serenade with a low, rolling umble from his reso-
nating throat sac.

Knife-Bright Insight followed by rubbing a myrliton
drum with her agile tongue, augmenting this with synco-
pated calliope whistles from all five leg vents.

Ur-Jah then joined in, lifting her violus against a fold in
her long neck, raising stringed harmonies with the double
bow.

After that, by seniority, the new sages for traeki, human,
and g'Kek septs added their own contributions, playing for
a great ovoid-shaped chunk of wounded stone. The har-
monies were rough at first, but soon they melded into the
kind of union that focused the mind.

So far, the assembly was unexceptional. Other groups of
six had performed for the Egg, over the course of a hun-
dred years. Some of them more gifted and musical.

Only this time things were fundamentally different. It
was no group of six, after all.

Two other Jijoan types were present.

The first was a glaver.

The devolved race always had an open invitation to par-
ticipate, but it was centuries since any glaver took part in
rituals of the Commons—long before Earthlings arrived,
and certainly before the coming of the Egg.

But glavers had been acting strangely for months. And
today, a small female came out of the brush and began
slogging up the Pilgrimage Path, just behind Phwhoon-
dau, as if she had the same destination in mind. Now her
huge eyes glistened as the music swelled, and strange
mewling noises emerged from her grimaced mouth.
Sounds vaguely reminiscent of words. With her agile
forked tail, she waved a crude rattle made of a stretched
animal skin, with stones shaking inside.

Not much of an instrument, but after all, her kind were
out of practice.

608 David B r i n

What must it take, Phwhoon-dau pondered, to draw
them back from the bliss a/Redemption's Path?

Lounging on a nearby boulder, an eighth creature paused
licking himself now and then to survey the proceedings.
The noor-tytlal had two blemishes on an otherwise jet-
black pelt—white patches under each eye—adding to its
natural expression of skeptical disdain,                  j

The sages were not fooled. It had arrived just after the I
others, gaunt, bedraggled, and tired, having run hard for
several days. Only urgency, not complacent inquisitiveness
could have driven a noor to strive so. The creature's mobile
ears flicked restlessly, and pale, spiky hairs waved behind
the skull, belying its air of feigned nonchalance.

Now the secret was out. Everyone knew these were cli-
ents of the legendary Tymbrimi. Moreover, their patrons
had given the tytlal a boon as uniquely personal as music,

Phwhoon-dau noticed a soft agitation start to form above
the insouciant creature, as if a pocket of air were thicken-
ing, and beginning to shimmer. The sages altered their har-
mony to resonate with the throbbing disturbance, helping
it grow as a look of hesitant surprise spread across the
sleek, noorlike face.

Reluctant or not, he was now part of the pattern.

Part of the Council of Eight.

In the narrow, resonant confines of the Egg's abode,
they made their art, their music.

And soon, another presence began to make itself
known.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 609

best speed of pursuit, our tactics stacks compute that all
but the very last convoy should be in reach before the
storms of Izmunuti are near.

To help speed progress, the Captain-Leader has ordered
that the string of captive ships be reeled in closer behind
us. When robots can board them, we will be able to cast
aside the decoys, one by one.

Now the detections stack reports data arriving from Jijo,
the planet behind us.

"More digital cognizance traces/More engine signs!"
But the Captain-Leader rules that this is but a futile at-
tempt to distract us from our pursuit. The Earthling vessel
may have left salvaged wrecks behind, to turn themselves
on after a timed delay. Or else living confederates have
acted on Jijo to set off this ruse. It does not matter. Once
the fleeing vessels are in tow, we will be in between the
Earthers and Izmunuti.

Things would be very different if there were more than
one route in or out of this system. But matters are quite
convenient for one capital ship to blockade Jijo effectively.

There will be no more breakouts.

That much is true. Yet, I/we hesitate to point out that this
may not yet be the end. Indeed, the wolflings may have
sent us on a "wild-goose chase," pursuing only robot ships
while they use this respite to cache themselves in new
hiding places, deep beneath Jijo's confused waters. They
may even abandon their vessel, taking their vital informa-
tion ashore, where we will only find it by slay-sifting the
entire ecosystem!

The Priest-Stack will not permit so extreme a violation of
Galactic law, of course. If such a drastic policy proves nec-
essary, the priest may have to be dismantled, and the
watcher-observer destroyed. Then we would be committed
irrevocably. In case of failure, we would be labeled bandits
and bring shame upon the clan.

How is it possible even to contemplate such measures?
Because all auguries show, with growing certainty, that a
Time of Changes has already commenced upon the Five
Galaxies. Hence all the desperate activity by so many great
clans.

Cwasx

BEHOLD, MY RINGS, HOW WELL THE CHASE PRO-
gresses!

