PART ONE

THE FIVE GALAXIES

WHAT EMBLEMS grace the fine
'• prows or our last ships-

'      How many spirals swirl on the bow
'. of each yeat vessel/ turning round and

Ri round/ symbolising our connections'^ How
many are the links that form our union'

' ONE, spiral represents the {allow worlds/
i slowly brewing, steeping/ stewing——where
| we starts its long/ hard climb.
:       Struggling out of that lecundity/
new races emerge/ ripe for Uplift.

. TvvO is for stanaring culture/ streaking
| madly in our last ships/ first as clients/
\ then as patrons/ vigorously chasing our
i young interests——trading/ hghting/ and
i debating——
|       Straining upward/ till we near the

'- call or becKoning tides.
I

i [HKEE portrays the dd Ones/ graceful

and serene/ who forsake starships to
I embrace a life of contemplation, fired of
'. manic rushing, (cloistering for seli-
• improvement.

I hey prepare to race tne C^reat narrower.

FOUR depicts the High Transcendents/ too majestic lor us to
perceive. But they exist!

/Vlaking plans that encompass all levels of spacer and alt
times.

77VE is for the galaxies—great whirls of shining light——our
Islands in a sterile cosmos/ surrounded by enigmatic silence. L/n
ana on they spin/ nurturing all liles many orders/ linked
perpetually/ everlasting.

C-T so we are assured. . . .

Harry

ALARMS SING A VARIETY OF MELODIES.

Some shriek for attention, yanking you awake

from deathlike repose. Others send your veins

throbbing with adrenaline. Aboard any space vessel

there are sirens and wails that portend collision,

vacuum leaks, or myriad other kinds of impending

death.

But the alarm tugging at Harry Harms wasn't like that.
Its creepy ratchet scraped lightly along the nerves.

"No rush," the soft buzzer seemed to murmur. "I can
wait.

"But don't even think about going back to sleep."

Harry rolled over to squint blearily at the console next
to his pillow. Glowing symbols beckoned meaningfully.
But the parts of his brain that handled reading weren't
perfectly designed. They took a while to warm up.

"Guh . . . ," he commented, '"wuh?"

Drowsiness clung to his body, still exhausted after
another long, solitary watch. How many duras had

4     David Brin

passed since he had tumbled into the bunk, vowing to
quit his commission when this tour of duty ended?

Sleep had come swiftly, but not restfully. Dreams al-
ways filled Harry's slumber, here in E Space.

In fact, dreaming was part of the job.

In REM state. Harry often revisited the steppes of Horst,
where a dusty horizon had been his constant back-
ground in childhood. A forlorn world, where ponderous
dark clouds loomed and flickered, yet held tightly to
their moisture, sharing little with the parched ground.
He usually woke from such visions with a desiccated
mouth, desperate for water.

Other dreams featured Earth—jangling city-planet,
brimming with tall humans—its skyscrapers and lush
greenery stamped in memory by one brief visit, ages

ago, in another life.

Then there were nightmares about ships—great bat-
tlecraft and moonlike invasion arks—glistening by star-
light or cloaked in the dark glow of their terrible fields.
Wraithlike frigates, looming more eerie and terrifying

than real life.

Those were the more normal dream images to come
creeping in, whenever his mind had room between far
stranger apparitions. For the most part, Harry's night
thoughts were filled with spinning, dizzying allaphors,
which billowed and muttered in the queer half-logic of
E Space. Even his shielded quarters weren't impervious
to tendrils of counterreality, penetrating the bulkheads,
groping through his sleep. No wonder he woke disori-
ented, shaken by the grating alarm.

Harry stared at the glowing letters—each twisting like
some manic, living hieroglyph, gesticulating in the ideo-
grammatic syntax of Galactic Language Number Seven.
Concentrating, he translated the message into the Anglic
of his inner thoughts.

"Great," Harry commented in a dry voice.

Apparently, the patrol vessel had come aground
again.

"Oh, that's just fine."

Heaven's ReacH    5

The buzzer increased its tempo. Pushing out of bed,
Harry landed barefoot on the chill deck plates, shiver-
ing.

"And to think . . . they tell me I got an aptitude for
this kind of work."

In other words, you had to be at least partway crazy
to be suited for his job.

Shaking lethargy, he clambered up a ladder to the
observing platform just above his quarters—a hexagonal
chamber, ten meters across, with a control panel in the
center. Groping toward the alarm cutoff, Harry some-
how managed not to trigger any armaments, or purge
the station's atmosphere into E Space, before slapping
the right switch. The maddening noise abruptly ceased.

"Ah . . . ," he sighed, and almost fell asleep again
right there, standing behind the padded command chair.

But then ... if sleep did come, he might start
dreaming again.

I never understood Hamlet till they assigned me here.
Now I figure, Shakespeare must've glimpsed E Space be-
fore writing that "to be or not to be" stuff.

. . . perchance to dream . . .

Yup, ol' Willie must've known there's worse things
than death.

Scratching his belly, Harry scanned the status board.
No red lights burned. The station appeared functional.
No major reality leaks were evident. With a sigh, he
moved around to perch on the seat.

"Monitor mode. Report station status."

The holo display lit up, projecting a floating blue M,
sans serif. A melodious voice emanated from the slowly
revolving letter.

"Monitor mode. Station integrity is nominal. An
alarm has been acknowledged by station superinten-
dent Harry Harms at 4:48:52 internal subjective esti-
mate time. .. . ."

"I'm Harry Harms. Why don't you tell me something I
don't know, like what the alarm's for, you shaggy ex-
cuse for a baldie's toup ... ah ... ah ..."

A sneeze tore through Harry's curse. He wiped his
eyes with the back of a hirsute wrist.

6 Hand Brin Heaven's Reach 7

"7%e alarm denoted an interruption in our patrol cir-
cuit ofE Level hyperspace, " the monitor continued, un-
perturbed. "The station has apparently become mired in
an anomaly region."

"You mean we're grounded on a reef. I already knew
that much. But what kind of . . ." he muttered. "Oh,
never mind. I'll go see for myself."

Harry ambled over to a set of vertical louvered blinds

—one of six banks that rimmed the hexagonal chamber

—and slipped a fingertip between two of the slats, pry-
ing them apart to make a narrow slit opening. He hesi-
tated, then brought one eye forward to peer outside.

The station appeared to be shaped in its standard for-
mat, at least. Not like a whale, or jellyfish, or amorphous
blob, thank Ifni. Sometimes this continuum had effects
on physical objects that were gruesomely bizarre, or
even fatal.

On this occasion the control chamber still perched
like a glass cupola atop an oblate white spheroid, com-
manding a 360-degree view of a vast metaphorical realm

—a dubious, dangerous, but seldom monotonous do-
main.

Jagged black mountains bobbed in the distance, like
ebony icebergs, majestically traversing what resembled
an endless sea of purple grass. The "sky" was a red-blue
shade that could only be seen on E Level. It had holes
in it.

So far so good.

Harry spread the slats wider to take in the foreground,
and blinked in surprise at what he saw. The station
rested on a glistening, slick brown surface. Spread
across this expanse, for what might be a kilometer in all
directions, lay a thick scattering of giant yellow starfish!

At least that was his first impression. Harry rushed to
another bank of curtains and peeked again. More "star-
fish" lay on that side as well, dispersed randomly, but
thickly enough to show no easy route past.

"Damn." From experience he knew it would be use-
less to try flying over the things. If they represented
two-dimensional obstacles, they must be overcome in a

two-dimensional way. That was how allaphorical logic
worked in this zone of E Space.

Harry went back to the control board and touched a
button. All the blinds retracted, revealing an abrupt pan-
oramic view. Mountains and purple grass in the dis-
tance. Brown slickness closer in.

And yes, the station was completely surrounded by
starfish. Yellow starfish everywhere.

"Pfeh." Harry shivered. Most of the jaundiced mon-
sters had six arms, though some had five or seven. They
didn't appear to be moving. That, at least, was a relief.
Harry hated ambulatory allaphors.
"Pilot mode!" he commanded.

With a faint crackling, the floating helvetica M was
replaced by a jaunty, cursive P.

"Aye aye, o' Person-Commander. Where to now,
Henry?"

"Name's Harry," he grunted. The perky tones used by
pilot mode might have been cheery and friendly in An-
glic, but they came across as just plain silly in Galactic
Seven. Yet the only available alternative meant substitut-
ing a voice chip programmed in whistle-clicking
GalTwo. A Gubru dialect, even. He wasn't desperate
enough to try that yet.

"Prepare to ease us along a perceived-flat course tra-
jectory of two forty degrees, ship centered," he told the
program. "Dead slow."

"Whatever you say, Boss-Sentient. Adapting interface
parameters now."

Harry went back to the window, watching the station
grow four huge wheels, bearing giant balloon tires with
thick treads. Soon they began to turn. A squeaky whine,
like rubbing your hand on a soapy countertop, pene-
trated the thick crystal panes.

As he had feared, the tires found little traction on the
slick brown surface. Still, he held back from overruling
the pilot's choice of countermeasures. Better see what
happened first.

Momentum built gradually. The station approached
the nearest yellow starfish.
Doubt spread in Harry's mind.

8     David Brin

"Maybe I should try looking this up first. They might

have the image listed somewhere."

Once upon a time, back when he was inducted as
Earth's first volunteer-recruit in the Navigation Institute
survey department—full of tape-training and idealism—
he used to consult the records every time E Space threw
another weird symbolism at him. After all, the Galactic
civilization of oxygen-breathing races had been explor-
ing, cataloging, and surveying this bizarre continuum for
half a billion years. The amount of information con-
tained in even his own tiny shipboard Library unit ex-
ceeded the sum of all human knowledge before contact
was made with extraterrestrials.

An impressive store . . . and as it turned out, nearly
useless. Maybe he wasn't very good at negotiating with
the Library's reference persona. Or perhaps the problem
came from being born of Earth-simian stock. Anyway,
he soon took to trusting his own instincts during mis-
sions to E Space.

Alas, that approach had one drawback. You have only
yourself to blame when things blow up in your face.

Harry noticed he was slouching. He straightened and
brought his hands together to prevent scratching. But
nervous energy had to express itself, so he tugged on
his thumbs, instead. A Tymbrimi he knew had once re-
marked that many of Harry's species had that habit, per-
haps a symptom from the long, hard process of Uplift.

The forward tires reached the first starfish. There was
no way around the things. No choice but to try climbing

over them.

Harry held his breath as contact was made. But touch-
ing drew no reaction. The obstacle just lay there, six
long, flat strips of brown-flecked yellow, splayed from a
nubby central hump. The first set of tires skidded, and
the station rode up the yellow strip, pushed by the back

wheels.

The station canted slightly. Harry rumbled anxiously

in his chest, trying to tease loose a tickling thread of
recognition. Maybe "starfish" wasn't the best analogy for
these things. They looked familiar though.

Heaven's Beach     9

The angle increased. A troubled whine came from the
spinning rear wheels until they, too, reached the yellow.

In a shock of recognition. Harry shouted-—"No! Re-
verse! They're ban—"

Too late. The back tires whined as slippery yellow
strips flew out from under the platform, sending it flip-
ping in a sudden release of traction. Harry tumbled,
struck the ceiling, then slid across the far wall, shouting
as the scout platform rolled, skidded, and rolled
again . . . until it dropped with a final, bone-jarring
thud. Fetching up against a bulkhead, Harry clutched a
wall rail with his toes until the jouncing finally stopped.

"Oh . . . my head . . . ," he moaned, picking him-
self up.

At least things had settled right side up. He shuffled
back to the console in a crouch and read the main dis-
play. The station had suffered little damage, thank Ifni.
But Harry must have put off housecleaning chores too
long, for dust balls now coated his fur from head to toe.
He slapped them off, raising clouds and triggering vio-
lent sneezes.

The shutters had closed automatically the instant
things went crazy, protecting his eyes against potentially
dangerous allaphors.

He commanded gruffly, "Open blinds!" Perhaps the
violent action had triggered a local phase change, caus-
ing all the nasty obstacles to vanish. It had happened
before.

No such luck, he realized as the louvers slid into pil-
lars between the wide viewing panes. Outside, the gen-
eral scenery had not altered noticeably. The same
reddish blue, Swiss cheese sky rolled over a mauve
pampas, with black mountains bobbing biliously in the
distance. And a slick mesa still had his scoutship mired,
hemmed on all sides by yellow, multiarmed shapes.

"Banana peels," he muttered. "Goddamn banana
peels."

One reason why these stations were manned by only
one observer . . . allaphors tended to get even weirder
with more than one mind perceiving them at the same
time. The "objects" he saw were images his own mind

10    David Brio

pasted over a reality that no living brain could readily
fathom. A reality that mutated and transformed under
influence by his thoughts and perceptions.

All that was fine, in theory. He ought to be used to it
by now. But what bothered Harry in particular about the
banana allaphor was that it seemed gratuitously per-
sonal. Like others of his kind, Harry hated being trapped
by stereotypes.

He sighed, scratching his side. "Are all systems sta-
ble?"

"Everything is stable, Taskmaster-Commander Har-
old, " the pilot replied. "We are stuck for the moment,
but we appear to be safe."

He considered the vast open expanse beyond the pla-
teau. Actually, visibility was excellent from here. The
holes in the sky, especially, were all clear and unob-
structed. A thought occurred to him.

"Say, do we really have to move on right away? We
can observe all the assigned transit routes from this very
spot, until our cruise clock runs out, no?"

"That appears to be correct. For the moment, no illicit
traffic can get by our watch area undetected."

"Hmmph. Well then . . ." He yawned. "I guess I'll
just go back to bed! I have a feelin' I'm gonna need my
wits to get outta this one."

''Very well. Good night, Employer-Observer Harms.
Pleasant dreams."

"Fat chance o' that," he muttered in Anglic as he left
the observation deck. "And close the friggin' blinds! Do
I have to think of everything around here? Don't answer
that! Just . . . never mind."

Even closed, the louvers would not prevent all leak-
age. Flickering archetypes slipped between the slats, as
if eager to latch into his mind during REM state, tapping
his dreams like little parasites.

It could not be helped. When Harry got his first pro-
motion to E Space, the local head of patrollers for the
Navigation Institute told him that susceptibility to al-
laphoric images was a vital part of the job. Waving a
slender, multijointed arm, that Galactic official con-

Heuen's Rilch   ll

fessed his surprise, in Nahalli-accented GalSix, at Harry's
qualifications.

"Skeptical we were, when first told that your race
might have traits useful to us.

"Repudiating our doubts, this you have since
achieved, Observer Harms.

"To full status, we now advance you. First of your
kind to be so honored."

Harry sighed as he threw himself under the covers
again, tempted by the sweet stupidity of self-pity.

Some honor! He snorted dubiously.

Still, he couldn't honestly complain. He had been
warned. And this wasn't Horst. At least he had escaped
the dry, monotonous wastes.

Anyway, only the mad lived for long under illusions
that the cosmos was meant for their convenience.

There were a multitude of conflicting stories about
whoever designed this crazy universe, so many billions
of years ago. But even before he ever considered dedi-
cating his life to Institute work—or heard of E Space—
Harry had reached one conclusion about metatheology.

For all His power and glory, the Creator must not
have been a very sensible person.
At least, not as sensible as a neo-chimpanzee.

s.

ara

THERE IS A WORD-GLYPH.
It names a locale where three states of matter co-
incide—two that are fluid, swirling past a third that
is adamant as coral.

A kind of froth conform in such a place. Danger-
ous, deceptive foam, beaten to a head by fate-filled tides.
No one enters such a turmoil voluntarily.
But sometimes a force called desperation drives pru-
dent sailors to set course for ripping shoals.

12    David Brin

A slender shape plummets through the outer fringes of a
mammoth star. Caterpillar-ribbed, with rows of talon-
like protrusions that bite into spacetime, the vessel claws
its way urgently against a bitter gale.

Diffuse flames lick the scarred hull of ancient cera-
metal, adding new layers to a strange soot coating. Ten-
drils of plasma fire seek entry, thwarted (so far) by
wavering fields.

In time, though, the heat will find its way through.

Midway along the vessel's girth, a narrow wheel
turns, like a wedding band that twists around a ner-
vous finger. Rows of windows pass by as the slim ring
rotates. Unlit from within, most of the dim panes only
reflect stellar fire.

Then, rolling into view, a single rectangle shines with

artificial color.

A pane for viewing in two directions. A universe with-
out, and within.

Contemplating the maelstrom, Sara mused aloud.

"My criminal ancestors took their sneakship through
this same inferno on their way to Jijo . . . covering
their tracks under the breath of Great Izmunuti."

Pondering the forces at work just a handbreadth
away, she brushed her fingertips against a crystal sur-
face that kept actinic heat from crossing the narrow gap.
One part of her—book-weaned and tutored in mathe-
matics—could grasp the physics of a star whose radius
was bigger than her homeworld's yearly orbit. A red
giant, in its turgid final stage, boiling a stew of nuclear-
cooked atoms toward black space.

Abstract knowledge was fine. But Sara's spine also
trembled with a superstitious shiver, spawned by her
upbringing as a savage sooner on a barbarian world.
The Earthship Streaker might be hapless prey—desper-
ately fleeing a titanic hunter many times its size—but
this dolphin-crewed vessel still struck Sara as godlike
and aw^esome, carrying more mass than all the wooden
dwellings of the Slope. In her wildest dreams, dwelling
in a treehouse next to a groaning water mill, she had

Reaveo's lleacft    13

never imagined that destiny might take her on such a
ride, swooping through the fringes of a hellish star.

Especially Izmunuti, whose very name was fearsome.
To the Six Races, huddling in secret terror on Jijo, it
stood for the downward path. A door that swung -just
one way, toward exile.

For two thousand years, emigrants had slinked past
the giant star to find shelter on Jijo. First the wheeled
g'Kek race, frantically evading genocide. Then came
traekis—gentle stacks of waxy rings who were fleeing
their own tyrannical cousins—followed by qheuens,
hoons, urs, and humans, all settling in a narrow realm
between the Rimmer Mountains and a surf-stained
shore. Each wave of new arrivals abandoned their star-
ships, computers, and other high-tech implements,
sending every god-machine down to the sea, tumbling
into Jijo's deep midden of forgetfulness. Breaking with
their past, all six clans of former sky lords settled down
to rustic lives, renouncing the sky forever.

Until the Civilization of the Five Galaxies finally stum-
bled on the commonwealth of outcasts.

The day had to come, sooner or later; the Sacred
Scrolls had said so. No band of trespassers could stay
hidden perpetually. Not in a cosmos that had been cata-
loged for over a billion years, where planets such as Jijo
were routinely declared fallow, set aside for rest and
restoration. Still, the sages of the Commons of Jijo had
hoped for more time.

Time for the exile races to prepare. To purify them-
selves. To seek redemption. To forget the galactic terrors
that made them outcasts in the first place.

The Scrolls foresaw that august magistrates from the
Galactic Migration Institute would alight to judge the
descendants of trespassers. But instead, the starcraft that
pierced Jijo's veil this fateful year carried several types of
outlaws. First gene raiders, then murderous opportun-
ists, and finally a band of Earthling refugees even more
ill-fated than Sara's hapless ancestors.