Already one fugitive convoy is liquidated, its compo-
nent vessels enjoined to our train of captives. While this
growing impediment slows the Polkjhy from engaging her

610 David B r i n

If the Institutes are indeed about to fall, there will be no
one to investigate crimes committed on this world.

DO NOT TREMBLE SO, MY RINGS. Have I not assured
you, repeatedly, that the mighty Jophur are fated to prevail?
And that you/I am destined to be useful toward that end?

Crime and punishment need not be considerations, if we
are the ones who will make the new rules.

Anyway, it may not prove necessary to return to Jijo. If
the prey ship truly lies before us, the high ambitions of our
alliance may soon be within tentacle reach.

We near the second convoy. And now missiles spring
forth.

WITH THE MIGHTY STARSHIP LOOMING CLOSER ON
one side, he had to wait in frustration while the yellow
beads clustered on the other, coming together with dis-
heartening slowness. His preparations made, Dwer raced
back and forth to check each direction.

In time, he learned a technique to make each crossing
go much quicker—-kicking off from the wall and flying
straight across the open interior.

The Jophur vessel impended, mammothly immense.
When its dark mass blocked nearly half the starscape, a
door of some sort opened in its curved flank and several
tiny octagonal shapes emerged, floating toward Dwer's
prison.

He recognized the silhouettes.

Battle robots.

They took their time drifting closer, and he realized there
was still a large span to cross. At least twenty arrowflights.
Still, only duras remained until they arrived.

On returning to the rear of the prison sphere, he
breathed a sigh of relief. The captive bubbles were touch-
ing now! Yellow spheres, they ranged widely in size, but
none was anywhere near as large as the battleship. Most
were much larger than his own little ball.

I n f i n i r u " s Shore 611

Dwer sought the place where his bubble touched the
second in line. A low drumming sound carried through
each time the surfaces pressed together.

He zipped up the coverall the Streaker crew had given
him—a fine garment that covered all but his feet, hands,
and head. It had never occurred to him to ask for more.

But right now space gloves and a helmet would be nice.

No matter. The next time the spheres touched, he con-
centrated for the right frame of mind, and made his move.

SHE LEFT THE CONTROL ROOM WHEN HER SKIN
started puckering from too much exposure to fizzy wa-
ter. Anyway, there seemed no point hanging around.
The same news could be had in her comfortable suite—

once the home of a great Earthling sage named Ignacio

Metz.

Sara dried herself and changed into simple shipboard
garments, snug pants and a pullover shirt that posed no
mystery even to an unsophisticated sooner. They were
wonders of softness and comfort nevertheless.

When she asked the room to provide a tactical display,
vivid 3-D images burst forth, showing that the Jophur
dreadnought had once again chosen the wrong decoy
swarm, and was just finishing firing missiles. Meanwhile, its
string of earlier victims merged with the red glow, as if it
were gobbling them one by one.

At her voice command, the viewscreen showed
Streaker's goal, the red giant star, magnified tremendously,
the whirling filamentary structure of its inflamed chromo-
sphere extending beyond the width of any normal solar
system. Izmunuti's bloated surface seethed, sending out
tongues of ionized gas, rich with the heavy elements that
made up Sara's own body.

Purqfsky thinks the Buyur bad ways to meddle with a

star.

Even without that awesome thought, it was a stirring

612 David B r i n

sight to behold. Past those raging fires had come all the
sneakships that deposited their illicit seed on Jijo, along
with the varied hopes of each founding generation. Their
aspirations had ranged from pure survival, for humans and
g'Keks, all the way to the hoonish ancestors who appar-
ently came a long way in order to play hooky.

All those hopes will come crashing down, unless Streaker
can make it to Izmunuti's fires.

Sara still had no idea how Gillian Baskin hoped to save
Jijo. Would she let the enemy catch up and then blow this
ship up, in order to take the Jophur out, as well?

A brave ploy, but surely the enemy would be prepared
for that, and take precautions.

Then what?

It seemed Sara would find out when the time came.

She felt bad about the kids—Huck, Alvin, and the others.
But they were adults now, and volunteers.

Anyway, the sages say it's a good omen for members of
all six races to be present when something vital is about to
happen.

Sara's own reasons for coming went beyond that.

Purofsky said one of us had to take the risk—either him
or me—and go with Streaker, on the slim chance that she
makes it.

One of us should try to find out if it's true. What we
figured out about the Buyur.

All her life's work, in mathematical physics and linguis-
tics, seemed to agree with Purofsky's conclusion.

Jijo was no accident.

Oh, if she delved into psychology, she might find other
motives underlying her insistence on being the one to go.

To continue taking care of Emerson, perhaps?

But the wounded starman was now with those who
loved him. Shipmates he had risked death alongside, many
times before. After overcoming initial shame, Emerson had
found ways to be useful. He did not need Sara anymore.

No one really needs me.

Face it. You^re going out of curiosity.

Because you are Melina's child.

Because you want to see what happens next.

D

wer

IT WAS A GOOD THING HE REMEMBERED ABOUT AIR.
There would be none on the other side.
By twisting through the barrier, writhing, and making
his body into a hoop, Dwer managed to create a tunnel
opening from his prison sphere into the next. A brief hurri-
cane swiftly emptied the atmosphere from his former cell
until the pressure equalized. He then pushed through, let-
ting the opening close behind him.

Dwer's ears popped and his pulse pounded. The trick
had severely diluted the available air, taking him from
near-sea-level pressure to the equivalent of a mountaintop
in just half a dura. Speckles danced before his eyes. His
body would not last long at this rate.

There was another reason to hurry. As he departed the
sphere containing the balloon remnants, he had seen shad-
ows touch beyond the far side. Jophur robots. Come to
inspect their first captive.

His gear had settled against the golden surface of his
new cell. Dwer grabbed the makeshift pack and moved
toward the only possible place of refuge—the nose of the
imprisoned starship.

It looked nothing like the massive Jophur vessel, but
resembled a pair of spoons, welded face-to-face, with the
bulbous end forward. Fortunately, the enclosure barely
cleared the ship, fore and aft. A bank of dim windows
nearly touched the golden surface.

And there's a door!

Dwer gathered strength, flexed his legs, and launched
toward the beckoning airlock. He sailed across the gap and
barely managed to snag a protruding bracket with the tip
of his left hand.

If this takes some kind of secret code, I'm screwed.

Fortunately, the dolphin work crews had a standard pro-
cedure for entering and converting Buyur wrecks. He had
accompanied them on some trips, lending a hand. Dwer

614 David B r i n

was glad to see the makeshift locking mechanism still in
place, set to work in a fashion that even a Jijoan hunter
might understand.

To open . . . turn knob.

Dwer's luck held. It rotated.

If there's air inside, the wind will blow out. If there's
none, I'll be blown in . . . and die.

He had to brace his feet against the hull and pull in order
to get the hatch moving. Vision narrowed to a tunnel and
Dwer knew he was just duras away from blacking
out. . . .

A sudden breeze rushed at him, whistling with force \
from the ship's interior.                                !

Stale air. Stinky, stale, dank, wonderful air.

Giltian

nf \ U ' s Shore 615

I have read in Earth lore about cetaceans and their glo-
rious Whale Dream. What music might we make, when
these strange beings add their voices to our chorus?

And after that, who knew? Lorniks, chimps, and zookirs?
The Kiqui creatures the dolphins brought from far away? A
melange of vocalizations, then. Perhaps a civilization wor-
thy of the name.

All that lay ahead, a glimmering possibility, defying all
likelihood or reason. For now, the council was made of
those who had earned their place by surviving on Jijo. Par-
taking of the world. Raising offspring whose atoms all
came from the renewing crust of their mother planet. This
trait pervaded the musical harmony of the Eight.

We inhale Jijo, with each and every breath.

So Phwhoon-dau umbled in the deep, rolling vibrations
of his throat sac.

We drink her waters. At death, our loved ones put us into
her abyss. There we join the patterned rhythms of the
world:

THE BAD NEWS WAS NOT EXACTLY UNANTICIPATED,
Still, she had hoped for better.

As the Jophur ship finished adding another swarm of
decoys to its prison chain, the cruiser shifted its attention
elsewhere, accelerating to pursue the next chosen group,

Soon the truth became clear.

Streaker's luck had just run out.

Well, they chose right this time, she thought. It had to
happen, sooner or later.

Streaker was square in the enemy's sights, with seven
mictaars of hyperspace yet to cross before reaching safety.

TheS. e Ja^es

THERE ARE OTHERS ON JIJO NOW, PHWHOON-DAU
thought, knowing that even eight would not be enough
for long. In time, the new dolphin colonists must be in-
vited to join.

The presence that joined them was at once both familiar
and awesome. The council felt it throb in each note of the
flute or myriiton. It permeated the clatter of the glaver's
rattle, and the wry empathy glyphs of the tytlal.

For generations, their dreams had been brushed by the
Egg. Its soft cadences repaid each pilgrimage, helping to
unite the Commons.

But during all those years, the sages had known. It only
sleeps. We do not know what will happen when it wakes.

Was the Egg only rousing now because the council fi-
nally had its missing parts? Or had the cruel Jophur ray
shaken it from slumber?

Phwhoon-dau liked to think that his old friend Vubben
was responsible.

Or else, perhaps, it was simply time.

The echoes steadily increased. Phwhoon-dau felt them
with his feet, reverberating beneath the surface, building to
a crescendo. An accretion of pent-up power. Of purpose.

Such energy. What will happen when it is liberated? His

616 David B r I n

sac pulsed with umbles, painful and mightier than he ever
produced before.