/ used to dream of riding a starship, she thought,
pondering the plasma storm outside. But no fantasy
was ever like this—leaving behind my world, my teach-

14   David Bnn

ers, my father and brothers—fleeing with dolphins
through a fiery night, chased by a battleship/till of an-
gry Jophur.

Fishlike cousins of humans, pursued through space
by egotistical cousins of traeki.

The coincidence beggared Sara's imagination.

Anglic words broke through her musing, in a voice that
Sara always found vexingly sardonic.

"I have finished calculating the hyperspatial tensor,
oh, Sage.

"It appears you were right in your earlier estimate.
The mysterious beam that emanated from Jijo a while
ago did more than cause disruptions in this giant star.
It also triggered a state-change in a fossil dimension-
nexus that lay dormant just half a mictaar away."

Sara mentally translated into terms she was used to,
from the archaic texts that had schooled her.

Half a mictaar. In flat space, that would come to
roughly a twentieth of a light-year.

Very close, indeed.

"So, the beam reactivated an old transfer point." She
nodded. "I knew it."

"Your foresight would be more impressive if I under-
stood your methods. Humans are noted for making
lucky guesses."

Sara turned away from the fiery spectacle outside.
The office they had given her seemed like a palace,
roomier than the reception hall in a qheuen rookery,
with lavish fixtures she had only seen described in
books two centuries out of date. This suite once be-
longed to a man named Ignacio Metz, an expert in the
genetic uplifting of dolphins—killed during one of
Streaker's previous dire encounters—a true scientist,
not a primitive with academic pretensions, like Sara.

And yet, here she was—fearful, intimidated . . . and
yet proud in a strange way, to be the first Jijoan in centu-
ries who returned to space.

From the desk console, a twisted blue blob drifted

Heaven's Heacli    15

closer—a languid, undulating shape she found as inso-
lent as the voice it emitted.

"Your so-called wolfling mathematics hardly seem up
to the task of predicting such profound effects on the
continuum. Why not just admit that you bad a bunch?"

Sara bit her lip. She would not give the Niss Machine
the satisfaction of a hot response.

"Show me the tensor," she ordered tersely. "And a
chart . . . a graphic . . . that includes all three gravity
wells."

The billowing holographic creature managed to imply
sarcasm with an obedient bow.

"As you wish."

A cubic display, two meters on a side, lit up before
Sara, far more vivid than the flat, unmoving diagrams-
on-paper she had grown up with.

A glowing mass roiled in the center, representing
Izmunuti, a fireball radiating the color of wrath. Tendrils
of its engorged corona waved like Medusan hair, reach-
ing beyond the limits of any normal solar system. But
those lacy filaments were fast being drowned under a
new disturbance. During the last few miduras, some-
thing had stirred the star to an abnormal fit of rage.
Abrupt cyclonic storms began throwing up gouts of
dense plasma, tornadolike funnels, rushing far into
space.

And we're going to pass through some of the worst of
it, she thought.

How strange that all this violent upheaval might have
originated in a boulder of psi-active stone, back home
on primitive Jijo. Yet she felt sure it all was triggered
somehow by the Holy Egg.

Already half-immersed in this commotion, a green
pinpoint was depicted plunging toward Izmunuti at
frantic speed, aimed at a glancing near-passage, its hy-
perbolic orbit marked by a line that bent sharply around
the giant star. In one direction, that slim trace led all the
way back to Jijo, where Streaker's escape attempt had
begun two exhausting days earlier, breaking for liberty
amid a crowd of ancient derelicts—ocean-bottom junk

16    David Brio

piles reactivated for one last, glorious, screaming run

through space.

One by one, those decoys had failed, or dropped out,
or were snared by the enemy's clever capture-boxes,
until only Streaker remained, plummeting for the brief
shelter of stormy Izmunuti.

As for the forward direction . . . Instrument read-
ings sent by the bridge crew helped the Niss Machine
calculate their likely heading. Apparently, Gillian Baskin
had ordered a course change, taking advantage of a
gravitational slingshot around the star to fling Streaker
toward galactic north and east.

Sara swallowed hard. The destination had originally
been her idea. But as time passed, she grew less certain.

"The new t-point doesn't look very stable," she com-
mented, following the ship's planned trajectory to the
top left corner of the holo unit, where a tight mesh of
curling lines tunneled through an empty-looking zone
of interstellar space.

Reacting to her close regard, the display monitor en-
hanced that section. Rows of glowing symbols de-
scribed the local hyperspatial matrix.

She had predicted this wonder—the reawakening of
something old. Something marvelous. For a brief while,
it had seemed like just the miracle they needed. A gift
from the Holy Egg. An escape route from a terrible trap.

But on examining the analytical profiles, Sara con-
cluded that the cosmos was not being all that helpful

after all.

"There are connection tubes opening up to other
spacetime locales. But they seem rather . . . scanty."

"Well, what can you expect from a nexus that is only
a few hours old? One that was only recently yanked
from slumber by a force neither of us can grasp?"

After a pause, the Niss unit continued. "Most of the
transfer threads leading away from this nexus are still
on the order of a Planck width. Some promising routes
do seem to be coalescing, and may be safely traversable
by starship in a matter of weeks. Of course, that will be
of little use to us."

leHtB's Resell   17

Sara nodded. The pursuing Jophur battleship would
hardly give Streaker that much time. Already the mighty
Polkjhy had abandoned its string of captured decoys in
order to focus all its attention on the real Streaker, keep-
ing the Earthship bathed in long-range scanning rays.

"Then what does Gillian Baskin hope to accomplish
by heading toward a useless ..."

She blinked, as realization lurched within her rib
cage.

"Oh. I see."

Sara stepped back, and the display resumed its nor-
mal scale. Two meters away, at the opposite corner,
neat curves showed the spatial patterns of another trans-
fer point. The familiar, reliably predictable one that ev-
ery sneakship had used to reach Izmunuti during the
last two millennia. The only quick way in or out of this
entire region of Galaxy Four.

But not always. Once, when Jijo had been a center of
commerce and civilization under the mighty Buyur, traf-
fic used to flux through two hyperdimensional nexi.
One of them shut down when Jijo went fallow, half a
million years ago, coinci dentally soon after the Buyur
departed.

Sara and her mentor, Sage Purofsky, had nursed a
suspicion. That shutdown was no accident.

"Then we concur," said the Niss Machine. "Gillian
Baskin clearly intends to lead the Jophur into a suicidal
trap."

Sara looked elsewhere in the big display, seeking
the enemy. She found it several stellar radii behind
Izmunuti, a yellow glow representing the hunter—a
Jophur dreadnought whose crew coveted the Earthship
and its secrets. Having abandoned the distraction of all
the old dross ship decoys, the Polkjhy had been racing
toward the regular t-point, confident of cutting off
Streaker's sole escape route.

Only now, the sudden reopening of another gateway
must have flummoxed the giant sap-rings who com-
manded the great warship. The yellow trace turned
sharply, as the Polkjhy frantically shed momentum, aim-

18    David Brill

ing to chase Streaker past Izmunuti's flames toward the

new door in spacetime.

A door that's not ready for use, Sara thought. Surely
the Jophur must also have instruments capable of read-
ing probability flows. They must realize how dangerous
it would be to plunge into a newborn transfer point.

Yet, could the Polkjby commanders afford to dismiss
it? Streaker was small, maneuverable, and had dolphin
pilots, reputed to be among the best in all five galaxies.
And the Earthlings were desperate.

The Jophur have to assume we know something about
this transfer point that they do not. From their point of
view, it seems as if we called it into existence with a
wave of our bands—or fins. If we plunge inside, it must
be because we know a tube or thread we can latch on to

and follow to safety.

They're obliged to give chase, or risk losing Streaker

forever.

Sara nodded.
"Gillian and the dolphins , . . they're sacrificing

themselves, forJijo."

The tightly meshed Niss hologram appeared to shrug

in agreement.

"It does seem the best choice out of a wretched set of

options.

"Suppose we turn and fight? The only likely outcomes

are capture or death, with your Jijoan civilization lost
in the bargain. After extracting Streaker's secrets, the
Jophur will report to their home clan, then take their
time organizing a systematic program forJijo, first an-
nihilating every g'Kek, then turning the planet into their
own private breeding colony, developing new types of
humans, traekis, and boons to suit their perverted

needs.

"By forcing the Polkjhy to follow us into the new

transfer point, Dr. Baskin makes it likely that no report
will ever reach the Five Galaxies about your Six Races.
Your fellow exiles may continue wallowing in sublime,
planet-bound squalor for a while longer, chasing vague
notions of redemption down the muddy generations."
How very much like the Niss it was, turning a noble

Heaven's fleacti    19

gesture into an excuse for insult. Sara shook her head.
Gillian's plan was both grand and poignant.

It also meant Sara's own hours were numbered.

"What a waste," the Niss sighed. "This vessel and
crew appear to have made the discovery of the age, and
now it may be lost."

Things had been so hectic since the rushed departure
fromJijo that Sara was still unclear about the cause of all
this ferment—what the Streaker crew had done to pro-
voke such ire and pursuit by some of the great powers
of the known universe.

"It began when Captain Creideiki took this ship pok-
ing through a seemingly unlikely place, looking for
relics or anomalies that had been missed by the Great
Library," the artificial intelligence explained. "It was a
shallow globular cluster, lacking, planets or singulari-
ties. Creideiki never told his reasons for choosing such a
spot. But his hunch paid off when Streaker came upon a
great fleet of derelict ships, drifting in splendid silence
through open space. Samples and holos taken of this
mystery armada seemed to hint at possible answers to
our civilization's most ancient mystery.

"Of course our findings should have been shared
openly by the institutes of the Civilization of Five Galax-
ies, in the name of all oxygen-breathing life. Immense
credit ivould have come to your frail, impoverished
Earthclan, as well as my Tymbrimi makers. But every
other race and alliance might have shared as well,
gaining new insight into the origins of our billion-year-
old culture.

"Alas, several mighty coalitions interpreted Streaker's
initial beamcast as fulfillment of dire prophecy. They felt
the news presaged a fateful time of commotion and up-
heaval, in. which a decisive advantage would go to any-
one monopolizing our discovery. Instead of celebratory
welcome. Streaker returned from the Shallow Cluster to
find battle fleets lying in wait, eager to secure our secrets
before we reached neutral ground. Several times, we
were cornered, and escaped only because hordes of
fanatics fought savagely among themselves over the
right of capture.

20    David Brill

"Alas, that compensation seems lacking in our pres-
ent situation."

That was an understatement. The Jophur could pur-
sue Streaker at leisure, without threat of interference. As
far as the rest of civilization was concerned, this whole

region was empty and off-limits.

"Was poor Emerson wounded in one of those earlier

space battles?"

Sara felt concern for her friend, the silent star voyager,

whose cryptic injuries she had treated in her treehouse,
before taking him on an epic journey across Jijo, to be

reunited with his crewmates.

"No. Engineer D'Anite was captured by members of
the Retired Caste, at a place we call the Fractal World.

That event—"
The blue blob halted its twisting gyration. Hesitating a

few seconds, it trembled before resuming.

"The detection officer reports something new! A phe-
nomenon heretofore masked by the flames of

Izmunuti."

The display rippled. Abruptly, swarms of orange pin-
points sparkled amid the filaments and stormy promi-
nences of Izmunuti's roiling atmosphere.

Sara leaned forward. "What are they?"

"Condensed objects.

"Artificial, self-propelled spacial mottles.

"In other words, starships."

Sara's jaw opened and closed twice before she could

manage speech.

"Ifni, there must be hundreds! How could we have

overlooked them before?"

The Niss answered defensively.

"Ob, great Sage, one normally does not send probing
beams through a red giant's flaming corona in search
of spacecraft. Our attention was turned elsewhere. Be-
sides, these vessels only began using gravitic engines
moments ago, applying gravi-temporal force to escape

the new solar storms."

Sara stared in amazement. Hope whirled madly.

Heaven's Reach    21

"These ships, could they help us?"

Again, the Niss paused, consulting remote instru-
ments.

"It seems doubtful, oh, Sage. They will scarcely care
about our struggles. These beings belong to another or-
der on the pyramid of life, completely apart from
yours . . . though one might call them distant cousins
of mine."

Sara shook her head, at first confused. Then she cried
out.

"Machines!"

Even Jijo's fallen castaways could recite the Eight Or-
ders of Sapience, with oxygen-based life being only one
of the most flamboyant. Among the other orders, Jijo's
sacred scrolls spoke darkly of synthetic beings, coldly
cryptic, who designed and built each other in the far-
thest depths of space, needing no ground to stand on or
wind to breathe.

"Indeed. Their presence here surely involves matters
beyond our concern. Most likely, the mechanoids will
avoid contact with us out of prudent caution."

The voice paused.

"Fresh data is coming in. It seems that the flotilla is
having a bard time with those new tempests. Some
mechaniforms may he more needy of rescue than we
are."

Sara pointed at one of the orange dots.
"Show me!"

Using data from long-range scans, the display unit
swooped giddily inward. Swirling stellar filaments
seemed to heave around Sara as her point of view
plunged toward the chosen speck—one of the mecha-
noid vessels—which began taking form against a back-
drop of irate gas.

Stretching the limits of magnification, the blurry en-
hancement showed a glimmering trapezoidal shape, al-
most mirroriike, that glancingly reflected solar fire. The
mechanoid's outline grew slimmer as it turned to flee a
plume of hot ions, fast rising toward it from Izmunuti's
whipped convection zones. The display software com-

22    David Brin

pensated for perspective as columns of numbers esti-
mated the vessel's actual measurements—a square
whose edges were hundreds of kilometers in length,
with a third dimension that was vanishingly small.

Space seemed to ripple just beneath the mechaniform
vessel. Though still inexperienced, Sara recognized the
characteristic warping effects of a gravi-temporal field. A
modest one, according to the display. Perhaps sufficient
for interplanetary speeds, but not to escape the devasta-
tion climbing toward it. She could only watch with help-
less sympathy as the mechanoid struggled in vain.

The first shock wave ripped the filmy object in
half . . . then into shreds that raveled quickly, becom-
ing a swarm of bright, dissolving streamers.

"This is not the only victim. Observe, as fate catches

up with other stragglers."

The display returned to its former scale. As Sara
watched, several additional orange glitters were over-
whelmed by waves of accelerating dense plasma. Oth-
ers continued climbing, fighting to escape the

maelstrom.

"Whoever they are, I hope they get away," Sara mur-
mured.

How strange it seemed that machine-vessels would

be less sturdy than Streaker, whose protective fields
could stand full immersion for several miduras in the red
star's chromosphere, storm or no storm.

If they can't take on a plasma surge, they'd be useless

against Jophur weapons.

Disappointment tasted bitter after briefly raised hope.
Clearly, no rescue would come from that direction.

Sara perceived a pattern to her trials and adventures
during the last year—swept away from her dusty study
to encounter aliens, fight battles, ride fabled horses, sub-
merge into the sea, and then join a wild flight aboard a
starship. The universe seemed bent on revealing won-
ders at the edge of her grasp or imagining—giant stars,
transfer points, talking computers, universal librar-
ies ... and now glimpses of a different life order. A
mysterious phylum, totally apart from the vast, encom-
passing Civilization of Five Galaxies.

Heaven's Reach    23

Such marvels lay far beyond her old life as a savage
intellectual on a rustic world.

And yet, a glimpse was clearly all the cosmos planned
to give her.

Go ahead and look, it seemed to say. But you can't
touch.

For you, time has almost run out.

Saddened, Sara watched orange pinpoints flee des-
perately before tornadoes of stellar heat. More laggards
were swept up by the rising storm, their frail light
quenched like drowned embers.

Gillian and the dolphins seem sure we can stand a
brief passage through that bell. But the vanishing sparks
made Sara's confidence waver. After all, weren't ma-
chines supposed to be stronger than mere flesh?

She was about to ask the Niss about it when, before
her eyes, the holo display abruptly changed once more.
Izmunuti flickered, and when the image reformed,
something new had come into view. Below the retreat-
ing orange glimmers, there now appeared three spar-
kling forms, rising with complacent grace, shining a
distinct shade of imperial purple as they emerged from
the flames toward Streaker's, path.

"What now?" she asked. "More mechanoids?"

"No, " the Niss answered in a tone that seemed almost
awed. "JtJese appear to be something else entirely. I be-
lieve they are . . . '•' The computer's hologram deformed

into jagged shapes, like nervous icicles. "/ believe they
are Zang."

Sara's skin crawled. That name was fraught with fear
and legend. On Jijo, it was never spoken above a

whisper. "But . . . how . . . what could they be do-
ing ... ?"

Before she finished her question, the Niss spoke
again.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Sara. Our acting cap-
tain, Dr. Gillian Baskin, has called an urgent meeting
of the ship's council to consider these developments. You
are invited to attend.

"Do you wish me to make excuses on your behalf?"
Sara was already hurrying toward the exit.

24    David Brin

"Don't you dare!" she cried over one shoulder as the
door folded aside to let her pass.

The hallway beyond curved up and away in both di-
rections, like a segment of tortured spacetime, rising
toward vertical in the distance. The sight always gave
Sara qualms. Nevertheless, this time she ran.

Gillian

RR SOME REASON, THE TUMULTUOUS RED STAR
•minded her of Venus.
Naturally, that brought Tom to mind.
Everything reminded Gillian of Tom. After two
;ars, his absence was still a wound that left her
reflexively turning for his warmth each night. By day,
she kept expecting his strong voice, offering to help
take on the worries. All the damned decisions.
Isn't it just like a hero, to die saving the world?
A little voice pointed out—that's what heroes are for.
Yes, she answered. But the world goes on, doesn 't it?
And it keeps needing to be saved.

Ever since the universe sundered them apart at
Kithrup, Gillian told herself that Tom couldn't be dead.
I'd know it, she would think repeatedly, convincing her-
self by force of will. Across galaxies and megaparsecs, I
could tell if be were gone. Tom must be out there some-
where still, with Creideiki and Hikahi and the others we
were forced to leave behind.

He'll find a way to get safely home ... or else back
to me.

That certainty helped Gillian bear her burdens during
Streaker's first distraught fugitive year . . . until the last
few months of steady crisis finally cracked her assur-

ance.

Then, without realizing when it happened, she began
thinking of Tom in the past tense.

He loved Venus, she pondered, watching the raging
solar vista beyond Streakers hull. Of course Izmunuti's
atmosphere was bright, while Earth's sister world was

Heaven's Reach    25

dim beneath perpetual acid clouds. Yet, both locales
shared essential traits. Harsh warmth, unforgiving
storms, and scant moisture.

Both provoked extremes of hope and despair.
She could see him now, spreading both spacesuited
arms to encompass the panorama below Aphrodite Pin-
nacle, gesturing toward stark lowlands. Lightning
danced about a phalanx of titanic structures that
stretched to a warped horizon—one shadowy behe-
moth after another—vast new devices freshly engaged

in the labor of changing Venus. Transforming hell, one
step at a time.

"Isn't it tremendous?" Tom asked. "This endeavor
proves that our species is capable of thinking long
thoughts."

Even with borrowed Galactic technology, the task
would, take more time to complete than humans had
known writing or agriculture. Ten thousand years must
pass before seas rolled across the sere plains. It was a
bold project for poor wolflings to engage in, especially
when Sa'ent and Kloornap bookies gave Earthclan slim
odds of surviving more than another century or two.