Phwhoon-dau envisioned the mountain caldera blowing
up with titanic force, spilling lava down the tortured aisles
of Festival Glade.

As it turned out, the release came with nothing more
physical than a slight trembling of the ground.

And yet they all staggered when it flew forth, racing
faster than the speed of thought.

The Sl ope

TO NELO—STANDING IN THE RUINS OF HIS PAPER
mill, exhausted and discouraged after a long homeward
slog—it came as a rapid series of aromas.

The sweet-sour odor of pulped cloth, steaming as it
poured across the drying screens.

The hot-vital skin smell of his late wife, whenever her
attention turned his way after a long day spent pouring
herself into their peculiar children.

The smell of Sara's hair, when she was three years old
. . . addictive as any drug.

Nelo sat down hard on a shattered wall remnant, and
though the feelings passed through him for less than a
kidura, something shattered within as he broke down and
wept.

"My children . . ." Nelo moaned. "Where are they?"

Something told him they were no longer of his world.

To Fallen—staked down and spread-eagled in an under-
ground roul shambler's lair, waiting for death—the sensa-
tion arrived as a wave of images. Memories, yanked back
whole.

The mysterious spike trees of the Sunrise Plain, farther
east than anyone had traveled in a century.

Ice floes of the northwest, great floating mountains with
snowy towers, sculpted by the wind.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 617

The shimmering, teasing phantasms of the Spectral Flow
. . . and the oasis of Xi, where the gentle Illias had invited
him to live out his days, sharing their secrets and their
noble horses.

Fallen did not cry out. He knew Dedinger and his fanat-
ics were listening, just beyond this cave in the dunes.
When the beast returned home, they would get no satisfac-
tion from the former chief scout of the Commons.

Still, the flood of memory affected him. Fallen shed a
single tear of gratitude.

A life is made whole only in its own eyes. Fallen looked
back on his, and called it good.

To Uriel—interrupted in a flurry of new projects—the pass-
ing wave barged through as an unwelcome interruption. A
waste of valuable time. Especially when all her apprentices
laid down their tools and stared into space, uttering low,
reverent moans, or sighs, or whinnies.

Uriel knew it for what it was. A blessing. To which she
had a simple reply.

So what?

She just had too much on her mind to squander duras on
things that were out of her control.

In GalTwo she commented, dryly.

"Glad I am, that you have finally de-
cided.
Pleased that you, 0 long-lived Egg,

have deigned to act, at last.
But forgive me if I do not pause long to

exult.
For many of us, life is far too short."

To Ewasx—moments later and half a light-year away—it
came as a brief, agonizing vibration in the wax. Ancient
wax, accumulated over many jaduras by the predecessor
stack—an old traeki sage.

Involuntary steam welled up the shared core of the
stack, bypassing the master ring to waft as a compact cloud
from the topmost opening.

6i8 David B r i n

Praised be destiny. . . .

Other ring stacks drew away from Ewasx, unnerved by
the singular aromatics, accented with savage traces of
Jijoan soil.

But the senior Jophur Priest-Stack responded automati-
cally to the reverent smoke, bowing and adding:

Amen ...

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 619

even had to quash an urge to go chasing after the damned
stone!

Leave it, and good riddance, he thought, and nodded to
Ling.

"Right, let's go."

Dw,

er

LARK, YOUR HAND!"

He trembled, fighting to control the fit that came sud-
denly, causing him to snatch the amulet from around his
neck. He clutched the stone tight, even when it began to
burn his flesh.

Crouched behind a set of strange obelisks—their only
shelter in the spacious Jophur control room—Lark dared
not cry out from pain. He fought not to thrash about as
Ling used both hands to pry at his clenched fist. At last, the
stone sliver fell free, tumbling across his lap to the floor,
leaving a stench of singed flesh. Even now, the heat kept
building. They tried backing away, but the stone's temper-
ature continued rising until a fierce glow made it hard to
see.

"No!" Lark whispered harshly as Ling dived toward the
blaze, reaching for the thong. To his surprise, enough was
still attached for her to grab a loop and whirl it once, then
twice around her head, as if slinging a piece of flaming

sun.

She let go, hurling Lark's talisman in an arc across the
busy chamber, toward the center of the room.

Dismayed whistles ensued, accompanied by waves of
aromatic stench so overpowering, Lark almost gagged.

"Why the hell did you—" he began, but Ling tugged his
arm.

"We need a distraction. Come on, now's our chance!"

Lark blinked, amazed by the power of habit. He was
actually angry at her for throwing away his amulet, and

INSIDE THE DECOY SHIP, HE COLLAPSED ON THE
deck and retched, heaving up what little remained in his
stomach.

Midway through that unpleasant experience, another,
completely different kind of disorientation abruptly swept
over Dwer. For a moment, it seemed as if One-of-a-Kind
were inside his head, trying to speak again. The strange,
heady sensation might have been almost affable, if his
body weren't racked with nausea.

It ended before he had a chance to appraise what was
happening. Anyway, by then he figured he had wasted
enough time.

The Jophur won't take long picking through my little ur-
rish balloon. They'll start on this bubble next.

In full gravity, it might have been impossible to climb
along the full length of the captured ship and reach the aft
end. But Dwer took advantage of conditions as he found
them, and soon taught himself to fly.

THEY WERE DASHING DOWN A SMOKE-FILLED HALL-
|way, chased by angry shouts and occasional bolts of
I shimmering lightning, when an abrupt detonation
rocked the floor plates. A wall of air struck the two humans
from behind, knocking them off their feet.

We've had it, he thought, figuring it must be a weapon,
used by the pursuers.

620 David B r i n

Glancing over his shoulder, however, Lark saw the ro-
bots suddenly turn and head the other way! Into a noisome
storm of roiling black soot pouring out of the control room.

"Do you think . . . ?" he began.

Ling shook her head. "Jophur are tough. I doubt they
were more than knocked around by the explosion."

Well, he thought. It was only a little piece of rock.

He felt its absence acutely.

Lark helped her up, still wary of returning robots.

"I guess now they know we're here."

They resumed running. But a few duras later, Ling burst
out in laughing agreement.

"Yeah, I guess now they do."

Oitlian

RPSI-DISTLJRBANCE WAS DETECTED, EMANATING
briefly from the planet. Soon after that, the detection
officer announced a change on the tactics screen.

"Will you looka that-t!"

Gillian saw it. The Jophur configuration was shifting.
The bright red disk seemed to shimmer for a moment. Its
"tail" of tiny crimson pinpoints, which had been bunching
ever closer to the mother ship, now flexed and began to
float away.

"It appears the enemy has jettisoned all the decoys they
captured. I can only conclude that they figured out bow to
scan them quickly and eliminate dross ships from consid-
eration. The decoys will now drift independently toward
Izmunuti, while the battleship, free of drag, will catch up
with us much faster."

Gillian's hopes, which had lifted when the psi-wave
came, now sank lower than ever.

"We'd better get ready for our last stand," she said in a
low voice.

From the dolphins there was an utter absence of sonar
clicks, as if none of them wanted to reify the moment, to
make it real by reading it in sound.

I n f i n i r u ' s Shore 621

"Wait-t a minute," Kaa announced. "The Jophur's decel-
erating! Coming about to retrieve the jettisoned string!"

"But . . ." Gillian blinked. "Could they have dropped it
by accident?"

The Niss hologram whirled, then accepted the possibility
with an abstract nod.

"A hypothesis presents itself. The psi-wave we detected
was far too weak to have any effect on a war cruiser . . .
unless it was direct-causative."

"Explain."

"It might have served as a trigger that—either by acci-
dent or design—precipitated the release of potentialities al-
ready in place . . . say, aboard the Jophur ship."

"In other words, the wave might have affected them af-
ter all. Maybe it set off events that disrupted—"

"Indeed. If this caused the Jophur to lose their control
over their string of capture boxes, they would certainly go
back and retrieve them, even at the cost of some delay.
Because they would suspect the string's release was the in-
tended purpose of the psi-wave."

"In other words, they'll be even more eager to check
every box. Hmm."

Gillian pondered, then asked:

"Has their intercept time been delayed much?"

Kaa thrashed his flukes.

"A fair amount. Not-t enough, however. We'll make it to
the Izmunuti corona, but the enemy will be close enough
to follow easily with detectorsss. The plasma won't make
any a-ppreciable difference."

Gillian nodded. "Well, things are a little better. And a
trick or two to make the odds better still."

The dolphins snickered knowingly and went back to
work, emanating confident clicks. Gillian's last remark was
exactly the sort of thing Tom would have said in a situation
like this.

In fact, though, Gillian did not know if her scheme was
even worthy of the name.

s

'ara

THEY SAID THAT A PSI-WAVE HAD COME FROM JIJO,
but Sara didn't feel a thing.

Not surprising. Of Melina's three children, it always
seemed that Dwer had some fey sensitivity, while she, the
logical one, possessed none. Till recently, Sara had little
interest in such matters.

But then she wondered. Might this be what Purofsky
said we should, look out for?

Sitting at the stateroom's worktable, Sara addressed the
portable computer.

"About that psi-wave—do we have a fix on its hyper-
velocity?"

"Only a rough estimate. It traveled at approximately two
mictaars per midura."

Sara tried to work out the timing in her head, translating
it in terms she knew better, such as light-years. Then she
realized the machine could do it for her graphically.

"Show me."

A holo took shape, portraying her homeworld as a blue
dot in the lower left quadrant. Streakerwas a yellow glim-
mer to the upper right, accompanied by other members of
decoy swarm number two. Meanwhile a crimson convoy—
the Jophur ship and its reclaimed captives—resumed hot
pursuit.