"We have to show the universe that we trust our-
selves, " Tom added. "Or else who will believe in us?"

His words sounded fine. Noble and grand. At the
time, Tom almost convinced Gillian.
Only things changed.

Half a year ago, during Streaker's brief, terrified ref-
uge at the Fractal World, Gillian had managed to pick up
rumors about the Siege of Terra, taking place in faraway
Galaxy Two. Apparently, the Sa'ent touts were now tak-
ing bets on human extinction in mere years or jaduras,
not centuries.

In retrospect, the Venus terraforming project seemed
moot.

We'd have been better off as farmers, Tom and I. Or
teaching school. Or helping settle Calafia. We should
never have listened to Jake Demwa and Creideiki. This
mission has brought ruin on everyone it touched.

Including the poor colonists of Jijo—six exile races
who deserved a chance to find their own strange desti-

26   David BMn

nies undisturbed. In seeking shelter on that forbidden
world, Streaker only brought disaster to Jijo's tribes.

There seemed one way to redress the harm.

Can we lure the Jophur^after us into the new transfer
point? Kaa must pilot a convincing trajectory, as if he
can sense a per feet thread to latch on to. A miracle path
leading toward safety. If we do it right, the big ugly sap-
rings will have to follow! "They'll have no choice.

Saving Jijo justified that option, since there seemed no
way to bring Streaker's cargo safely home to Earth. An-
other reason tasted acrid, vengeful.

At least we'll take enemies with us.

Some say that impending death clarifies the mind, but

in Gillian it only stirred regret.

/ hope Creideiki and Tom aren 't too disappointed in
me, she pondered at the door of the conference room.

/ did my best.

The ship's council had changed since Gillian reluctantly
took over the captain's position, where Creideiki pre-
sided in happier times. At the far end of the long table,
Streaker's last surviving dolphin officer, Lieutenant
Tsh't, expertly piloted a six-legged walker apparatus
carrying her sleek gray form into the same niche where
Takkata-Jim once nestled his great bulk, before he was

killed near Kithrup.

Tsh't greeted the human chief engineer, though
Hannes Suessi's own mother wouldn't recognize him
now, with so many body parts replaced by cyborg com-
ponents, and a silver dome where his head used to be.
Much of that gleaming surface was now covered with
pre-Contact-era motorcycle decals—an irreverent touch
that endeared Hannes to the crew. At least someone had
kept a sense of humor through years of relentless crisis.

Gillian felt acutely the absence of one council mem-
ber, her friend and fellow physician Makanee, who re-
mained behind on Jijo with several dozen dolphins—
those suffering from devolution fever or who were un-
essential for the breakout attempt. In effect, dolphins
had established a seventh illegal colony on that fallow

Heaven's Reach    27

world—another secret worth defending with the lives of
those left aboard.

Secrets. There are other enigmas, less easily protected.

Gillian's thoughts slipped past the salvaged objects in
her office, some of them worth a stellar ransom. Mere
hints at their existence had already knocked civilization
teetering across five galaxies.

Foremost was a corpse, nicknamed Herbie. An alien
cadaver so ancient, its puzzling smile might be from a
joke told a billion years ago. Other relics were scarcely
less provocative—or cursed. Trouble had followed
Streaker ever since its crew began picking up objects
they didn't understand.

"Articles of Destiny." That was how one of the Old
Ones referred to Streaker's cargo of mysteries when
they visited the Fractal World.

Maybe this will befitting. All those irksome treasures
will get smashed down to a proton's width after we dive
into the new transfer point.

At least then she'd get the satisfaction of seeing
Herbie's expression finally change, at the last instant,
when the bounds of reality closed in rapidly from ten
dimensions.

A holo of Izmunuti took up one wall of the conference
room, an expanse of swirling clouds wider than Earth's
orbit, surging and shifting as the Niss Machine relayed
the latest intelligence in Tymbrimi-accented Galactic
Seven.

"The fophur battleship has jettisoned the last of the
decoy vessels it seized, letting them drift through space.
Freed of their momentum-burden, the Polkjhy is more
agile, turning its frightful bulk toward the new transfer
point. They aim to reach the reborn nexus before
Streaker does."

"Can they beat us there?" Gillian asked in Anglic.
The Niss hologram whirled thoughtfully. "It seems
unlikely, unless they use some risky type of probability
drive, which is not typical ofJophur. They wasted a lot of
time dashing ahead toward the older t-point. Our tight

28   livid Bnn

swing past Izmunuti should help Streaker to arrive
first . . . for whatever good it iirill do."

Gillian ignored the machine's sarcasm. Most of the
crew seemed in accord with her decision. Lacking other
options, death was more bearable if you took an enemy

with you.

The Jophur situation appeared stable, so she changed
the subject. "What can you report about the other

ships?"

"The two mysterious flotillas we recently detected in
Izmunuti's atmosphere? After consulting tactical
archives, I conclude they must have been operating
jointly. Nothing else could explain their close proximity,
fleeing together to escape unexpected plasma storms."

Hannes Suessi objected, his voice wavering low and
raspy from the silver dome.

"Mechanoids and hydrogen breathers cooperating?

That sounds odd."

The whirling blob made a gesture like a nod. "Indeed.
The various orders of life seldom interact. But according
to our captured Library unit, it does happen, especially
when some vital project requires the talents of two or
more orders, working together."

The newest council member whistled for attention.
Kaa, the chief pilot, did not ride a walker, since he
might have to speed back to duty any moment. The
young dolphin commented from a fluid-filled tunnel
that passed along a wall near one side of the table.

* Can any purpose

* Under tide-pulled moons explain
* Such anomalies? *

For emphasis, Kaa slashed his tail flukes through water
that fizzed with bubbles. Gillian translated the popping
whistle-poem for Sara Koolhan, who had never learned

Trinary.

"Kaa asks what project could be worth the trouble
and danger of diving into a star."

Sara replied with an eager nod. "I may have a partial
answer." The young Jijoan stroked a black cube in front

Heaven's Reach    29

of her—the personal algorithmic engine Gillian had lent
her when she came aboard.

"Ever since we first spotted these strange ships, I've
wondered what trait of Izmunuti might attract folks here
from some distant system. For instance, my own ances-
tors. After passing through the regular t-point, they took
a path through this giant star's outer atmosphere. All the
sneakships ofJijo used the same method to cover their
tracks."

We thought of it too, Gillian pondered, unhappily. But
I must have done something wrong, since the Rothen
were able to follow us, betraying our hiding place and
the Six Races.

Gillian noticed Lieutenant Tsh't was looking at her.
With reproach for getting Streaker into this fix? The dol-
phin's eye remained fixed for a long, appraising mo-
ment, then turned away as Sara continued.

"According to this teaching unit, stars like Izmunuti
pour immense amounts of heavy atoms from their
bloated atmospheres. Carbon is especially rich, con-
densing on anything solid that happens nearby. All our
ancestor ships arrived at Jijo black with the stuff.
Streaker may be the first vessel ever to try the trick
twice, both coming and going. I bet the stuff is causing
you some problems."

"No bet!" boomed Suessi's amplified voice. Hannes
had been battling the growing carbon coating. "The
stuff is heavy, it has weird properties, and it's been gum-
ming up the verity flanges."

Sara nodded. "But consider—what if somebody has a
use for such coatings? What would be their best way to
accumulate it?"

She stroked her black cube again, transferring data to
the main display. Though Sara had been aboard just a
few days, she was adapting to the convenience of mod-
ern tools.

A mirrorlike rectangle appeared before the council,
reflecting fiery prominences from a broad, planar sur-
face.

"I may be an ignorant native," Sara commented. "But
it seems one could collect atoms out of a stellar wind

30    David Brin

using something with high surface area and small initial
mass. Such a vehicle might not even have to expend
energy departing, if it rode outward on the pressure of
light waves."

Lieutenant Tsh't murmured.

"A sssolar sail!"

"Is that what you call it?" Sara nodded. "Imagine ma-
chines arriving through the transfer point as compact
objects, plummeting down to Izmunuti, then unfurling
such sails and catching a free ride back to the t-point,
gaining layers of this moleculariy unique carbon, and
other stuff along the way. Energy expenditures per ton
of yield would be minimal!"

The whirling Niss hologram edged forward.

"Your hypothesis suggests an economical resource-
gathering technique, providing the mecbanoids needn't
make more than one simple hyperspatial transfer, com-
ing or going. There are cheap alternatives in industrial-
ized regions of the Five Galaxies, but here in Galaxy
Four, industry' is currently minimal or nil, due to the
recent fallow-migration—"The Niss paused briefly.

"Mecbanoids would be ideal contractors for such a
harvesting chore, creating special versions to do the job
swiftly, with minimal mass. ft explains why their drives
and shields seem frail before the rising storms. They bad
no margin for the unexpected."

Gillian saw that just half of the orange glitters re-
mained, struggling to flee Izmunuti's gravity before
more plasma surges caught them. The three purple dots
had already climbed toward the mechanoid convoy, as-
cending with graceful ease.

"What about the Zang?" she asked.

"I surmise they are the mecbanoids' employers. Our
Library says Zang groups sometimes hire special services
from the Machine Order. Great clans of oxygen breath-
ers also do it, now and then."

"Well, it seems their plans have been ripped," com-
mented Suessi. "Not much cargo getting home, this

time."

Pensive whistle ratchets escaped the gray dolphin in
the water-filled tunnel—not Trinary, but the scattered

Heaven's Reach    31

clicks a cetacean emits when pondering deeply. Gillian
still felt guilty about asking Kaa to volunteer for this
mission, since it meant abandoning his lover to danger
on Jijo. But Streaker needed a first-class pilot for this
desperate ploy.

"/ concur," the whirling Niss hologram concluded.
"The Zang will be in a foul mood after this setback."

"Because they suffered economic loss?" Tsh't asked.
"That and more. According to the Library, hydrogen
breathers react badly to surprise. They have slower me-
tabolisms than oxy-life. Anything unpredictable is vis-
cerally unpleasant to them.

"Of course, this attitude is strange to an entity like
me, programmed by the Tymbrimi to seek novelty! With-
out surprise, how can you tell there is an objective
world? You might as well presume the whole universe is
one big sim— "

"Wait a minute," Gillian interrupted, before the Niss
got sidetracked in philosophy. "We're all taught to avoid
Zang as dangerous, leaving contact to experts from the
Great Institutes."

"That is right."

"But now you're saying they may be especially angry?
Possibly short-tempered?"

The Niss hologram coiled tensely.

"After three years together, Dr. Baskin—amid grow-
ing familiarity with your voice tones and thought pat-
terns—your latest inquiry provokes uneasy feelings.

"Am I justified to be wary?

"Do you find the notion of short-tempered Zang . . .
appealing?"

Gillian kept silent. But she allowed a grim, enigmatic

smile.

H

arry

..^ FARTH YEARS HAD PASSED ON HIS PER-

^sonal duration clock since he took the irrevocable
step, standing amid volunteers from fifty alien races,
laboriously mouthing polyglottal words of a memo-
rized oath that had been written ages ago, by some
species long extinct. Upon joining the Observer Corps,
Harry's life didn't simply shift—it leaped from the
riverbed of his genetic lineage, transferring loyalty from
his birth planet to an austere bureaucracy that was old
when his distant ancestors still scurried under Triassic
jungle canopies, hiding from dinosaurs.

Yet, during training he was struck by how often other
students sought him out with questions about Earthclan,
whose struggles were the latest riveting interstellar
penny-drama. Would the newest band of unprotected,
sponsorless "wolflings" catch up with starfaring civiliza-
tion in lime to forestall the normal fate of upstarts? De-
spite Terra's puny unimportance, this provoked much
speculation and wagering.

What was it like—his fellow acolytes asked—to have
patrons like humans, who taught themselves such basic
arts as speech, spaceflight, and eugenics? As a neo-
chimp, Harry was junior in status to every other client-
citizen at the base, yet he was almost a celebrity, getting
hostility from some, admiration from others, and curios-
ity from nearly all.

In fact, he couldn't tell his classmates much about
Terragens Civilization, having spent just a year among
the talky neo-chimpanzees of Earth before dropping out
of university to sign on with the Navigation Institute. His
life was already one of exile.

He had been born in space, aboard a Terragens sur-
vey vessel. Harry's vague memories ofTSS Pelenorwcre

Heaven's Heacli    33

of a misty paradise lost, filled with high-tech comforts
and warm places to play. The crew had seemed like
gods—human officers, neo-chim and neo-dolphin rat-
ings . . . plus a jolly, treelike Kanten advisor—all mov-
ing about their tasks so earnestly, except when he
needed to be cuddled or tickled or tossed in the air.

Then, one awful day, his parents chose to debark and
study the strange human tribes on a desolate colony
world—Horst. That ended Harry's part in the epochal
voyage of the Pelenor, and began his simmering resent-
ment.

Memories of starscapes and humming engines be-
came muzzy, idealized. Throughout childhood on that
dusty world, the notion of space travel grew" more magi-
cal. By the time Harry finally left Horst, he was shocked
by the true sterile bleakness that stretched between rare
stellar oases.

I remember it differently, he thought, during the voy-
age to Earth. Of course that memory was a fantasy,
formed by an impressionable toddler. At university, in-
structors taught that subjective impressions are'untrust-
worthy, biased by the mind's fervent wish to believe.

Still, the thirst would not be slaked. An ambition to
seek paradise in other versions of reality.

The bananas held him trapped for days.

If the allaphor had been less personal, Harry might
have fought harder. But the image was too explicitly
pointed to ignore. After the first debacle, when the sta-
tion nearly foundered, he decided to wait before chal-
lenging the reef again.

Anyway, this wasn't a bad site to observe from. In a
synergy between this strange continuum and his own
mind, the local region manifested itself as a high pla-
teau, overlooking a vast, undulating sea of purple ten-
drils. Black mountains still bobbed in the distance,
though some of the "holes" in the red-blue sky became
drooping dimples, as if the celestial dome had decided
to melt or slump.

There were also life-forms—mostly creatures of the

34    David Brill

Memetic Order. Shapes that fluttered, crawled, or shim-
mered past Harry's octagonal platform, grazing and
preying on each other, or else merging or undergoing
eerie transformations before his eyes. On all other di-
mensional planes, memes could only exist as parasites,
dwelling in the host brains or mental processors of
physical beings. But here in E Space, they roamed free,
in a realm of palpable ideas.

"Your imagination equips you to perform the duties
of a scout, "Wer'Q'quinn explained during Harry's train-
ing. "But do not succumb to the lure of solipsism, believ-
ing you can make something happen in E Space simply
by willing it. E Space can sever your life path, if you
grow obstinate or unwary."

Harry never doubted that. Watching memiforms
slither across the purple steppe, he passed the time
speculating what concepts they contained. Probably,
none of the creatures were sapient, since true intelli-
gence was rare on any level of reality. Yet, each of the
memes crossing before him manifested a single thought,
unconstrained by any organic or electronic brain—a
self-contained idea with as much structured complexity
as Harry held in his organs and genetic code.

That one over there, prancing like a twelve-legged
antelope—was it an abstraction distantly related to free-
dom! When a jagged-edged flying thing swooped down
to chase it, Harry wondered if the hunter might be an
intricate version of craving. Or was he typically trying to
cram the complex and ineffable into simple niches, to
satisfy the pattern-needs of his barely sapient mind?

Well, it is "human nature" to trivialize. To make ste-
reotypes. To pretend you can eff'the ineffable.

Local meme organisms were fascinating, but now and
then something else appeared beneath his vantage
point, demanding closer attention.

He could always tell an interloper. Outsiders moved
awkwardly, as if their allaphorical shapes were clumsy
costumes. Often, predatory memes would approach,
sniffing for a savory conceptual meal, only to retreat
quickly from the harsh taste of solid matter. Metal-hulled
ships or organic life-forms. Intruders from some other

Heam's leacli    35

province of reality, not pausing or staring, but hastening
past the floating mountains to seek refuge in the Swiss
cheese sky.

Harry welcomed these moments when he earned his
pay. Speaking clearly, he would describe each new-
comer for his partner, the station computer, which lay
below his feet, shielded against the hostile effects of
E Space. At headquarters, experts would decipher his
eyewitness account to determine what kind of vessel
had made transit before Harry's eyes, and where it may
have been bound. Meanwhile, he and the computer col-
laborated to make the best guess they could.

"Onboard memory files are familiar with this pat-
tern, " said the floating M at one point, after Harry de-
scribed an especially bizarre newcomer, rushing by atop
myriad stiff, glimmering stalks, like a striding sunburst.
"It appears to be a member of the Quantum Order of
Sapiency."

"Really?" Harry pressed against the glass. The object
looked as fragile as a feathery zilm spore, carried on the
wind to far corners of Horst. Delicate stems kept break-
ing off and vaporizing as the thing—(was it a ship? or a
single being?)—hurried toward a sky hole that lay near
the horizon.

"I've never seen a quant anywhere near that big be-
fore. What's it doing here? I thought they didn't like
E Space."

"Try to imagine how you organics feel about bard
vacuum—you shrivel and perish unless surrounded by
layers of protective technology. So the fluctuating subjec-
tivities of this domain imperil some other kinds of life.
E Space is even more distasteful to quantum beings than
it is to members of the Machine Order."

"Hm. Then why's it here?"

"/ am at a loss to speculate what urgent errand impels
it. Most quantum beings reside in the foam interstices of
the cosmos, out of sight from other life variants—like
bacteria on your homeworld who live in solid rock. Ex-
plicit contact with the Quantum Order was only estab-
lished by experts of the Library Institute less than a
hundred million years ago.

36    David Brin

"What I can suggest is that you should politely avert
your gaze, Scout Harms. The quant is clearly having
difficulties. You needn 't add to its troubles by staring."

Harry winced at the reminder. "Oh, right. The Uncer-
tainty Principle!" He turned away. His job in E Space
was to watch, but you could do harm by watching too

closely.

Anyway, his real task was to look for less exotic inter-
lopers.

Most of his ship sightings were of hydrogen breathers,
easily identified because their balloonlike vessels
looked the same in any continuum. For some reason,
members of that order liked taking shortcuts through
E Space on their way from one Jupiter-type world to
another, even though A and B levels were more effi-
cient, and transfer points much faster.

On those rare occasions when Harry spotted anyone
from his own order of oxygen breathers—the great and
mighty Civilization of Five Galaxies—none of them ap-
proached his sentry position, defending a proscribed
route to a forbidden place.

A'b wonder they hired a low-class chim for this job.
Even criminals, trying to sneak into a fallow zone,
would be fools to use allapbor space as a back door.

As I'm a fool, to be stuck guarding it.

Still, it beat the dry, windy steppes of Horst.

Anything was better than Horst.

He and his parents were the only members of their
species on the planet, which meant the long process of
learning speech, laborious for young neo-chimps, came
doubly hard. With Marko and Felicity distracted by re-
search, Harry had to practice with wild-eyed Probsher
kids, who mocked him for his long, furry arms and early
stammer. With painted faces and short tempers, they
showed none of the dignified patience he'd been taught
to expect from the elder race. By the time he learned
how different humans were on Horst, it didn't matter.
He vowed to leave, not only Horst, but Terragens soci-
ety. To seek the strange and unfamiliar.

Heaven's Reich    37

Years later, Harry realized a similar ambition must
have driven his parents. In youthful anger, he had
spurned their pleas for patience, their awkward affec-
tions, even their parting blessing.