The computer put down an overlay, depicting a cross-
hatching of lines that Sara knew to be wave vectors in
level-zero hyperspace. The math was simple enough, but it
took her some time to figure out the rich, three-dimen-
sional representation. Then she whistled.

"That's not inverse square. It's not even one-over-R. It
was directional!"

"A well-conserved, directional wave packet, resonating
on the first, third^ and eighth bands of—"

The computer lapsed into psi-jargon that Sara could not
follow. For her, it was enough to see that the packet was

Infinirii's Shore 623

aimed. Its peak had passed right over both Streaker and its
pursuer.

The coincidence beggared belief. It meant that some
great power on Jijo had known precisely where both ships
were, and—

Sara stopped herself.

Don't leap to the first conclusion that comes to mind.
What if we weren 't the beam's objective at all?

What if we just happened to be along its path, between
Jijo and . . .

She leaped to her feet.

"Show me Izmunuti and the transfer point!"

The display changed scale, expanding until Streaker-was
shown just over halfway to the supposed safety of the fiery
red giant.

And beyond it, a folded place. A twist in reality's fabric.
A spot where you go, if you want to suddenly be very far
away. '

Although computer graphics were needed to make it out
clearly, the transfer point was no invisible nonentity.
Izmunuti bulged in its direction, sending ocher streamers
toward the dimple in space.

"When will the psi-wave reach Izmunuti?"

"It has already arrived."

Sara swallowed hard.

"Then show me estimated ..." She dredged memory
for words she had read, but seldom used. "Show me likely
hyperdeflection curves, as the psi-wave hits the red giant.
Emphasize meta-stable regions of ... um, inverted en-
ergy storage, with potential for . . . uh, stimulated emis-
sion on those bands you were talking about."

Sara's face flickered as manicolored lines and curves re-
flected off her forehead and cheekbones.

Her eyes widened, briefly showing white all the way
around the irises. She mouthed a single word, without
managing to form a voice.

Then Sara clutched for a nearby pad of paper—no better
than the premium stock her own father produced—and
scrawled down two lines of coordinates.

624 David B r i n

Gillian Baskin answered her urgent call, though the

older woman looked harassed and a little irked.
"Sage Koolhan, I really don't have time—"
"Oh yes you do," Sara told her sternly. "Meet me in your

office in forty duras. You are definitely gonna want to hear

this!"

Rety

R YOUNG WOMAN SAT IN A LOCKED ROOM, ALL
alone in her universe, until someone knocked.

In fact she was not entirely alone-r-yee was with her. More-
over, the knock wasn't at the door, but rapped loudly on
the window below her feet. Still, the element of eerie sur-
prise was there. Rety jumped back, scurrying away from
the sound, which grew louder with each hammerlike
stroke.

"it comes from over heref'yee wailed, pointing with his
long neck.

Rety saw at once the pane he meant. A silhouetted figure
squatted below the window, backlit by the golden haze
surrounding her useless ship. The figure was distorted, dis-
tended, with a grossly bulbous head. An arm turned, hold-
ing a blunt object, and swung forward, striking the crystal
once again.

This time, tiny cracks spread from the point of impact.

"enemy foe coming in!"

Visions of space monsters filled Rety, but not with fear.
She wasn't about to give up her domain to some invader—
Jophur, robot, or whatever.

Another blow struck the same spot. Clearly it would take
several more for the assailant to seriously damage the win-
dow. Emboldened to see what she was up against, Rety
scooted toward the shadowy figure. After the next impact,
she pressed close to the glass and peered outside.

Things were blurry at first. Then the creature seemed to

nf r i| ' s Shore 625

notice her presence and leaned forward as well. Rety
glimpsed what looked like a billowing dome of clear fab-
ric. A makeshift helmet, she realized.

And within that protective bubble . . .

"Yah!" she cried out, twitching reflexively away, more
set back than if she'd seen a monster or ghost.

When Rety went back for another look, the figure on the
other side started making frantic gestures, pointing toward
the side of the ship.

"Oh, yeah," she sighed. "I did lock the airlock, didn't I?"

Rety nodded vigorously so the visitor could see, and
started scurrying along the canted walls to reach the jim-
mied door. Rety removed the pry bar she had slipped in
place, to keep Chuchki from returning.

The airlock cycled slowly, giving Rety time to wonder if
her eyes had deceived her. Perhaps this was just a ruse
from some mind-reading creature, seeking to gain entrance
by sifting her brain for images from her past. . . .

The inner door opened at last, and Dwer Koolhan tum-
bled through, tearing at the balloonlike covering he had
been using as a crude life-support system. His face was
rather blue by the time Rety helped him cut the taped fas-
tenings, scavenged from material found on other decoy
vessels during his long journey down the captive string.
The young hunter gasped deep breaths while Rety stepped
back and stared. Finally, he recovered enough to roll aside,
lifting his head to meet her unbelieving gaze.

"I ... should've known . . . it'd be you," Dwer mur-
mured in a resigned voice.

At the exact same moment, Rety muttered:

"Ifni! Ain't I ever gonna be rid o' you?"

wasx

WE MUST WEIGH TRADE-OFFS AND OPTIONS.
As Izmunuti commences to roil with an atmospheric
storm, our tactics stack declares that we have lost valu-
able time.

626 David B r i n

Three target swarms flee ahead of our majestic Polkjhy.

The first will enter the storm just as we catch up.

We will reach the second as it passes through maximum
hyperbolic momentum change.

And the third?

It will make it to the transfer point, with time enough to
jump into the next higher level of hyperspace.

The sabotage attack on our control room has thus cre-
ated serious problems, out of proportion to the damage
done to our Captain-Leader, whose incapacity should not
last long. Meanwhile, however, tactics has come up with a
plan.

WE SHALL JETTISON THE CAPTURE BOXES DRAG-
GING AT OUR WAKE.

They are now on course for Izmunuti. If the prey ship
lies within one of the glowing traps, it must reveal itself
soon, or risk immolation.

THUS FREED, OUR POLKJHY WILL ACCELERATE DI-
RECTLY FOR THE TRANSFER POINT!

In this manner we will be able to interpose ourselves
between the prey ship and its escape path. There will be
some backlash from such rapid maneuvering, but the result
should be an end to all hope for the Earthlings, whichever
swarm they are hiding in. Their subsequent activities
should enable us to detect which ship is sapient-guided
and which operate on mere automatic programs.

Hunt scents fill our bridge, eagerness for the approach-
ing conclusion to this great endeavor. It will be most grati-
fying for Polkjhy to achieve conquest of the Earthlings
without having to call for help from the great clan. To
succeed where battle fleets have failed—this will be glori-
ous!

BUT NOW TO OUR ASSIGNED TASK, MY RINGS!

There are vermin loose on our fine dreadnought. Our
damaged/soot-stained bridge was dishonored in full view
of the librarian/watcher.

The vermin roust be found. I/we am the one called upon
as qualified to give chase, by virtue of our/My experience
with human types.

I n f i n i r u ' s  S ti o r e   627

Our first recourse, My rings?
Collect the remaining human prisoner!
The one called Rann.

He will help us find his former colleagues. He is already
so inclined.

REJOICE, MY RINGS!

In this way we will prove useful, avoiding disassembly.
If successful, this master torus has been promised a fine
reward.

Quiver in anticipation, My rings! As Polkjhy chases cer-
tain victory through space, we pursue another hunt within.

E

merson

ENGINES SING TO HIM IN A LANGUAGE HE STILL UN-

derstands.

When he works the calibrators, it seems almost as if

he were his old self. Master of machines. Boy mechanic.

The man who makes starships fly.

Then something reminds him. A written status report
flashes, or a robot voice runs down a list of parameters.
Prity can't interpret for him—sign language cannot trans-
late subtleties of hyperwave transformatics.

Emerson's crew mates respect his efforts. They are
pleased and surprised by his ability to help.

But, he now realizes, they are also humoring him.

Things will never be the same.

His long shift ends. Suessi orders him to take a break. So
he goes up to the hold with Prity and visits the glavers,
sensing something in common with the simple creatures,
nearly as speechless as himself.

Alvin and Huck trade insults and witticisms in Anglic, his
own native tongue, but he can only follow the general tone

628   D a v I d B r I n

of camaraderie. They are kind, but here, too, Emerson
finds no solace.

He searches for Sara, and finds her at last in the plotting
room, surrounded by Gillian's staff. Fiery representations
of a bloated giant star fill the center of the room, with
varied orbits plotted through its flaming shell. Some paths
slip close, using slingshot arcs to fling Streaker toward the
transfer point—a twisted funnel in space. The tactics look
challenging, even to a pilot like Kaa. Yet that approach is
the obvious one.

No doubt the enemy expects just such a maneuver.

Other orbits make no sense, skirting the red giant to
strike away from the bolt-hole. Farther from the only way
to exit this dangerous part of a forbidden galaxy.

Letting the enemy reach the transfer point first would
seem suicidal.

On the other hand, at the rate the Jophur battjeship is
catching up, Streaker will have little choice. Perhaps Sara
and Gillian plan to head for deep space and hide amid the
seared rocks that were planets, before Izmunuti burgeoned
and consumed its children.

Emerson watches Sara, immersed in work. No one
seems to note the presumption—of a Jijo-born savage di-
recting the endeavors of starfaring sophisticates. At times
like these, an idea can count for much more than experi-
ence.