Still, regret was just a veneer, forgiveness a civilized
abstraction, devoid of pang or poignancy.

Other memories still had power to make his veins
tense with emotion. Growing up listening to botbian
night wolves howl across dry lakes under patch-gilt
moons. Or holding his knees by firelight while a Prob-
sher shaman chanted eerie tales—fables that Marko and
Felicity avidly studied as venerable folk legends, al-
though these tribes had roamed Horst for less than six
generations.

His own sapient race wasn't much older! Only a few
centuries had passed since human beings began genetic
meddling in chimpanzee stock.

Who gave them the right?

No permission was needed. Galactics had followed
the same pattern for aeons—each "generation" of
starfarers spawning the next in a rippling bootstrap ef-
fect called Uplift.

On the whole, humans were better masters than
most . . . and he would rather be sapient than not.

No. What drove him away from Earthclan was not
resentment but a kind of detachment. The mayfly yam-
merings of Probsher mystics mattered no more or less
than the desperate moves of the Terragens Council,
against the grinding forces of an overwhelming uni-
verse. One might as well compare sparks rising from a
campfire to the stars wheeling by overhead. They
looked similar, at a glance. But what did another in-
candescent cinder really matter on the grand scale of
things?

Did the cosmos care if humans or chims survived?
Even at university this notion threaded his thoughts.
Harry's natural links elongated till they parted one by
one. All that remained was a nebulous desire to seek out
something lasting. Something that deserved to last.
Joining Wer'Q'quinn and the Navigation Institute, he

38    David Brin

found something enduring, a decision he never regret-
ted.

Still, it puzzled Harry years later that his dreams kept

returning to the desolate world of his youth. Horst
ribbed his memory. Its wind in the dry grass. Smells that
assailed your nose, sinking claws into your sinuses. And
images the shaman painted in your mind, like arcs of
multicolored sand, falling in place to convey deer, or

loper-beast, or spearhunter.

Even as an official of Galactic civilization, represent-
ing the oxygen order on a weird plane of reality where
allaphors shimmered in each window like reject Dali
images, Harry still saw funnels of sparkling heat rising
from smoky campfires, vainly seeking union with aloof

stars.

Lark

an

JOT THAT WAY!" LING SHOUTED.
Her cry made Lark stumble to a halt, a few meters

down a new corridor.

"But I'm sure this is the best route back to our
I  nest." Lark pointed along a dim, curved aisle, me-
andering between gray ceramic walls. Strong odors
wafted from each twisty, branching passageway aboard
the mazelike Jophur ship. This one beckoned with dis-
tinct flavors of GKEEN and SANCTUARY.

"I believe you." Ling nodded. "That's why we mustn't
go there. In case we're still being followed."

She didn't look much like a star god anymore, with
her dark hair hacked short and pale skin covered with
soot. Wearing just a torn undertunic from her once shiny
uniform, Ling now seemed far wilder than the Jijoan
natives she once called "savages." In a cloth sling she
carried a crimson torus that leaked gore like a wounded

sausage.

Lark saw her meaning. Ever since they had tried sabo-
taging the dreadnought's control chamber, giant Jophur
and their robot servants had chased them across the vast

Heaven's Beacli    39

vessel. As fugitives, the humans mustn't lead pursuers to
the one place offering food and shelter.

"Where to then?" Lark hated being in the open. He
grasped their only weapon, a circular purple tube.
Larger and healthier than the red one, it was their sole
key to get past locked doors and unwary guardians.

Ling knew starships far better than he. But this behe-
moth warship was different. She peered up one shad-
owy tunnel, a curled shaft that seemed more organic
than artificial.

"Just pick a direction. Quickly. I hear someone com-
ing."

With a wistful glance toward their "nest," Lark took
her hand and plunged away at right angles, into another
passageway.

The walls glistened with an oily sheen, each passage
or portal emitting its own distinct aroma, partly making
up for the lack of written signs. Although he was just a
primitive sooner, Lark did know traeki. Those cousins of
the Jophur had different personalities, but shared many
physical traits. As a Jijoan native, he could grasp many
nuances in the shipboard scent language.

Despite the eerie hall curvature, he was starting to get
a mental picture of the huge vessel—an oblate spheroid,
studded with aggressive weaponry and driven by en-
gines mighty enough to warp space in several ways. The
remaining volume was a labyrinth of workshops, labo-
ratories, and enigmatic chambers that puzzled even the
star sophisticate, Ling. Since barely escaping the Jophur
command center, they had worked their way inward,
back toward the tiny eden where they had hidden after
escaping their prison cell.

The place where they first made love.

Only now the greasy ring stacks had shut down all
the axial drop tubes, blocking easy access along the
Polkjhys north-south core.

"It makes the whole ship run inefficiently, " Ling had
explained earlier, with some satisfaction. "They can't
shift or reassign crew for different tasks. We're still hurt-
ing them, Lark, as long as we're free!"

He appreciated her effort to see a good side to their

40    David Brin

predicament. Even if the future seemed bleak, Lark felt
content to be with her for as much time as they had left.

Glancing backward, Ling gripped his arm. Height-
ened rustling sounds suggested pursuit was drawing
near. Then Lark also heard something from the opposite
direction, closing in beyond the next sharp bend. "We're
trapped!" Ling cried.

Lark rushed to the nearest sealed door. Its strong red-
olence reminded him of market days back home, when
traeki torus breeders brought their fledglings for sale in

mulch-lined pens.

He aimed the purple ring at a nearby scent plate and
a thin mist shot from the squirming creature. Come on.
Do your stuff, he silently urged.

Their only hope lay in this gift from the former traeki
sage, Asx, who had struggled free of mental repression
by a Jophur master ring just long enough to pop out two
infant tubes. The human fugitives had no idea what the
wounded red one was for, but the purple marvel had
enabled them to stay free for several improbable days,
ever since the battleship took off from Jijo on its manic
errand through outer space.

Of course we knew it couldn't last.

The door lock accepted the coded chemical key with
a soft click, and the portal slid open, letting them rush
through acrid fumes into a dim chamber, divided by
numerous tall, glass partitions. Lark had no time to sort
impressions, however, before the corridor behind them
echoed with human shouts and a staccato of running

feet.

"Stop! Don't you stupid skins know you're just mak-
ing things worse? Come out, before they start using—"

The closing door cut off angry threats by Ling's for-
mer commander. Lark pushed the purple traeki against
the inner sense-plate, where it oozed aromatic scram-
blers—chemicals tuned to randomize the lock's coding.
From experience, he knew it could take half a midura
for their pursuers to get through—unless they brought
heavy cutting tools to bear.

Why should they bother? They know we're trapped in-
side.

Heaven's leach   41

He found it especially galling to be cornered by Rann.
The third human prisoner had thrown in his lot with the
Jophur, perhaps currying favor for the release of his
Rothen patron gods from frozen internment on Jijo. It
left Lark with no options, since the purple ring would
have nil effect on the big Danik warrior.

Turning around, Lark saw that the glass walls—
stretching from floor to a high ceiling—made up giant

vivariums holding row after row of wriggling, squirming
things.

Midget traeki toruses!

Clear tubes carried brown, sludgelike material to each
niche.

Refined liquid mulch. Baby food.

We're in their nursery!

By itself, no traeki ring was intelligent. Back on the
world where they evolved, slithering through fetid
swamps as wormlike scavengers, they never amounted
to much singly. Only when traeki began stacking to-
gether and specializing did there emerge a unique kind
of presapient life, ripe for adoption and LIplift by their
snaillike Poa patrons.

This is where the Polkjhy crew grows special kinds of
rings, packed with the right skills to be new members of
the team.

A potent kind of reproduction. No doubt some of the
pulsing doughnut shapes were master rings, designed
millennia ago to transform placid, contemplative traeki
into adamant, alarming Jophur.

Lark jumped as a human scream clamored down the
narrow aisles. Pulse pounding, he ran, shouting Ling's
name.                                         ,

Her voice echoed off glass walls. "Hurry! They've got
me cornered!"

Lark burst around a vivarium to find her at last, back-
ing away from two huge Jophur workers, toward a
niche in the far wall. The nursery staff, Lark realized.
Each tapered pile consisted of at least thirty component
toruses—swaying and hissing—two meters wide at the
bottom and massing almost a ton. Their waxy flanks
gleamed with an opulent vitality one never saw in traeki

42    David Brio

back home on Jijo, flickering with meaningful patterns
of light and dark. Colored stenches vented from chem-
synth pores, as manipulator tendrils stretched toward

Ling-
She moved lithely, darting left and right. Seeking an

opening or else something to use as a weapon. There
was no panic in her eyes, nor did she give Lark away in
her relief to see him.

Of course, Jophur vision sensors faced all directions
at once. But with that advantage came a handicap—
slow reaction time. The first stack was still swaying
toward its victim when Lark dashed up from behind.
Somehow, Asx's gift knew to send a jet of sour spray,
striking a gemlike organ that quickly spasmed and went
dim.

The whole stack shuddered, slumping to quiescence.
Lark wasted no time spinning toward the other foe—

—only to find his right arm suddenly pinned by an
adamant tentacle! An odious scent of TRIUMPH swirled as
the second Jophur pulled him close, coiling tendrils and
commencing to squeeze.

The purple ring spasmed in Lark's hand, but the
chemical spray could not hit its mark at this impossible
angle, past the Jophur's bulging midriff. The master to-
rus drove its lesser tubes with a malice and intensity
Lark had never seen in serene traekis back home. The
constriction grew unbearable, expelling his breath in a
choking cry of agony.

A shattering crash filled his ears, as a rain of wetness
and needlelike shards fell across his back.

The Jophur emitted a shrill ululation. Then someone
shouted a fierce warning in the clicking whistles of stac-
cato Galactic Two.

"To let the human go—this you must.
"Or else other young ones—to ruin shall/all!"

The harsh pressure eased off Lark's rib cage just as
consciousness appeared about to waver and blow out.
His captor huffed and teetered uncertainly. Peering
blearily, Lark saw that slivers of glass dusted the big
stack, and moisture lay everywhere. Then he caught
sight of Ling, crouching several meters away with a

Heaven's leach    43

crooked metal bar, brandishing it threateningly in front
of another vivarium. Where she had found the tool, he
couldn't guess. But the floor was already strewn with
flopping infant rings decanted violently from one of the
nurturing mulch towers. Some struggled on vague flip-
pers or undeveloped legs. Midget master rings waved
neural feelers, seeking other toroids to dominate.
Lark felt the nursery worker tremble with hesitation.
Noises beyond the doorway indicated that the Polkjhy
crew were already at work, unscrambling the door.
Clearly, the two fugitive humans weren't going any-
where.

The Jophur stack decided. It released Lark.
He managed to keep from slumping to the floor, tee-
tering on wobbly knees, feebly raising the purple torus
for a clean shot at the pheromone sensors.

In moments, the second worker joined the first in esti-
vation stupor.

Sheesh, Lark pondered. If this was just a tender nurse,

I'd hate to meet one of their fighters.
Ling grabbed his arm to keep him from buckling.
"Come on," she urged. "There's no time to rest. We've

got lots to do."

"What're you talking about?" Lark tried asking. The
question emerged as a gurgling sigh. But Ling refused to
let him sink down and rest.

"I think I know a way out of here," she said urgently.
"But it's going to be an awful tight fit."

True to her prediction, the cargo container was tiny.

Even by scrunching over double, Lark could barely cram

himself inside. The purple ring squirmed in the hollow

between his rib cage and a wall.
"I still think you should go first," he complained.
Ling hurriedly punched commands on a complex

keypad next to the little supply shuttle. "Do you know

how to program one of these things?"
She had a point, though Lark didn't like it much.
"Besides, we're heading somewhere unknown.

Shouldn't our best fighter lead the way?"

44    David Brio

Now Ling was teasing. Whoever went first would
overcome opposition by using Asx's purple gift, or else
fail. Physical strength was nearly useless against a robot
or a full-size Jophur.

He glanced past her toward the far door of the nurs-
ery, where the red glow of a cutting torch could be
seen, slicing an arched opening from the other side.
Apparently, Rann and the Jophur had given up un-
scrambling the lock and decided on a brute-force ap-
proach.

"You'll hurry after me?"

For an answer, she bent and kissed him—once on the
forehead in benediction, and again, passionately, on the
mouth. "How is that for a promise?" she asked, mingling

her breath with his.

As Ling backed away, a transparent hatch slid over
the little cab—built to carry equipment and samples be-
tween workstations throughout the Jophur ship. There
had been a crude version of such a system back at
Biblos, the Jijoan archive, where cherished paper books
and messages shuttled between the libraries in narrow

tubes of boo.

"Hey!" he called. "Where are you sending m—"

A noise and brilliant flash cut off his question and
made Ling spin around. The torch cutter was accelerat-
ing, as if the enemy somehow sensed a need to hurry.
To Lark's horror, the arc was over half finished.

"Let me out!" he demanded. "We're switching places!"

Ling shook her head as she resumed programming
the console. "Not an option. Get ready. This will be
wrenching."

Before Lark could protest a second time, the wall sec-
tion abruptly fell with a crash. Curt billowings of sparks
and dense smoke briefly filled the vestibule. But soon,
Jophur warriors would come pouring through . . . and
Ling didn't even have a weapon!

Lark hammered on the clear panel as several things
happened in rapid succession.

Ling knelt to the floor, where scores of infant traeki
rings still squirmed in confusion amid shards of their
broken vivarium. She emptied her cloth sling, gently

Heaven's Reach    45

spilling Asx's second gift—the wounded crimson torus
—to mingle among the others.

A tall silhouette passed through the roiling cloud to
stand in the glowing doorway. The wedgelike torso was
unmistakably Rann, leader of the Danik tribe of human
renegades sworn to Rothen lords.

Ling stood. She glanced over her shoulder at Lark,
who pounded the hatch, moaning frustration and fear
for her.

Calmly, she reached for the keypad.

"No! Let me out! I'll—"

Acceleration kicked suddenly. Lark's folded body
slammed one wall of the little car.

Ling's face vanished in a blur as he was swept away
toward Ifni-knew-where.

D

wer

RE THEY REALLY GONE?"

Dwer bent close to an ancient, pitted window.
He peered at a glittering starscape, feeling some of
the transmitted chill of outer space, just a finger's
breadth away.

"I don't see any sign of 'em over here," he called back
to Rety. "Is it clear on your side?"

His companion—a girl about fourteen, with a scarred
face and stringy hair—pressed against another pane at
the opposite end of the dusty chamber, once the control
room of a sleek vessel, but now hardly more than a
grimy ruin.

"There's nothin'—unless you count the bits an' pieces
floatin' out there, that keep ratlin' off this rusty ol'
bucket."

Her hand slammed the nearest bulkhead. Streams of
dust trickled from crevices in prehistoric metal walls.

The starship's original owners must have been oddly
shaped, since the viewing ports were arrayed at knee
height to a standing human, while corroded instruments
perched on tall pillars spread around the oblong room.

46    David Brin

Whatever race once piloted this craft, they eventually
abandoned it as junk, over half a million years ago,
when it was dumped onto a great pile of discarded
hulks in the dross midden that lay under Jijo's ocean.

Immersion in subicy water surely had preserving ef-
fects. Still, the Streaker crew had accomplished a mira-
cle, reviving scores of these wrecks for one final voyage.
It made Rety's remark seem unfair, all considered.

There is air in here, Dwer thought. And a machine
that spits out a paste we can eat . . . sort of. We're
holding death at bay. For the moment.

Not that he felt exactly happy about their situation.
But after all the narrow escapes of the last few days,
Dwer found continued life and health cause for sur-
prised pleasure, not spiteful complaint.

Of course, Rety had her own, unique way of looking
at things. Her young life had been a lot harder than his,

after all.

"i sniff every comer of this old boat," a small voice
piped, speaking Anglic with a hissing accent and a note
of triumph, "no sign 'of metal monsters, none! we scare
them off!"

The speaker trotted across the control room on four
miniature hooves—a quadruped with two slim
centauroid arms and an agile, snakelike neck. Holding
his head up proudly, little yee clattered over to Rety and
slipped into her belt pouch. The two called each other
"husband and wife," an interspecies union that made
some sense to another Jijoan but would have stunned
any citizen of the Civilization of Five Galaxies. The ver-
bose urrish male and an unbathed, prepubescent hu-
man female made quite a pairing.

Dwer shook his head.

"Those robots didn't leave on account of our fierce
looks. We were hiding in a closet, scared out of our wits,
remember?" He shrugged. "I bet they didn't search the
ship because they saw it for an empty shell right away."

Almost a hundred ancient derelict ships had been res-
urrected from the subsea graveyard by Hannes Suessi
and his clever dolphin engineers in order to help mask
Streaker's breakout, giving the Earthlings a slim chance

Heaven's Reach    47

against the overpowering Jophur dreadnought. Dwer's
presence aboard one of the decoys resulted from a se-
ries of rude accidents. (Right now he was supposed to
be landing a hot-air balloon in Jijo's Gray Hills, fulfilling
an old obligation, not plummeting into the blackness
away from the wilderness he knew best.)

But Rety had planned to be here! A scheme to hijack
her very own starship must have been stewing in that
devious brain for weeks, Dwer now realized.

"The sap-rings cut us loose so they can go dolphin
hunting somewhere else! I knew this'd happen," Rety
exulted. "Now all we gotta do is head for the Five Gal-
axies. Make it to someplace with a lot of traffic, flag
down some passing trading ship, an' strike a deal. This
old hulk oughta be •worth something. You watch, Dwer.
Meetin' me was the best thing that ever happened to
you! You'll thank me when you're a star god, livin' high
for three hunnerd years."

Her enthusiasm forced him to smile. How easily Rety
looked past their immediate problems! Such as the fact
that all three of them were primitive Jijoans. Learning to
pilot a space vessel would have been a daunting task for
Dwer's brilliant siblings—Lark or Sara—who were junior
sages of the Commons of Six Races. But I'm just a sim-
ple forester! How is skill at tracking beasts going to help
us navigate from star to star?

As for Rety, brought up by a savage band of exile
sooners, she could not even read until a few months
ago, when she began picking up the skill.

"Hey, teacher!" Rety called. "Show us where we are!"

Four gray boxes lay bolted to the floor, linked by
cable to an ancient control pillar. Three had been left by
the dolphins, programmed to guide this vessel through
the now completed breakout maneuver. Last was a por-
table "advisor"—a talking machine—given to Rety by
the Streaker crew. She had shown Dwer her toy earlier,
before the Jophur robots came.

"Passive sensors are operating at just seven percent
efficiency," the unit answered. "Active sensors are dis-
abled. For those reasons, this representation will be
commensurately imprecise."

48    David Brill

A picture suddenly erupted between Rety and
Dwer . . . one of those magical holo images that
moved and had the texture of solidity. It showed a fiery
ball in one low corner—Great Izmunuti, Dwer realized
with a superstitious shiver. A yellow dot in the exact
center represented this hapless vessel. Several other bits
of yellow glimmered nearby, drifting slowly toward the

upper right.

The Jophur have cut loose all the captured decoys. I

guess that means they know where Streaker is.

He thought of Gillian Baskin, so sad and so beautiful,
carrying burdens he could never hope to understand.
During his brief time aboard the Earth vessel he had a
feeling ... an impression that she did not expect to
carry the burdens much longer.

Then what was it all for? If escape was hopeless, why
did Gillian lead her poor crew through so much pain

and struggle?

"Behold the Jophur battleship," said Rety''s teacher. A
blurry dot appeared toward the top right corner, now
moving rapidly leftward, retracing its path at a close an-
gle toward Izmunuti.

"It has changed course dramatically, moving at max-
imum C-Level pseudospeed."

"Can you see Streaker?" Dwer asked.

"/ cannot. But judging from the Polkjhy's angle of
pursuit, the Terran ship may be masked by the red giant

star."

He sensed Rety sitting cross-legged on the floor next
to him, her eyes shining in light from the hologram.

"Forget the Earthers," she demanded. "Show us

where we're headin'!"

The display changed, causing Izmunuti and the
Jophur frigate to drift out of view. A fuzzy patch moved
in from the top edge, slippery to look at. Rows of sym-
bols and numbers flickered alongside—information that
might have meant something to his sister but just

seemed frightening to Dwer.

"That's the . . . transfer point, right?" Rety asked,
her voice growing' hushed. "The hole thing that'll take
us to the Five Galaxies?"

Heaven's fleacti    49

"It is a hole, in a manner of speaking. But this trans-
fer point cannot serve as a direct link out of Galaxy
Four—the galaxy we are in—to any of the others. In
order to accomplish that, we must follow transition
threads leading to some other hyperspatial nexi. Much
bigger ones, capable of longer-range jumps."

"You mean we'll have to portage from stream to
stream, a few times?" Dwer asked, comparing the voy-
age to a canoe trip across a mountain range.

"Your metaphor has some limited relevance. Accord-
ing to recent navigation data, a route out of this galaxy
to more populated regions can be achieved by taking a
series of five transfers, or three transfers plus two long
jumps through A-Level hyperspace, or two difficult
transfers plus one A-Level jump and three B-Level
cruises, or—"

"That's okay," Rety said, clapping her hands to quiet
the machine. "Right now all I want to know is, will we
get to the point all right?"

There followed a brief pause while the machine pon-
dered.

"I am a teaching unit, not a starship navigator. All I
can tell is that our C-Level pseudomomentum appears
adequate to reach the periphery of the nexus. This ves-
sel's remaining marginal power may be sufficient to
then aim toward one of the simpler transfer threads."

Rety did not have to speak. Her smug expression said
it all. Everything was going according to her devious
plan.

But Dwer would not be fooled.

She may be brilliant, he thought. But she's also cra-
zier than a mule spider.

He had known it ever since the two of them almost
died together, months ago in the Rimmer Mountains,
seized in the clutches of a mad antiquarian creature
called One-of-a-Kind. Rety's boldness since then had
verged on reckless mania. Dwer figured she survived
only because Ifni favors the mad with a special, warped
set of dice.

He had no idea what a transfer point was, but it

50    David Brill

sounded more dangerous than poking a ruoul shambler
in the face with a fetor worm.

Ah, well. Dwer sighed. There was nothing to be done
about it right now. As a tracker, he knew when to just sit
back and practice patience, letting nature take its
course. "Whatever you say, Rety. But now let's turn the
damn thing off. You can show me that food machine
again. Maybe we can teach it to give us something better
than greasy paste to eat."

H

any

E RECONFIGURED THE STATION TO LOOK
something like a Martian arachnite, a black oval
body perched on slender, stalklike legs. It was all
part of Harry's plan to deal with the problem of
those transumptive banana peels.

After pondering the matter, and consulting the sym-
bolic reference archive, he decided the screwy yellow
things must be allaphorical representations of short-
scale time warps, each one twisting around itself
through several subspace dimensions. Encountering
one, you would meet little resistance at first. Then, with-
out warning, you'd slam into a slippery, repulsive field
that sent you tumbling back toward your point of origin
at high acceleration.

If this theory was true, he'd been lucky to survive that
first brush with the nasty things. Another misstep might
be much more . . . energetic.

Since flight seemed memetically untenable in this part
of E Level, the spider morphology was the best idea
Harry could come up with, offering an imaginative way
to maneuver past the danger, using stilt legs to pick
carefully from one stable patch to the next. It would be
risky, though, so he delayed the attempt for several
days, hoping the anomaly reef would undergo another
phase shift. At any moment, the irksome "peels" might
just evaporate or transform into a less lethal kind of in-

Heaven's Reach    51

suit. As long as he had a good view of his appointed
watch area, it seemed best to just sit and wait.

Of course, he knew why a low-class Earthling recruit
was assigned to this post. Wer'Q'quinn had said Harry's
test scores showed an ideal match of cynicism and origi-
nality, suiting him for lookout duty in allaphor space.
But in truth, E Level was unappealing to most oxygen
breathers. The great clans of the Civilization of Five Gal-
axies thought it a quaint oddity at best. Dangerous and
unpredictable. Unlike Levels A, B, and C, it offered few
shortcuts around the immense vacuum deserts of nor-
mal space. Anyone in a hurry—or with a strong sense of
self-preservation—chose transfer points, hyperdrive, or
soft-quantum tunneling, instead of braving a realm
where fickle subjectivity reigned.

Of course, oxygen breathers only made up the most
gaudy and frenetic of life's eight orders. Harry kept
notes whenever he sighted hydros, quantals, memoids,
and other exotic types, with their strange insouciance
about the passage of time. They don't see it as quite the
enemy we oxy-types do.

His bosses at the Navigation Institute craved data
about those strange comings and goings, though he
could hardly picture why. The orders of sapiency so
seldom interacted, they might as well occupy separate
universes.

Still, you could hide a lot in all this weirdness, a trait
that sometimes drew oxy-based life down here. On oc-
casion, some faction or alliance would try sending a
battle fleet through E Space, suffering its disadvantages
in order to take rivals by surprise. Or else criminals
might hope to move by a secret path through this
treacherous realm. Harry was trained to look out for
sooners, gene raiders, syntac thieves, and others trying
to cheat the strict rules of migration and Uplift. Rules
that so far kept the known cosmos from dissolving into
chaos and ruin.

He nursed no illusions about his status. Harry knew
this job was just the sort of dangerous, tedious duty the
great institutes assigned to lowly clients of an unimpor-
tant clan. Yet he took seriously his vow to Wer'Q'quinn

52    Bavil Brill

and Navlnst. He planned to show all the doubters what
a neo-chimp could do.

That determination was put to the test when he roused
from his next rest break to peer through the louvered
blinds, blinking with groggy surprise at an endless row
of serrated green ridges that had erupted while he slept.
Undulating sinusoidally across the foreground, they re-
sembled the half-submerged spiny torso of some gigan-
tic, lazy sea serpent that seemed to stretch toward both
horizons, blocking his panorama of the purple plane.

At its slothful rate of passage, several pseudodays
might pass before Harry's view was unobstructed once
again. He stared for some time at the coils' slow rise and
fall, wondering what combination of reality and his own
mental processes could have evoked such a thing. If a
memoid—another self-sustaining, living abstraction—it
was huge enough to engulf most of the more modest
animated idealizations grazing nearby.

When a concept grows big enough, does it become
part of the landscape? Will it merge with the underpin-
nings ofE Level? Will this "idea " take part in motivating
the entire cosmos?

One thing was for sure, he could hardly survey his
assigned area with something like this in the way!

Unfortunately, the damned banana peels still sur-
rounded his station with a deadly allaphorical minefield.
But clearly the time had come to move on.

The station swayed at first when he tried controlling the
stilt legs by hand. Apparently, his spindly tower pushed
the limits of verticality in this region, where flight was
forbidden by local laws of physics. The structure tee-
tered and nearly fell three times before he started get-
ting the hang of things.

Alas, he had no option of handing supervision over to
the computer. "Pilot mode" was often useless on
E Level, where machines could be deaf and blind to
allaphors that lay right in front of them.

Heaven's Beacti    53

"Well, here goes," he murmured, gingerly navigating
the scout platform ahead, raising one spidery stem, ma-
neuvering it skittishly past a yellow and brown "peel,"
and planting it on the best patch of open ground within
reach. Testing its footing, he shifted the station's center
of gravity, transferring more weight forward until it felt
safe to try again with another.

The process was a lot like chess—you had to think at
least a dozen moves ahead, for there could be no going
back. "Reversibility" was a meaningless term in this con-
tinuum, where death might take on the attributes of a
physical creature, and entropy was just another preda-
tory concept prowling a savannah of ideas.

It became a slow, tense process of exertion, tedious
and utterly demanding. Harry grew to despise the ba-
nana peel symbols, even more than before. He used his
hatred to reinforce concentration, picking slowly amid
the yellow emblems of slipperiness, knowing that any
misstep might send the little scoutship flipping violently
toward a gaudy oblivion.

Somehow—he could tell—the peels sensed his loath-
ing. Their boundaries seemed to shrink a little and solid-
ify under his gaze.

"We do not require passionless observers/or this kind
of duty, "Wer'Q'quinn had explained when Harry joined
the Observer Corps at Kazzkark Base.

"There are many others we could choose, whose
minds are more disciplined. More detached, cautious,
and in most ways more intelligent. Those volunteers are
needed elsewhere. But on E Level, we are better served
by someone like you."

"Gee, thanks," Harry had replied. "So, are you saying
you don't want me to be skeptical when I'm out on a
mission?"

The squadron leader bowed a great, wormlike head.
Rustling segment plates crafted words in ratchety Galac-
tic Five.

"Only those who start with skepticism can open them-
selves to true adventure, " Wer'Q'quinn continued. "But
there are many types of skeptical outlook. Yours is gritty,
visceral. You take things personally, young Earthling, as

54    David Brin

if the cosmos bos a particular interest in your inconve-
nience. On most planes of reality, that is an egregious
error of solipsistic pride. But on E Level, it may be the
only appropriate way of dealing with an idiosyncratic

cosmos."

Harry came away from that interview with oddly
mixed feelings—as if he had just received the worst in-
sult—and highest praise—of his life. The effect was to
make him more determined than ever.

Perhaps Wer'Q'quinn had intended that, all along.

I hate you, he thought at the ridiculous, offensive yel-
low peels. On some level, they might be neutral twists
of space, described by cold equations. But they seemed
to taunt him by appearing the way they did, provoking
an intimate abhorrence that Harry used to his advan-
tage, piloting around the traps as if each success humili-
ated a real enemy.

His body grew sweaty and warm. A musty odor filled
the cupola as one tense, cautious hour passed into the

next.

Finally, with a nimble hop, he stepped his spindly
vehicle away from the last obstacle, breathing a deep
sigh, feeling tired, smelly, and victorious. Perhaps at
some level the reef allaphors knew they had lost, for at
that moment the "peels" began transforming from yel-
low and brown starfish forms into another shape, one
with curls and spikes. . . .

Harry didn't wait to see what they would become. He
ordered the pilot program to hurry away from there.

It took a while to get past the green "sea monster,"
ducking through a gap between two of its slowly undu-
lating coils. The passage made Harry nervous, staring up
at portions of that mammotli, living conceptual torso.
But then he was free at last to race for open territory.
The purple plain swept by as he aimed for the most
promising vantage point—a stable-looking brown hill-
ock, too barren and mundane to attract any hungry
memoids. A place where he might settle down to watch
his assigned patrol zone in peace.

Heaven's Reacli    55

The prominence lay quite some distance away—sev-
eral miduras of subjective duration, at least. Meanwhile,
the surrounding tableland appeared placid. The few al-
laphorical beings he did spy moved quickly out of the
way. Most types of predatory memes disliked the sim-
plistic scents of metal and other hard stuff intruding
from other levels of reality.

Harry deemed it safe to go below and take a shower.
Then, while combing knots out of his fur, he ordered
something to eat from the autochef. He considered tak-
ing a nap, but found he was still too keyed up. Sleep,
under such conditions, would be dream-racked and
hardly restful. Anyway, it might be wiser to supervise
while the ship was in motion. Pilot mode could not be
counted on to notice everything.

The decision proved fortuitous. He returned upstairs
to find his trusty vessel already much closer to its desti-
nation than expected. That's quick progress. We're al-
ready halfway up the bill, he thought, surveying the
view from each window. This should offer an ideal sur-
veillance site.

Several instruments on Harry's console suddenly be-
gan whirring and chirping excitedly. Checking the
telltales, he saw that something made mostly of solid
matter lay just ahead, over the ridge top. It did not seem
to be from any of the other sapiency orders, but showed
all the suspicious-familiar signs he was trained to look
for in a ship from the Civilization of Five Galaxies.

Oxies, he realized.

Gotcha!

Harry felt a thrill while checking his weapon systems.
This was what he had trained for. An encounter with his
own kind of life, moving through a realm of space
where protoplasmic beings did not belong. He relished
the prospect of stopping and inspecting a ship from
some highfalutin clan, like the Soro or Tandu. They
might even gag on the disgrace of being caught and
fined by a mere chimpanzee from the wolfling clan of
Terra.

You aren't really here to fight. Harry reminded him-

56    David Drill
self as the station's armaments reported primed and

ready.

Your primary mission is to observe and report.
Still, he was an officer of the law, empowered to
question oxy-beings who passed this way. Anyway, pre-
paring weapons seemed a wise precaution. Scouts often
disappeared during missions to E Level. Being attacked
by some band of criminals might seem mundane, com-
pared to getting gobbled by a rampant, self-propagating
idea . . . but it could get you just as dead.

The bogey's not moving. Harry noted with some sur-
prise. It's just sitting there, a little beyond the hillcrest.
Perhaps they've broken down, or run into trouble. Or

else . . .
Among the worries flashing through his mind was the

thought of ambush. The bogey might be lying in wait.

In fact, though, Harry's sensors were specially de-
signed for E-Level use, while the interlopers, whoever
they were, probably had a starship's generalized instru-
ments. There was a good chance they hadn't even de-
tected him yet!

7 might take 'em by surprise.

And yet, he began rethinking how good an idea that
was, as more duras passed and pseudodistance to the
target shrank. This continuum made most oxy-types
edgy. Perhaps trigger-happy. Surprise might be an over-
rated virtue. Too late, he recalled that the station was
still formatted like an arachnite! Spindle-legged and
fierce looking as it took giant footsteps. The design of-
fered a good view of his surroundings . . . and ex-
posed him to crippling fire .if things came down to a

firefight.

Well, it's too late to change now. Ready or not, here

we go!
As he crested the metaphorical hill. Harry triggered

the recognition transponder, boldly beaming symbolic
references to his official status, commissioned by one of
the high institutes of Galactic culture.

The intruder entered line-of-sight, filling a forward
viewing panel—a squat oblong shape, resembling a
fierce armored beetle, with formidable claws. Those

Heaven's Reach    57

tearing pincers swiveled toward Harry. Spindly emitter
arrays waved like antenna-feelers above the beetle's
browridge, hurling aggressive symbolic replies to
Harry's challenge. Those writhing blobs of corporeal
meaning sped rapidly across the narrowing gap be-
tween the two vessels. When the first one struck his
forward pane, it made a splatting sound that resonated
loudly, smearing and transforming into a shout that
filled the little chamber.

"SURKENDEK, EARTHUNG/ RESISTANCE IS USELESS/ CAPITULATE OR
DIE.'"

Harry blinked. He stared for two or three duras, hand
poised over the weapons panel while new threats
pounded the window in quick succession.

"HEA \V TO AND SUBMIT/ PREPARE TO MEET THY MAKEK/ DROP
YOUR SHORTS/ CKY UNCLE/ GIVE UP, IN THE NAME Of THE LAW/"

Abruptly, Harry let out a low moan.

It must be Zasusazu . . . my replacement. Can it be
time already?

Besides, who else would squat on a hillock in E Level,
just hanging around in the open, but another damn fool
recruit of Wer'Q'quinn?

More horrid cliches smacked against his windshield,
making the cupola resound painfully until he answered
with volleys of his own, serving Zasusazu salvo after
salvo of rich Terran curses, satisfying his colleague's ap-
petite for colorful wolfling invective.

"Laugh while you can, frog face! Take that, you over-
grown slimeball! Moldy Jack cheese!" He laughed, half
out of relief, and half because Zasusazu's obsession
seemed so silly.

Well, everyone who works for Wer'Q'quinn is more
than a little weird, Harry thought, trying to feel charita-
ble. Zasusazu's not as bad as some. At least be likes a
little surprise now and then.

Still, even after he exchanged reports with his re-
placement, then left Zasusazu in command over the
realm of ideas, Harry wondered about his own reaction
to being relieved. After all, this had been a wearying
mission and he certainly deserved time off. Yet, despite
the frustration, danger, and loneliness of E Space, it al-

58    David Brin

ways came as a bit of a letdown for a mission to end. To
head back home.

Home? Maybe the problem lay in that term.

He mused on the word, as if it were a conceptual
creature, wandering the purple plain.

It can't mean Horst, since I hated nearly every minute
there. Or Earth, where I spent just a year, lonely and
confused.

Can Kazzkark Base be "home," if it lacks any others
of my kind?

Does the Navigation Institute fill that role, now that
I've given it the same loyalty others devote to kin and
country?

Harry realized he didn't really know how to define
the word.

All the superficial landmarks and reference points had
changed since he first set out from Kazzkark. Still, there
was an underlying familiarity to the main route. He
never worried about getting lost.

Harry wasn't much surprised when the red-blue sky
overhead gradually angled downward to meet
"ground," like a vast, descending wall. He took over
from the autopilot. Gingerly, maneuvering by hand, he
sent the station striding daintily through a convenient
perforation in heaven.

s

'ara

THE HIGH SAGES TELL US THAT A SPECIAL KIND OF
peace comes with resignation.
With letting go of life's struggles.
With releasing hope.

Now, for the first time, Sara understood that an-
cient teaching as she watched Gillian Baskin decide
whether to live or die.

No one doubted that the blond Terragens Agent had
the right, duty, and wisdom to make that choice, for
herself and everyone aboard. Not the dolphin crew, nor
Hannes Suessi, nor the Niss Machine. Sara's mute friend

Heaven's Reach    59

Emerson seemed to agree—though she wondered how
much the crippled former engineer comprehended from
those manic lights in the holo display, glimmering franti-
cally near Izmunuti's roiling flame.

Even the kids from Wuphon Port—Alvin, Huck, Ur-
ronn, and Pincer—accepted the commander's authority.
If Gillian thought it best to send Streaker diving toward
an unripe t-point—in order to lure the enemy after them
in an attempt to save Jijo—few aboard this battered ship
would curse the decision. At least it would bring an end
to ceaseless troubles.

We were resigned. I was at peace, and so was Dr.
Baskin.

Only now things aren 't so simple anymore. She sees a
possible alternative . . . and it's painful as hell.

Sara found most of the crew's activities confusing, in
both the water-filled bridge and the dry Plotting Room
nearby, where dolphins moved about on wheeled or
six-legged contraptions.

Of course, Sara's knowledge about Galactic technol-
ogy was two centuries out of date, acquired by reading
Jijo's sparse collection of paper books. Despite that, her
theoretical underpinnings worked surprisingly well
when it came to grasping conditions in local spacetime.
But she remained utterly dazed by the way crew mem-
bers dealt with practical matters—conveying status re-
ports along brain-linked cables, or sending each other
info-packets consisting of tiny self-contained gobbets of
semi-intelligent light. When dolphins spoke aloud, it
was often in a terse argot of clicks and overlapping cries
that had nothing in common with any standard Galactic
tongue. Still, nothing awed Sara quite as much as when
Dr. Baskin invited her along to watch an attempt to pry
information from a captured unit of the Galactic Library.