The incongruity makes him smile at last, recovering
some of his good mood. His accustomed optimism.

After all, what have the odds ever mattered before?

There is an observation dome tucked behind the bridge,
accessible only by a twisty ladder with rungs set much too
close together. The small room is a leftover from whatever
race once owned Streaker, before Earthclan bought the
hull, converting it for dolphin use. It takes some agility to
worm into the odd-shaped cubby. Emerson's secret place.

At one end, a thick bubble of adamantine quartz pro-
vides a view outside, where the starry vault is bare, unim-
peded, nearly surrounding him with everlasting night

infiniriJ's Shore 629

; Izmunuti is occulted by the ship's bow, but vast sweeps of
I the local spiral arm sparkle like diamonds. Globular clus-
ters are like diatoms, phosphorescent on a moonlit sea,
Since waking on Jijo, he never expected to experience this
again. The naked confrontation. Mind and universe.

It pours through him, a surfeit of beauty. Too much.
Agonizing,

Of course, Emerson spent half a year learning about all
kinds of pain, until it became a sort of friend. His ally at

dislodging memories. And as he ponders stellar fire, it hap-
pens again.

He recalls the stench, just after he crashed into Jijo,
clothes aflame, quenching the blaze in murky water, dimly
aware of having recently fought a battle. A diversion—a
sacrifice to win escape for his friends.

But that wasn't the truth.

It was a planted cover story.

Actually, the Old Ones took him from that old Then-
nanin fighter. They probed and palped him. Over a period
of days, weeks, they reamed his mind, then shoved him in
a little capsule. A tube that squeezed . . .

Emerson moans, recalling how that passage ended in a
blazing plummet down to Jijo and the horrid swamp where
Sara found him.

He envisions the Old Ones. Or one faction of them. Cold
eyes. Hard voices, commanding him to forget. To forget
. . . and yet, sentenced to live.

I . . . know . . . your . . . lie. . . .

The command fights back. For a moment, the pain is
greater than he ever knew.

Pain that is elemental, like the black vacuum surround-
ing him.

Like sleeting cosmic rays.

Like all the myriad quantum layers propping up each
quark and every lepton in his shaken frame.

Through it all, his eyes can barely focus, squinting past
distilled anguish, turning countless stars into slanting nee-
dles.

But then, out of those jagged motes there comes a
shape. Weaving, thrashing . . . zigging, zagging.

630 David B r i n

Swimming, he now realizes. Pushing toward him, as if
upstream, against the swell of a strong tide. A shape from
memory, but instead of bringing more woe, this recollec-
tion sweeps all agony before it. Pushed by stalwart flukes,
a soothing current washes over him.

A dolphin's face swims into focus.

Captain . . .

. . . Creideiki ...                          ,

It is a scarred face, deeply wounded behind the left eye.
A wound too much like Emerson's to be coincidence.

The explanation encircles him in sound.

* Crooks and foul liars,
* Lacking imagination,
* Cruelly steal ideas! *

Emerson comprehends the Trinary haiku at once. The
Old Ones must have read his mind somehow and learned
of Creideiki's injury. It seemed to fit their needs, so they
copied it in their captive human. What better way to re-
lease him, yet be certain he would tell no tales?

But that still left open the question of why? Why release
him at all, if it meant consignment to a twilight existence?

What motive could they have?

All good time in

The phrase brings a smile, for he grasps it in a way he
might never have before.
A simple, purified meaning.

good     time

Emerson looks back across the galaxies, now cleansed free
of pain. Pain be now recognizes to have been illusion, all
along. The product of an exaggerated sense of self-impor-
tance that his enemies used against him.

I n f i n i \ y ' s Shore 631

In fact, the ocean of night is too vast, too busy to be
involved in his agony. An evolving universe can hardly be
bothered with the problems of a single individual, a mem-
ber of one of the lower orders of sapient life.

And why should it?

What a privilege it is, to exist at all! On the great balance
sheet, he owes the cosmos everything, and it owes him
nothing.

Emerson manages to share a final moment of commu-
nion with his captain and comrade—not caring whether
the grinning dolphin is a ghost, a mirage, or some miracu-
lous true image. Knowing only that Creideiki's lesson is

true.

There is no setback—no wound or blow of cruel fate—
that cannot be turned into a song.

For an instant, Emerson can sense music in every ray of
starlight.

* When the winter's

Typhoon pounds you,
" Onto sand grains,

Sharp and gleaming,

',

* And creation

All-conspiring,

* Breaks you on a

Time of Changes,

* At the moment

When breath falters,
f And your lifeblood

Pours out streaming,

* Cast around that

Bright reef, dear friend,

* For a gift to

Grant another,

* For some way to
Repay forward,

632   D a vi d B r i n

* All the favors

You were given.

* For in good time

* Prospects glitter

* Far along Infinity's Shore. *

THE END OF PART TWO