The big cube lay in its own chamber, swaddled by a
chill fog, one face emblazoned with a rayed-spiral sign
that was notorious even to Jijo's savage tribes. Within its
twelve edges and six boundary planes lay an amassment
of knowledge so huge that comparing it to the Biblos

60    David Brin

archive was like matching the great sea against a single

teardrop.

Gillian Baskin approached the Library unit clothed in
a ghostlike mantle of illusion, her slim human form
cloaked behind the computer-generated image of a
monstrous, leathery creature called a "Thennanin." Ob-
serving from nearby shadows, Sara could only blink in
apprehensive awe as the older woman used this un-
canny ruse, speaking a guttural dialect of Galactic Six,
making urgent inquiries about enigmatic creatures
known as Zang.

The topic was not well received.

"Beware mixing the orders of life, "droned the cube's
frigid voice, in what Sara took to be a ritualized warn-
ing.

"Prudent contact is best achieved in the depths of the
Majestic Bowl, where those who were born separated
may safely combine.

"In that deep place, differences merge and unity is

born.

"But here in black vacuum—where space is flat and
light rays cut straight trails—young races should not
readily mingle with other orders. In this outer realm,
they behave like hostile gases. Fraternization can lead to
conflagration."

Impressed by the archive's vatic tone, Sara pondered
how its parabolic language resembled the Sacred Scrolls
that devout folks read aloud on shobb holidays, back
home on Jijo. The same obliqueness could be found in
many other priestly works she had sampled in the
Biblos archive, inherited from Earth's long night of isola-
tion. Those ancient tomes, differing in many ways, all
shared that trait of allegorical obscurity.

In science—real science—there was always a way to
improve a good question, making it harder to dismiss
with prevarication. Nature might not give explicit an-
swers right away, but you could tell when someone
gave you the old runaround. In contrast, mystical ambi-
. guity sounded grand and striking—it could send chills

Heaven's Reach   61

down your spine. But in the end it boiled down to eva-
sion.

Ah, but ancient Earthlings—and early Jijoan sages—
had an excuse. Ignorance. Vagueness and parables are
only natural among people who know no other way. I
just never expected it from the Galactic Library.

From an early age, Sara had dreamed of facing a unit
like this one, posing all the riddles that baffled her, div-
ing into clouds of distilled acumen collected by the great
thinkers of a million races for over a billion years. Now
she felt like Dorothy, betrayed by a charlatan in the
chamber of Oz.

Oh, the knowledge must be there, all right—crammed
in deep recesses of that chilled cube. But the Library
wasn't sharing readily, even to Dr. Baskin's feigned per-
sona as a warlord of a noble clan.

"Gr-tuthuph-manikhochesh, zangish torgh mph,"
Gillian demanded, wearing the mask of a Thennanin
admiral. "Manik-hophtupf, mph!"

A button in Sara's ear translated the eccentric dialect.

"We understand that Zang, by nature, dislike sur-
prise," Dr. Baskin inquired. "Tell me how they typically
react when one rude shock is followed by several
more."

This time, the Library was only slightly more forth-
coming.

"The term Zang refers to just one subset of hydrogen-
breathing forms—the variant encountered most often
by oxy-life in open-space situations. The vast majority of
hydro breathers seldom leave the comfort of dense circu-
lation storms on their heavy worlds. ..."

The lecture ran on, relating information Sara would
normally find mesmerizing. But time was short. A cru-
cial decision loomed in less than a midura.

Should Streaker continue her headlong drive for the
resurrected transfer point? After lying dormant for half a
million years—ever since Galaxy Four was declared fal-
low to sapient life—it was probably unripe for safe pas-
sage. Still, its uncanny rebirth offered Streaker's crew a
dour opportunity.

62    David Brin

The solution of Samson. To bring the roof down on

our enemies, and ourselves.

Only now fate proffered another daring possibility.
The presence of collector machines and Zang ships still
lacked clear explanation. The harvesting armada
seemed weak, scattering in confusion before Izmunuti's
unexpected storms. And yet—Might they somehow help
us defeat theJopbur without it costing our lives?

Orders from the Terragens Council made Gillian's top
priority clear. This ship carried treasure—relics of great
consequence that might destabilize the Five Galaxies,
especially if they were seized by a single fanatic clan.
Poor little Earth could not afford to be responsible for
one zealot alliance gaining advantage over all the oth-
ers. There was no surer formula for Terran annihilation.
Far better that both ship and cargo should be lost than
some malign group like the Jophur seize a monopoly.
Especially if a prophesied Time of Changes was at hand.

But what if Streaker could somehow deliver her bur-
dens to the proper authorities? Ideally, that would force
the Great Institutes and "moderate" clans to end their
vacillation and take responsibility. So far, relentless pur-
suit and a general breakdown of law had made that
seemingly simple step impossible. Neutral forces proved
cowardly or unwilling to help Streaker come in out of
the cold. Still, if it were done just right, success could
win Earthclan a triumph of epic proportions.

Unfortunately, the passing duras weren't equipping
Gillian any better for her decision. Listening in growing
frustration to the Library's dry oration, she finally inter-
rupted.

"You don't have to tell me again that Zang hate sur-
prise! I want practical advice! Does that mean they'll
shoot right away, if we approach? Or will they give us a

chance to talk?

"I need contact protocols!"

Still, the Library unit seemed bent on remaining
vague, or else inundating Gillian with useless details.
Standing where the Thennanin disguise did not block
her view, Sara watched Gillian grow craggy with tense
worry.

Heaven's Reach    63

There is another source, Sara thought. Someone else
aboard who might be able to help with the Zang.

She had been hesitant to mention the possibility be-
fore. After all, her "source" was suspect. Fallen beings
whose ancestors had turned away from sapiency and
lacked any knowledge of spatial dilemmas. But now, as
precious duras passed and Gillian's frustration grew,
Sara knew she must intervene.

If the Great Library can't help us, maybe we should
look to an unlikely legend.

/uvins Journal

EVER SINCE \VE BRAVE VOLUNTEERS JOINED THE
Earthlings on their forlorn quest, I've compared it to
our earlier trip aboard a handmade submarine—a
little summer outing that wound up taking four set-
tler kids all the way to the bottom of the sea, and
from there to the stars.

Of course our little Wuphon 's Dream was just a hol-
lowed-out log with a glass nose, hardly big enough for
an urs, a hoon, a qheuen, and a g'Kek to squeeze inside,
providing we took turns breathing. In contrast, Streaker
is so roomy you could fit all the khutas of Port Wuphon
inside. It has comforts I never imagined, even after a
youth spent reading crates of Terran novels about
starfaring days.

And yet, the trips have similarities.

In each case we took a willing chance, plunging into
a lightless abyss to face unexpected wonders.

On both expeditions, my friends and I had different
assigned tasks.

And sure enough, aboard Streaker, just like Wuphon's
Dream, I got the worst job to do.

Keeper of Animals. That's me.

Ur-ronn gets to follow her passion for machinery,
helping Suessi's gang down in engineering.

64    David Brio

Pincer runs errands for the bridge crew. He's having a
grand time dashing amphibiously from dry to watery
parts of the ship and back again, with flashing claws and

typical qheuen enthusiasm.

Huck spins her wheels happily. She gets to play spy,
waving all four eyestalks to taunt the Jophur captives in
their cell below, enraging them with the sight of a living
g'Kek, provoking them into revealing more information
than they would by other means. The nyah-nyah school

of interrogation, I call it.

All three of them get to interact with the dolphin
crew, helping in ways that matter. Even if we all get
blown to bits soon, at least Huck and the others got to

do interesting things.

But me? I'm stuck in the hold, keeping herd on twenty
bleating glavers and a pair of cranky noors, with the
combined conversational abilities of a qheuen larva.

According to the Niss Machine, one of these noors
ought to be quite a conversationalist. It's not a noor, you
see, but a tytlal—from a starfaring race that look like
noor, smell like noor, and have the same knavish tem-
perament. Somehow they hid among us on Jijo all these
years without ever being recognized. A seventh race of
sooners—illegal settlers—who benefited from our Com-
mons, but never bothered to formally join.

That'd take some cleverness, I admit. But Mudfoot
acts just like my pet noor, Huphu. Lounging around,
eating anything that isn't bolted down, and licking his
sleek black pelt all the way to the discolored paws that
give him his name. Everyone thinks I'm an expert at
coaxing noor, just because hoonish mariners hire some
of them to help on our sailing ships, scooting deftly
along the spars and rigging, working for umbles and
sourballs. But I say that only shows how easy it is to fool
a hoon. A thousand years. That's how long we worked
with the nimble creatures, and we never caught on.

Now they're counting on me to get Mudfoot to speak

once more.

Yeah, right. And this journal of mine is going to be

published when we reach Earth, and win a Sheldon
Award.

Heaven's Heacti    65
•    •    •

Huphu and Mudfoot still glare at each other, hissing
jealously—not unusual for two noor who haven't
worked out their mutual status yet. Meanwhile, I try to
keep my other wards comfortable.

We never saw very many glavers in my hometown,
down along the Slope's volcanic coast. They love root-
ing through garbage piles and rotten logs for tasty bugs,
but such things are in short supply aboard Streaker.

Dr. Baskin worked out an exchange with Uriel the
Smith, swapping this little herd for several dozen crew
members who stayed behind to form a new dolphin
colony on Jijo. It hardly seems an even trade. Watching
the glavers mewl and jostle in a corner of the hold, I can
scarcely picture their ancestors as mighty starfarers.
Those bulging, chameleon eyes—swiveling indepen-
dently, searching the sterile metal hold for crawling
things—hold no trace of sapient light. According toJijo's
Sacred Scrolls, that makes the opal-skinned quadrupeds
sacred beings. They've attained the highest goal of any
sooner race—reaching simplicity by crossing the Path of
Redemption.

Renewed, cleansed of ancestral sin, they face the uni-
verse with reborn innocence, ready fOr a fresh start. Or
so the sages say.

Forgive me for being unimpressed. You see, I have to
clean up after the smelly things. If some patron race
ever takes on the honored task of reuplifting glavers,
they had better make housebreaking their first priority.

At first sight, you wouldn't think the filthy things had
much in common with fastidious noor. But they both
seem to like it when I puff out my throat sac and give a
low, booming umble-song. Ever since my adult verte-
broids erupted, I've acquired a deep resonance that I'm
rather proud of. It helps keep the critters calm whenever
Streaker makes a sudden maneuver and her gravity
fields waver.

I try not to think about where the ship is right now,
tearing along at incredible speed, diving through the
flames of a giant star.

Fortunately, I can umble while editing and updating

66    David Brin

my diary on a little teacher-scribe device that Dr. Baskin
provided. By now I'm used to working with letters that
float before me, instead of lying fixed on an ink-stained
page. It's convenient to be able to reach into my work,
shifting and nudging sentences by hand or voice com-
mand. Still, I wish the machine would stop trying to fix
my grammar and syntax! I may not be human, but I'm
one of Jijo's best experts on the Anglic language, and I
don't need a smart-aleck computer telling me my dia-
lect's "archaic." If my journal ever gets published on a
civilized world, I'm sure my colonial style will enhance
its charm, like the old-time appeal of works by Defoe
and Swift.

It grows harder to stave off frustration, knowing my
friends are in the thick of things, and me stuck below,
staring at blank walls, with just dumb beasts for com-
pany. I know, by doing this I freed a member of
Streakers understaffed crew to do important work. Still,
it sometimes feels like the bulkheads are closing in.

"Who do you think you're looking at?" I snapped,
when I caught Mudfoot glancing alternately at me and
the floating lines of my journal. "You want to read it?"

I swiveled the autoscribe so hovering words swarmed
toward the sleek creature.

"If you tytlal are so brainy, maybe you know where I
should take the story next. Hrm?"

Mudfoot peered at the glyph symbols. His expression
made my spines frickle. I wondered.

Just how much memory do they retain—this secret
clan of supernoor? When did the Tymbrimi plant a
clandestine colony of their clients on Jijo? It must have
been before we boons came. Perhaps they predate even

theg'Kek.
I had heard many legends of the clever Tymbrimi, of

course—a spacefaring race widely disliked by conserva-
tive Galactics for their scamplike natures. The same trait
made them befriend Earthlings, when that naive clan
first stumbled onto the star lanes. Ignorance can be fatal
in this dangerous universe, and Terra might have

Heaven's lleacft    67

quickly suffered the typical Wolflings' Fate, if not for
Tymbrimi sponsorship and advice.

Only now crisis convulses the Five Galaxies. Mighty
alliances are wreaking vengeance for past grievances.
Earth and her friends may have reached the end of their
luck, after all.

Even before meeting humans, the Tymbrimi must
have known a day might come when all their enemies
would converge against them. They must have been
tempted to stash a small population group in some se-
cluded place, before war, accident, or betrayal extin-
guished their main racial stock.

Did they consider taking the sooners' path?

I'm no expert, but from what I've read, it seems un-
likely that their natures would ever let Tymbrimi settle
down to quiet pastoral lives on a hick world like Jijo.
Humans barely accomplished it, and they are much
more down to earth.

But if the Tymbrimi couldn't hide out as sooners, it
wasn't too late for their beloved clients. The tytlal were
still largely unknown. Still close to their animal roots. A
small gene pool might be partly devolved and safely
cached on far-off Jijo. It all made eerie sense. Including
the notion of a race within a race—a band of un-
devolved noor, hidden among them. Guardians, keep-
ing twin black eyes open for danger ... or
opportunity.

Watching Mudfoot, I recalled stories told by Dwer
Koolhan—during his brief time aboard this ship, when
Streaker hid beneath Jijo's sea—about how this wild ani-
mal kept snooping and meddling, following Dwer
across half a continent. Ever mysterious, infuriating, and
unhelpful. The behavior seemed to combine noorish
recklessness with an attention span worthy of a hoon.

Intelligent irony now seemed to dominate Mudfoot's
snub-nosed, carnivorous face while he scanned my
most recent lines of prose—the very musings about
tytlal nature that lay just above. His black-pelted form
coiled tightly, in an expression that I mistook for studi-
ous interest. I could almost imagine mute noorish
whimsy transforming into eloquent speech—witty com-

68    Oavid Brin

mentary perhaps, or else a brutal putdown of my dense
composition style.

Then, with an abrupt display of unleashed energy,
Mudfoot leaped into the crowd of floating words, flail-
ing left and right with agile forepaws, slashing sentences
to ribbons, knocking whole paragraphs awry before
Streakers artificial g-field yanked him to a crouched
landing on the metal deck. At once, he swiveled with a
hunter's delighted yowl and readied another pounce.

"Don't save those changes!" I shouted at the auto-
scribe with unaccustomed haste. "Make all text intangi-
ble!"

My command made Mudfoot's second leap less satis-
fying. Robbed of semisolidity, the words of my journal
were now mere visual holograms, unaffected by physi-
cal touch. His second assault slashed uselessly while he
passed through ghostly symbols, barking with disap-
pointment.

Moments later, though, Mudfoot perched once more
on my right shoulder, as Huphu glared at him lazily
from the left. Both of them preened for a while, then
began rubbing my throat, begging for an umble.

"You don't fool me for a dura," I muttered. But there
seemed little else to do except repair the damage, finish
up this journal entry, and then give them what they
wanted.

I was doing that—singing for two noor and a herd of
mesmerized glaver—when the Niss Machine barged in
with a message.

I still have no idea why the snide robotic mind keeps
interrupting this way, without preamble or greeting, de-
spite my complaints that it grates against a hoon's na-
ture. And the tornado of spinning, twisted lines
somehow hurts my eyes. Ifni, it's hard enough getting
used to the idea of talking computers, even though I
used to read about them in classics by Nagata and
Ecklar. Can it be 'that the Niss has some sort of family
relationship with Mudfoot? A connection via the Tym-

Heam's Reach   69

brimi, would be my guess. You can tell by their disdain
for courtesy and knack for putting people off balance.

"/ bring a message from the bridge crew, " announced
the whirling shape. "Although I see little good coming
out of it, they want to see one or two of your charges up
there. You must bring the creatures along at once. A
crew member is already coming to. replace you here."

Gently putting Huphu down on the metal deck, I
gathered Mudfoot in a carrying hold, comfortably cra-
dling him in the crook of one arm, so he could not
writhe free. He seemed content, but I was taking no
chances. The last thing I needed was for him to dash off
in some random direction on our way to the bridge,
wreaking havoc in the galley, or hiding in some store-
room till Streakers/as blasted to smithereens-
"Won't you tell me what it's all about?" I asked.
The abstract lines appeared to shrug.
"For some reason, Dr. Baskin and Sage Sara Koolhan
seem to think the beast may speak up, at an opportune
moment, helping us deal with potentially hostile aliens."
I umbled a deep, rolling laugh.
"Well they got hopes! This Ifni-slucking tytlal is gonna
talk when it wants to, and the universe can go to hell till
then, for all it cares."

The lines twisted tighter than ever.
"/ am not referring to the tytlal, Alvin. Please put the
little rascal down and pay attention."

"But . . ."I shook my head, human style, confused.
"Then, who . . . ?"

The Niss hologram bent toward the far wall, making
an effort to point.

"You are requested to bring up one or two of those."
I stared at a crowd of goggle-eyed cretins.. Mewling,
nosing through their own revolting feces ...
"blessed" with sacred forgetfulness, immune to worry.

So this hurried journal entry ends on a note of blank
surprise.

They want me to bring glavers to the bridge.

an

E STUMBLED DOWN TWISTY, INTESTINELIKE
corridors, fleeing almost randomly through the vast
ship, pausing occasionally to rest his head against a
squishy bulkhead and sob. Cloying Jophur
• • scentomeres mingled with his own stench of self-
disgust and grief.

/ should have stayed with her.

Lark's unwashed body, still sticky with juices from
that dreadful nursery, kept moving despite fatigue and
hunger, driven on by occasional sounds of pursuit. But
his mind seemed mired, with all its fine edges dulled by
regret. Repeatedly, he tried to rouse from this depres-
sion and come up with a way to fight back.

You've got to think. Ling is counting on you!

In fact, Lark wasn't even sure where to go looking for
his lover. His mental image of the Polkjhy was a blur of
tangled passages linking odd-shaped chambers, more
chaotic than the hivelike innards of a qheuen dam. Any-
way, suppose he did find his way back to the prison
section, the vault where he and Ling had made their
getaway just a few days ago. By now the place would
be triply guarded. By Jophur ring stacks, robots, and the

tall human renegade.

Rann will be expecting me. He knows exactly what
I'm thinking . . . that I want to go charging to her res-
cue.

Alas, Lark was no man of action like his brother,

Dwer. The odds paralyzed him. He was too good at
envisioning drawbacks and potential flaws in each ten-
tative plan.

As long as I'm free. Ling can still hope. 1 have no right

Heaven's Reach    71

to throw that away by rushing into a trap. First priority
has to be a place where I can rest . . . maybe find
something to eat . . . then come up with a plan.

Using the purple ring as a universal passkey, Lark
inspected various rooms along his meandering path,
hoping to find a tool or information he could use against
the enemy. Some compartments were empty. Others
were occupied by Jophur crew, but these paid little
heed to the distraction of an opening or closing door.
Like their traeki cousins on Jijo, Jophur tended to be
task-focused, reacting slowly to interruptions.
Only once did Lark fail to duck out of sight in time.
He was poking through a laboratory filled with
coiled, transparent glassy tubes that flickered and hissed
with roiling vapors. Abruptly Lark found his path
blocked by a massive ring stack. It had just turned away
from an instrument console, and all sensor toruses were
active.

Flatulent smoke bursts vented from the Jophur's peak,
indignant to spy an intruding human. Fatty toruses flick-
ered with shadowy patterns of light and dark, express-
ing surprised rage.

If he had paused to think, Lark would never have had
the courage to lunge toward that intimidating mass,
thrusting his only weapon past a dozen reaching tenta-
cles. Tendrils converged to surround him, slapping his
shoulders.

Master rings make Jophur ambitious and decisive,
thought a bookish comer of his mind. But thank Ifni
they're like traeki in other ways. Their sluggish nerves
were never tested by carnivores on a savannah.

But Jophur had other advantages. Throbbing feelers
coiled around his neck and arms, even as soporific
juices sprayed from the throbbing torus in his hands, the
final gift of gentle Asx.

This time there was no reaction from the huge,
tapered tower. Its grippers tightened, drawing Lark
toward glistening, oily flanks.

He felt the purple ring flex and emit three more
sprays, each one a different pungent fetor that made his

72    navid Bfin

eyes sting and his throat gag . . . till constricting pres-
sure round his chest made it impossible to breathe at all.

The trick may not work anymore. They may have
spread the word. Distributed counteragents . . .

All at once, the greasy titan shivered. The nooses
tensed . . . then slackened, going limp as the Jophur
settled its great mass to the floor, discharging a low sigh
and rank smells. Lark nearly strangled on his first ragged
breath. Shrugging free of the horrid embrace, he stum-
bled away, sucking for fresh air.

They're catching on. Each time the purple ring fools
one of them, they share information and antidotes.
Even Asx couldn 't anticipate every possible scent code
theJophur might use.

The big stack seemed quiescent now, but Lark wor-
ried it might have put out an alarm. Swiftly, he scanned
the rest of the chamber for co-workers. But the creature

was alone.

Lark was about to head back to the corridor when he
stopped, intrigued to see that the Jophur's console was
still active. Holo displays flickered, tuned to spectral
bands his eyes found murky at best. Still, he approached
one in curiosity—then growing excitement.

It's a map! He recognized the battle cruiser's oblate
shape, cut open to expose the ship's mazelike interior. It
turned slowly. Varied shadings changed slowly while he

watched.

I wish I knew more about Galactic tech. Before the
Rothen-Danik expedition came to Jijo, computers had
been legendary things one read about in dusty tomes
within the Biblos archive. Even now, he saw them partly
through two centuries of fear and half-superstition. Of
course, even the star-sophisticate Ling would have trou-
ble with this unit, designed for Jophur use. So Lark
chose not to touch any buttons or sense plates.

Anyway, sometimes you can learn a lot just by ob-
serving.

This bright box over here . . . I know I'm in that
quadrant of the ship. Could it signify this room?

The symbols were in efficient Galactic Two, though
he found the specific subdialect technical and hard to

Heaven's Beacli    73

interpret. Still, he managed to locate the security section
where he and Ling had been imprisoned when they
were first brought aboard on Jijo. A deep, festering blue
rippled outward from that area and spread gradually
"northward" along the ship's main axis, filling one deck
at a time.

A search pattern. They've been driving me into an
ever smaller volume . . . back toward the control
room.

And away from Ling.

From their slow, methodical progress, he estimated
that the hunter robots would reach this chamber in less
than a midura. Though it was a daunting prospect, that
realization actually made Lark feel much better, just
knowing where he stood. It also gave him time to seek
a flaw in their strategy by studying the map for a
while.

If hunger pangs don't muddle my brain first. Unfortu-
nately, the pursuers were also herding him farther from
the one place he knew of where a human could find
food.

Looking around the laboratory, he found a sink with a
water tap. Ling had called it a constant on almost any
vessel of an oxygen-breathing species. The fluid was
distilled to utter purity, and so tasted weird. But Lark
slurped greedily—trying to wash myriad complex ship
flavors out of his mouth—before returning once more to
peruse the data screens.

Other than the ship map, most of the displays were
enigmatic—flickering graphs or cascades of hurtful
color, impossible to comprehend. Except for one show-
ing a black field speckled with glittering points of light.

Ling and I saw something like this in the Jophur com-
mand center. She called it a star chart, showing where
we are in space, and what's going on around us.

It still made Lark queasy to picture himself hurtling at
multiples of lightspeed through an airless void. Unlike
Sara, he had never dreamed of leaving Jijo, where his
life's work was to study the life-forms of a richly varied
world. Only war and chaos could have torn him away

74  IHH inn

from there. Only his growing ardor for Ling compen-
sated for the loss and alienation.

And now she was gone from his side. It felt like being

amputated.

Staring at the display—a black vista broken by a few
sparkling motes—he felt utterly daunted by the distance
scales, in which vast Jijo would be lost like a floating

speck of dust.

One pinpoint glowed steady in the center—the
Jophur dreadnought, he guessed. And a great, yarnlike
ball in the lower left must be a flaming star. But without
his cosmopolitan friend to interpret, Lark was at a loss to
decipher other colored objects shifting and darting in
between. GalTwo symbols flashed, but he lacked the
experience to make sense of them.

In frustration, Lark was about to turn away when he

noticed one slim fact.

That big dot over there, near the star . . . it seems to
be beading straight/or us.

I wonder if it's going to be friendly.

merson

JOTHING COULD FEEL MORE NATURAL OR FA-
miliar than looking at a spatial chart. It was like
regarding his own face in the mirror.

More familiar than that, since Emerson had just
I  spent a dazed year on a primitive world, gaping
blankly at his reflection on crude slabs of polished
metal, wondering about that person staring back at him,
with the gaping hole above one ear and the dazed look
in his eyes. Even his own name was a mystery till a few
weeks ago, when some pieces of his past began falling

together.

. . . scattered memories of wondrous Earth, and a
youth spent targeting himself, with a solemn firmness
that awed his parents, toward the glittering lure of five

galaxies.

... his life as an engineer, privileged to receive the

Heaven's Heocli    75

very best training, learning to make starships plunge be-
tween mysterious folds of spacetime.

. . . the lure of adventure—a deep voyage with the
famous Captain Creideiki—an offer he could never re-
fuse, even knowing it would lead past the jaws of Ha-
des.

All that, and much more, was restored when Emerson
learned how to beat down the savage pain that kept
memory imprisoned, regaining much that had been
robbed from him.

But not the best part. Not the rich, textured power of
speech. Not the river of words that used to lubricate
each subtle thought and bear knowledge on graceful
boats of syntax. Without speech his mind was a desert
realm, devastated by agnosia as deep as the crippling
wound in the left side of his skull.

At least now Emerson understood his maiming had
been deliberate, an act so malicious he could scarcely
grasp its boundaries or encompass the scale of revenge
needed to make things right.

Then, unasked and unexpected, it happened once
again. Some mix of sense and emotion triggered a shift
inside, releasing a sudden outpouring. All at once he
imagined an enveloping swirl of soft sound—reverbera-
tions that stroked his skin, rather than his ears. Echoes
that he felt, rather than heard.

* With each turning

* Ofthe cycloid,

* In dimensions

* Beyond number

* Comes a tumble

* Of those cuboids,

* Many sided,

* Countless faces—

* Ever unfair . . . never nice.

* Watch them spin on,

* So capricious,

* White and spotted,

* Always loaded,

76    David Brill

* Ye^J/oM, hopeless,

* Reach to gamble,

* Tossing for a

* Risky payback—

* Smack the haughty! Ifni's dice. . . .*

Emerson smiled faintly as the Trinary ode played out,
using circuits in his battered brain that even the vicious
Old Ones never touched with their knives, like the
groaning melody of a Great Dreamer, it resonated
whole, with tones of cetacean wisdom.

And yet, he knew its promise was but a slender reed.
Hardly much basis for hope. As if the universe would
ever really give him a chance at vengeance! Life was
seldom so accommodating. Especially to the weak, the
harried and pursued.

Still, Emerson felt grateful for the gift of strange po-
etry. Though it wasn't an engineer's language, Trinary
excelled at conveying irony.

He watched through a broad crystal window as neo-
dolphins raced back and forth, traversing Streaker's wa-
ter-filled bridge with powerful tail thrusts, leaving trails
of fizzing, hyper-oxygenated water in their wake. Other
crewfins lay at ramplike control stations, their sleek
heads inserted in airdomes while neural cables linked
their large brains to computers and distant instrumental-
ities.

The crystal pane vibrated against his fingertips, carry-
ing sonar clicks and rapid info-bursts from the other
side. The music of cooperative skill. A euphony of craft.
These were the finest members of a select crew. The
Tursiops amicus elite. The pride of Earth's Uplift cam-
paign, recruited and trained by the late Captain
Creideiki to be pilots without peer.

The dolphin lieutenant, Tsh't, crisply handled routine
decisions and relayed orders to the bridge crew. Beside
her, chief helmsman Kaa lay shrouded by cables, his
narrow jaw open and sunken eyes closed. Kaa's flukes
slashed as he steered the starship like an extended part

Heaven's Reach    77

of his own body. Thirty million years of instinct assisted
Kaa—intuition accumulated ever since his distant ances-
tors ceded land for a fluid realm of three dimensions.

Behind Emerson, the Plotting Room was equally
abuzz. Here dolphins moved on rollers or walkers—
machines that offered agility in dry terrain, making them
seem even more massively bulky next to a pair of slen-
der bipeds. And yet, those humans called the tune, di-
recting all this furious activity. Two women whose lives
had been utterly different, until circumstances brought
them together.

The two women Emerson loved, though he could
never tell them.

Thrumming engine sounds changed pitch as he
sensed the nimble ship brake harder to fight its hyper-
bolic plunge, clawing against the drag of a giant star,
changing course in another of Gillian Baskin's daring
ventures.

Emerson had paid a dear price for one of her earlier
hunches, in that huge, intricately structured place called
the Fractal World—a realm of snowy icicles whose
smallest branchlets spread wider than a planet. But he
had never resented Gillian's mistake. Who else could
have kept Streaker free for three years, eluding the ar-
madas of a dozen fanatical alliances? He only regretted
that his sacrifice had been in vain.

Above all, Emerson wanted to help right now. To go
below, toward those distant humming motors, and help
Hannes Suessi nurse more pseudovelocity from the la-
boring gravistators. But his handicap was too severe. His
torn cortex could not read sense from the symbols on
flashing displays, and there was only so much you could
do by touch or instinct alone. His comrades had been
kind, giving him make-work tasks, but he soon realized
it was better just to get out of their way.

Anyway, Sara and Gillian were clearly up to some-
thing. Tension filled the Plotting Room as both women
argued with the spinning apparition of the Niss Ma-
chine.

Its spiral lines coiled tightly. Clearly, a moment of
drama was approaching.

78 David Brin

So Emerson played spectator, watching as a chart por-
trayed Streaker's tight maneuver, slewing past giant
Izmunuti's stubborn grasp, threading hurricanes of ion-
ized heat that strained the laboring shields, changing
course to climb aggressively toward a cluster of pale,
flickering lights.

A convoy of ships ... or things that acted like ships,
moving about the cosmos at the volition of thinking
minds.

He overheard Sara utter buzzing glottal stops to frame
a strange GalSix term. One seldom heard, except in
tones of muted awe.

Zang.

Despite his handicap, Emerson abruptly knew what
advice Gillian was receiving from the young Jijoan
mathematician. He shivered. Of all the chances taken by
Streaker's crew, none was like this. Even daring the
throat of a newly roused transfer point might have been
better. Just thinking about it provoked a reply from
some recess of his sundered brain. Precious as a jewel, a
single word glittered hot and hopeless.

Desperation ...

It didn't take long for Streaker's tactic to be noticed.

The Jophur enemy—just twenty paktaars away—be-
gan slewing at once, shedding pseudovelocity to inter-
cept the Earthship's new course.

A crowd of others lay even nearer at hand.

Blue glimmers represented frail harvesting machines
—Emerson had seen graphic images and recognized the
gossamer sails. By now" half the luckless convoy were
already consumed by rapidly expanding solar storms.
The rest gathered light frantically, pulsing with inade-
quate engines, struggling to find refuge at the older
transfer point.

Among those frail sparks, four bright yellow dots had
been cruising imperviously, speeding to assist some of
the beleaguered mechanicals. But this effort was dis-
rupted by Streaker's sudden, hard turn.

Two of the yellow glows continued their rescue ef-

I's Reach    79

forts, darting from one harvester to the next, plucking a
glittering nucleus unit out of the swelling flames and
leaving the broad sail to burn.
A third yellow dot swung toward the Jophur ship.
The last one moved to confront Streaker.
Everyone in the Plotting Room stopped what they
were doing when a shrill, crackling sound erupted Over
the comm speakers. Though Emerson had lost function
in his normal speech centers, his ears worked fine, and
he could tell at once that it was unlike any Galactic
language—or wolfling tongue—he had ever heard.
The noise sounded bellicose, nervous, and angry.
The Niss hologram shivered with each staccato burst
of screeching pops. Dolphins slashed their flukes, loos-
ing unhappy moans. Sara covered her ears and closed
her eyes.

But Gillian Baskin spoke calmly, soothing her com-
panions with a wry tone of voice. In moments, chirps of
dolphin laughter filled the chamber. Sara grinned, low-
ering her hands, and even the Niss straightened its mesh
of jagged lines.

Emerson burned inside, wishing he could know what
Gillian had said—what well-timed humor swiftly roused
her crewmates from their alarmed funk. But all he made
out were "wah-wah" sounds, nearly as foreign as those
sent by a different order of life.

The Niss Machine made rasping noises of its own.
Emerson guessed it must be trying to communicate with
the yellow dot. Or rather, what the dot represented . . .
one of those legendary, semifluid globes that served as
"ships" for mighty, cryptic hydrogen breathers. He re-
called being warned repeatedly, back in training, to
avoid all contact with the unpredictable Zang. Even the
Tymbrimi curbed their rash natures when it came to
such deadly enigmas. If this particular Zang perceived
Streaker as a threat—or if it were merely touchy at the
moment—any chance of survival was practically nil.
The Earthship's fragments would soon join the well-
cooked atoms of Izmunuti's seething atmosphere.

Soon, long-range scans revealed the face of the un-
known. An image wavered at highest magnification, re-

80    David Brill

fracted by curling knots of stormy plasma heat,
revealing a vaguely spherical object with flanks that rip-
pled eerily. The effect didn't remind Emerson of a soap
bubble as much as a tremendous gobbet of quivering
grease, surrounded by dense evaporative haze.

A small bulge distended outward from the parent
body as he watched. It separated and seemed briefly to
float, glistening, alongside.

The detached blob abruptly exploded.

From the actinic fireball a needle of blazing light is-
sued straight toward Streaked.

Klaxons erupted warnings in both the bridge and.
Plotting Room. The spatial chart revealed a slender line,
departing the yellow emblem to spear rapidly across a
distance as wide as Earth's orbit. As a weapon, it was
unlike any Emerson had seen.

He braced for annihilation . . .

. . . only to resume breathing when the destructive
ray passed just ahead of Streaker's bow.

Lieutenant Tsh't commented wryly.

* As warning shots go,

* (Acts speak much louder than words!)
* That was a doozy. *

While Emerson labored to make sense of her Trinary
haiku, the door of the Plotting Room hissed open and
three figures slipped inside. One was a shaggy biped,
nearly as tall as a dolphin is long, with a spiky backbone
and flapping folds of scaly skin under his chin. Two
pale, shambling forms followed, knuckle-walking like
protochimpanzees, with big round heads and chame-
leon eyes that tried to stare in all directions at once.
Emerson had seen hoons and glavers before, so he
spared their entrance little thought. Everyone was
watching Gillian and Sara exchange whispers as tension
built.

No order was given to turn aside. Sara's lips pressed
grimly, and Emerson understood. At this point, they
were committed. 'The second transfer point was no
longer an option. Its dubious refuge could not be

Heaven's Reach    81

reached now before theJophur got there first. Nor could
Streaker flee toward deep space, or try her luck on one
of the varied levels of hyperspace. The dreadnought's
engines—the best affordable by a wealthy clan—could
outrun poor Streaker in any long chase.

The Zang did not have to destroy the Earthship. They
need only ignore her, leaving the filthy oxygen breath-
ers to settle their squabbles among themselves.

Perhaps that might have happened ... or else the
orb-ship might have finished them off with another vol-
ley. Except that something else happened then, taking
Emerson completely off guard.

The Niss hologram popped into place near the tall
hoon—Alvin was the youngster's name, Emerson re-
called—and then drifted lower, toward the bewildered
glavers. Mewling with animallike trepidation, they
quailed back from the floating mesh of spiral
curves . . . until the Niss began emitting a noisome
racket. The same that had come over the loudspeakers
minutes ago.

Blinking rapidly, the pair of glavers began reflexively
swaying. Emerson could swear they seemed just as sur-
prised as he was, and twice as frightened. Yet, they must
have found the clamor somehow compelling, for soon
they began responding with cries of their own—at first
muted and uncertain, then with increasing force and
vigor.

To the crew, it came as a rude shock. The master-at-
arms—a burly male dolphin with mottled flanks—sent
his six-legged walker stomping toward the beasts, intent
on clearing the room. But Gillian countermanded the
move, watching with enthralled interest.

Sara clapped her hands, uttering a satisfied oath, as if
she had hoped for something like this.

On the face of the young hoon, surprise gave way to
realization. A subdued, rolling sound escaped Alvin's
vibrating throat sac. Emerson made out a single
phrase—

". . . the legend ..."

—but its significance was slippery, elusive. Concen-
trating hard, he almost pinned down a meaning before it

82   David Bnn

was lost amid resumed howls from the loudspeakers.
More caterwauled threats beamed by the Zang, ob-
jecting to Streaker's rapid approach.

At long range, he saw the great globule pulsate men-
acingly. Another liquid bulge began separating from the
main body, bigger than the first, already glowing with

angry heat.

The glavers clamored louder. They seemed different
from the ones he had seen back on Jijo, which always
behaved like grunting beasts. Now Emerson saw some-
thing new. A light. A knowing. The impression of a task
long deferred, now being performed at last.

The Zang globe rippled. Its rasping threats merged
with the glaver bedlam, forming a turbulent pas de
deux. Meanwhile, the new bud fully detached from its
flank, pulsating with barely constrained wrath.

This one might not be a warning shot.

Kety

GUESS THERE'S MORE TO USING ONE OF THESE
transfer point things than I thought."

Rety meant her words as a peace offering. A rare
admission of fault. But Dwer wasn't going to let her

off that easy.

"I can't believe you thought a couple of savages could
just go zooming about the heavens like star gods. This
was your plan? To grab a wrecked ship, still dripping
seaweed from the dross piles of the Great Midden, and
ride along while it falls into a bole in space?"

For once, Rety quashed her normal, fiery response.
True, she had never invited Dwer to join her aboard her
hijacked vessel in the first place. Nor was he offering
any bright ideas about what to do with a million-year-
old hulk that could barely hold air, let alone fly.

Still, she kind^of understood why he was upset. With
death staring him in the face, the Slopie could be ex-
pected to get a bit testy. .

Heaven's Reach    83

"When Besh and Rann talked about it, they made it
sound simple. You just aim your ship to dive inside—"

Dwer snorted. "Yeah, well you just said a mouthful
there, Rety. Aim into a transfer point? Did you ever think
how many generations it took our ancestors to learn
how to pull that off? A trick we've got to figure out in
just a midura or two?"

This time, Rety didn't have to reply. Little yee snaked
his long neck from her belt pouch, reaching out to nip
Dwer's arm.

"Hey!" he shouted, drawing back.

"see?"^ae little urs chided in a lisping voice, "no good
come from snip-snapping each other, use midura to
study! or just complain till you die."

Dwer rubbed a three-sided weal, glaring at the minia-
ture male. But yee's teeth had left the skin unbroken.
Any Jijoan human knew enough about urrish bites to
recognize when one was just a warning.

"All right then," he muttered to Rety. "You're the ap-
prentice star god. Talk that smug computer of yours into
saving us."

Rety sighed. In the wilderness back home, Dwer had
always been the one with clever solutions to every
problem, never at a loss. She liked him better that way,
not cowed by the mere fact that he was trapped in a
metal coffin, hurtling toward crushing death and ruin. /
hope this don't mean I'm gonna have to nursemaid him
all the way across space to some civilized world. When
we're all set up—with nice apart'mints and slave ma-
chines doin' anything we want—he sure is gonna owe
me!

Rety squatted before the little black box Gillian Bas-
kin had given her aboard the Streaker—a teaching unit
programmed for very young human children. It func-
tioned well at its intended purpose—explaining the
basics of modern society to a wild girl from the hicks of
Jijo. To her surprise, she had even started picking up the
basics of reading and writing. But when it came to in-
structing them how to pilot a starship . . . well, that
was another matter.

"Tutor," she said.

84 Dovid Brill

A tiny cubic hologram appeared just above the box,
showing a pudgy male face—with a pencil mustache
and a cheery smile.

"Well, hello again! Have we been keeping our spirits
up? Tried any of those games I taught you? Remember,
.it's important to stay busy-busy and think positive until
help arrives!"

Rety lashed with her left foot, but it passed through
the face without touching anything solid.

"Look, you. I told ya there's nobody gonna come help
us, even if you did get out a distress call, which I doubt,
since the dolphins only fixed the parts they needed to,
to make this tub fly."

The hologram pursed simulated lips, disapproving of
Rety's attitude.

"Well, that's no excuse for pessimism! Remember,
whenever we're in a rough spot, it is much better to seek
ways of turning adversity into opportunity! So why don't
we—"

"Why don't we go back to talking about how we'll
control this here piece of dross," Rety interrupted. "I
already asked you for lessons how to steer it through
the t-point just ahead. Let's get on with it!"

The tutor frowned.

"As I tried to explain before, Rety, this vessel is in no
condition to attempt an interspatial transfer at this
time. Navigation systems are minimal and incapable of
probing the nexus ahead for information about thread
status. The drive is balky and seems only capable of
operating at full thrust, or not at all. It may simply give
up the next time we turn it on. The supervisory com-
puter has degraded to mentation level six. That is below
what's normally needed to calculate hyperspatial tube
trajectories. For all of these reasons, attempting to cross
the transfer point is simply out of the question."

"But there's no place else to go! The Jophur battleship
was dragging us there' when it flung us loose. You al-
ready said we don't have the engine juice to break away
before falling in. So we got nothin' to lose by trying!"

The tutor shook its simulated head.

"Standard wisdom dictates that any maneuver we

Heaven's Reacn    85

tried now would only make it harder for friends/rela-
tives/'parents to find you—"

This time, Rety flared.

"How many times do I gotta tell you, no one's coming
for us! Nobody knows we're here. Nobody would care,
if they knew. And nobody could reach us if they cared!"

The teaching unit looked perplexed. Its ersatz gaze
turned toward Dwer, who looked more adult with his
week-old stubble. Of course, that irritated Rety even
more.

"fe this true, sir? There is no help within reach?"

Dwer nodded. Though he too had spent time aboard
Streaker, he never found it easy speaking to a ghost.

"Well then," the tutor replied. "/ suppose there is just
one thing to do."

Rety sighed relief. At last the jeekee thing was going
to start getting practical.

"I must withdraw and get back to work talking to the
ship's computer, no matter what state it is in. I am not
designed or programmed for this kind of work, but it is
of utmost importance to try harder."

"Right!" Rety murmured.

"Indeed. Somehow we must find a way to boost power
to communications systems, and get out a stronger mes-
sage for help!"

Rety bolted to her feet.

"What? Didn't you hear me, you pile o' glaver dreck? I
just said—"

"Don't worry while I am out of touch. Try to be brave.
I'll be back just as soon as I can!"

With that, the little cube vanished, leaving Rety shak-
ing, frustrated, and angry.

It didn't help that old Dwer broke up, laughing. He
guffawed, hissing and snorting a bit like an urs. Since
nothing funny had happened, she figured he must be
doing it out of spite. Or else this might be another exam-
ple of that thing called irony people sometimes talked
about when they wanted an excuse for acting stupid.

/'// slap some irony across your jeekee head, Dwer, if
you don't shut up.

But he was bigger ?nd stronger . . . and he had

86 David Brill

saved her life at least three times in the past few months.
So Rety just clenched her fists instead, waiting till he
finally stopped chuckling and wiped tears from his eyes.

The tutor remained silent for a long time, leaving both
human castaways with no way to deal with the ship on
their own.

There were makeshift controls, left in place by
Streaker's dolphin crew when they had resurrected this
ancient Buyur hulk from a pile of discarded spacecraft
on Jijo's sea bottom. Mysterious boxes had been spliced
by cable to the hulk's control circuits, programmed to
send it erupting skyward along with a swarm of other
revived decoys, confusing Jophur instruments and
masking Streaker's breakout attempt. But since the dol-
phins had never expected stowaways, there were only
minimal buttons and dials. Without the tutor, there'd be
no chance of making the ship budge from its current
unguided plummet.

Lacking anything better to do, Rety and Dwer went
forward and stared ahead through the bow windows,
pitted from immersion in the Great Midden for half a
million years. Together, they tried to spot the mysterious
"spinning hole in space" that Jijo's fallen races still re-
called in sagas about ancestral days—the mighty door-
way each sneakship passed through when it brought a
new wave of refugee-settlers to a forbidden world in a
fallow galaxy.

At first, Rety saw nothing special in the glittering star-
scape. Then Dwer pointed.

"Over there. See? The Frog is all bent out of shape."

Rety had grown up amid a primitive tribe, hiding in a
grubby wilderness without even the rough comforts of
Dwer's homeland, the Slope. Living in crude huts, with
just campfires to ward off chill and darkness, she had
constellations overhead nearly every night of her life.
But while her cousins made up elaborate hunters' tales
about those twinkling patterns, her only interest lay in
their practical use as signposts, pointing the westward

Heaven's (leach    87

path she might someday use to escape her wretched
clan.

Dwer, on the other hand, was chief scout of the Com-
mons of Jijo, trained to know every quirk of the sky—
from which the Six Races always expected doom and
judgment to arrive. He would notice if something was
out of place.

"I don't see ..." She peered toward the cluster of
glimmering pinpoints he indicated. "Oh! Some of the
stars . . . they're clumped in a circle and—"

"And there's nothing inside," he finished for her.
"Nothing at all."

They stared silently for a while. Rety couldn't help
comparing the disklike blackness to a predator's open
maw, looming rapidly to swallow the ship and all its
contents.

"The stars seem t'be smearing out around it," she
added.

Dwer nodded, making hoonish umbling sounds.

"Hr-rm. My sister called this thing a sort of twist in the
universe, where space gets all wound up in knots."

Rety sniffed.

"Space is empty, dummy. I learned that back when I
lived with the Daniks, in their underground station.
There's nothin' out here to get twisted."

"Fine. Then you explain what we're about to fall
into."

Little yee chose to speak up then.

"no problem to explain, big man-boy.

"what is life?

"is going from one hole to another, then another!

"is better this way. go in! yee will sniff good burrow
for us.

"good, comfy burrow is happiness."

Dwer glanced sourly at the urrish male, but Rety
smiled and stroked yee's tiny head.

"You tell him, husban'. We'll slide on through this
thing, slick as a mud skink, an' come out in the main
spiral arcade of Galaxy Number One, where the liglits
are bright an' ships are thicker than ticks on a ligger's
back. Where the stars are close enough to gossip with

88    David Bfin

each other, an' everyone's so rich they need computers
to count their computers!

"Folks like that'll need folks like us, Dwer," she as-
sured. "They'll be soft, while we're tough an' savvy,
ready for adventure! We'll take on jobs the star gods are
too prissy for—an' get paid more'n your whole Com-
mons of Jijo is worth.

"Soon we'll be livin' high, you watch. You'll bless the
day you met me."

Dwer stared back at her. Then, clearly against his will,
a smile broke out. This time the laugh was friendlier.

"Honestly, Rety. I'd rather just go home and keep
some promises I made. But I guess that's unlikely now,
so—" He glanced ahead at the dark circle. It had grown
noticeably as they watched. "So maybe you're right.
We'll make the best of things. Somehow."

She could tell he was putting up a front. Dwer figured
they would be torn apart soon, by forces that could
demolish all of Jijo in moments.

He oughta have more faith, she thought. Somethin'll
come along. It always does.

With nothing better to do, they counted the passing
duras, commenting to each other about the strange way
stars stretched and blurred around the rim of the mon-
strous thing ahead. It doubled in size, filling a quarter of
the window by the time Rety's "tutor" popped back into
existence above the black box. The tiny face had tri-
umph in its eyes.

"Success!" it exulted.

Rety blinked.

"You mean you found a way to control this tub?"

"Better than that! I managed to coax more power and
bandwidth from the communications system!"

"Yes?" Dwer moved forward. "And?"

"And I got a response, at last!"

The two humans looked at each other, sharing confu-
sion. Then Rety cursed.

"You didn't pull the bloody-damn Jopbur back to us,
did you?"

That might help the Streaker crew. But she had no
interest in resuming her former role as bait. Rety would

Heaven's Reacli    89

rather risk the transfer point than surrender to those
stacks of stinky rings.

"The battleship is beyond effective range as it dives
toward the red giant star, where other mighty vessels are
dimly perceived engaging in energetic activity that I
cannot make out very well.

"The rescuers I refer to are entirely different parties."

The tutor paused.

"Go on," Dwer prompted warily.

"The active scanners were balky and difficult at first.
But I finally got them on-line. At which point I spotted
several ships nearby, fleeing toward the transfer point
just as we are! After some further effort, I managed to
flag the attention of the closest . . . whereupon it
changed course slightly to head this way!"

Rety and Dwer nearly stumbled over each other rush-
ing to the aft viewing ports. They stared for some time,
but even with coaxing from the tutor, Rety saw nothing
at first except the great red sun. Even at this long range,
it looked larger than her thumbnail held at arm's reach.
And angry storms extended farther still, with tornado-
like tendrils.

Dwer pointed.

"There! Three points up from Izmunuti and two
points left. You can't miss it."

Rety tried looking where he pointed, but despite his
promise, she found it hard to make out anything differ-
ent. Stars glittered brightly. . . .

Some of them shifted slightly, moving in unison, like
a flock of birds. First they jogged a little left, then a little
right, but always together, as if a section of the sky itself
were sliding around, unable to keep still.

Finally, she realized—the moving stars all lay in an
area shaped like a slightly canted square.

"Those aren't real stars . . . ," she began, hushed.

"They're reflections," Dwer finished. "Like off a mir-
ror. But how?"

The tutor seemed happiest explaining something ba-
sic.

"The image you see is caused by a tremendous reflec-

90    David Brin

tor-and-energy-collector. In Galactic Seven the term is
ntove tunictun. Or in Earthling tradition—a solar sail.

"The method is used chiefly by sapients who perceive
time as less a factor than do oxygen breathers. But right
now they are using a supplementary gravitic engine to
hasten progress, fleeing unexpected chaos in this stellar
system. At these pseudovelocities, the vessel should be
able to pick us up and still reposition itself for optimal
transfer point encounter toward its intended destina-
tion. "

Dwer held up both hands.

"Whoa! Are you saying the creatures piloting that
thing don't breathe oxygen? You mean they aren't even
part of the, um—"

"The Civilization of Five Galaxies? No sir, they are
not. These are machines, with their own spacefaring
culture, quite unlike myself, or the robot soldier devices
of the Jophur. Their ways are strange. Nevertheless they
seem quite willing to take us with them through the
transfer point. That is a much better situation than we
faced a while ago."

Rety watched the "sail" uneasily. Soon she made out a
glittering nest of complex shapes that lay at the very
center of the smooth, mirrorlike surface. As the t-point
burgeoned on one side and the machine-vessel on the
other, she couldn't stave off a wild sensation—like be-
ing cornered between a steep cliff and a predator.

"This thing . . . ," she began asking, with a dry
mouth. "This thing comin' to save us. Do you know
what it was doin' here, before Izmunuti blew up?"

"It is seldom easy understanding other life orders,"
the tutor explained. "But in this case the answer is sim-
ple. It is a class of device called a Harvester/Salvager.
Such machines collect raw materials to be used in vari-
ous engineering or construction projects. It must have
been using the sail to gather metal atoms from the star's
rich wind when the storm struck. But given an opportu-
nity, a harvester will collect the material it needs from
any other source of accumulated or condensed ..."

The artificial voice trailed off as the tutor's face froze.
The pause lasted several duras.

Heaven's Reacli    91

"Any other source," Dwer repeated the phrase in a
low mutter. "Like a derelict ship, drifting through space,
maybe?"

Rety felt numb.

The tutor did not say "oops."

Not exactly.

It wasn't necessary.

Two young humans watched claws, grapplers, and
scythelike blades unfurl as strong fields seized their ves-
sel, drawing it toward a dark opening at the center of a
broad expanse of filmy light.

L^an

SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING.
The deck shuddered and vibrated. Muffled thuds
penetrated through the spongy walls, puzzling him
at first.

Then Lark recalled the first time he had heard
such sounds—just after he and Ling were captured,
when the Six Races ofJijo had surprised their tormen-
tors by attacking this battle cruiser with crude rockets.

On a monitor screen he had watched explosive-filled
tree trunks blaze like avenging spirits through the sky
above the Slope, hundreds of them, handmade by the
finest artisans of the Six Races and dispatched on a mis-
sion of vengeance. He remembered praying that some
of the fiery missiles would get through—to end his life
along with all the loathsome Jophur invaders aboard
this cruel ship.

Then came that muted rumbling.

"Defensive counterftre." Ling had identified the
sound as Jophur weapons spoke. One by one, the na-
tives' proud missiles had evaporated, well short of their
target . . . and Lark had had to reconcile himself with
remaining alive.

This time, the tempo of jarring quivers rattled the ship
ten times as fast.

92    David Brio

It sounds pretty frantic. I wonder who the greasy
stacks are fighting this time.

Alas, his pursuers gave Lark no time to ponder it.
Whatever was going on in space beyond, the hunter
robots kept up their relentless and systematic search
through twisty corridors, blocking every effort to sneak
past them, constantly hemming him northward along
the great ship's axis.

Hissing Jophur soldiery accompanied the posse, oper-
ating in groups of three or more. And on several occa-
sions he also heard a human voice, male, shouting
suggestions to help chase down one of his own kind.

Rann.

Lark had few options. With the traitor taking part, he
didn't dare try his luck again with the purple ring,
whose usefulness was probably finished anyway. So he
fled back toward the place where he and Ling had once
made their brief attempt at sabotage, throwing a pa-
thetic little bomb at the Jophur nerve center, then flee-
ing together in triumph amid clouds of smoke, running
and laughing as they played spy, using their purple
pass-ring to go almost anywhere, defying the enemy to
catch them.

Of course it hadn't felt like that much fun at the time.
Only in contrast to Lark's present misery did it seem a
carefree episode. A frolic. He'd give anything to go back
to that time. Even creeping about as half-naked vermin
in an alien ship, he had been happy with Ling at his
side.

More than a day must have passed since he'd last had
any rest. Food became a fading memory, and there was
no leisure anymore to explore chambers along the way
—only the tense wariness of a prey animal, fighting des-
perately to stave off the inevitable.

Mysterious vibrations intensified, punctuated by other
noises that boomed or crackled faintly in the distance.
The normal pungency of Jophur hallway aromatics
thickened with new scentomeres, wafting through the
ventilation system. Some were too strange or complex
for him to decipher, but fear and revulsion were almost

Heaven's Reach    93

identical to traeki versions he knew from growing up on
Jijo.

Something had the crew very upset.

Queasy sensations warned Lark of shifts in the ship's
artificial gravity, making the floor seem to tilt, then
briefly lose pressure against the soles of his feet. The
steady background hum of engines increased pitch and
intensity. Lark was tempted to duck into a nearby cham-
ber and try to activate a view screen, just to find out
what was going on. But any room might become a trap
while his pursuers were so close.

A few duras later, he felt a nervous shiver on the back
of his neck that warned him of approaching robots—a
fey sensitivity to their suspensor fields that had saved
him more than once so far. The scent of approaching
Jophur soldiery reinforced his decision.

Back the other way, quickly!

Though weary, he sped up, trying to reach one of the
ramps leading to the next level. Of course, with each
move north the width of his domain narrowed, leaving
him fewer options. Soon, they would harry him into a
corner with no escape. . . .

Lark scurried around a bend, only to brake sharply,
with a grunt of dismayed surprise.

Just a few meters ahead of him, Rann let out a shout.
The tall Danik warrior yelled at a golden bracelet on his
wrist. "I've got the son of a bitch!"

Lark spun about and fled, seeking the only remaining
branch tunnel that seemed free of foes. Behind him,
Rann could be heard switching to GalTwo—more useful
at communicating with Jophur than vulgar Anglic curs-
ing.

"To this locale, speed quickly and urgently. The
quarry, it is near!"

Lark considered halting. Finding a corner to hide be-
hind and ambush Rann as he hurried after. Better to face
the human traitor alone, and possibly do Rann harm,
than wind up facing a swarm of Jophur and their robots,
who would be invulnerable to his fists.

But he chose to stay free, if only for a few moments

94    David Brin

longer, dashing down the sole remaining escape path—
a narrow corridor, probably leading nowhere.

Sure enough, exultant cries followed, and Lark knew
he was cornered when he saw the dead end, no more
than forty meters ahead.

He halted by a closed doorway, fumbling with shaky
hands to bring the purple ring up against the lock plate.
It sprayed a soft mist, but either the torus was tired or
the Jophur commanders had learned their lesson. The
door stayed adamantly shut.

Lark heard a cry of satisfaction as Rann spied him
from the far intersection. But the Danik waited for oth-
ers—Jophur and their machines—to join him before ap-
proaching any closer. For several duras the two of them
just stared at each other in mutual loathing. Then Rann
smiled as a Jophur and two robots joined him. They
started to advance.

Suddenly, from Lark's other side, there came a low
reverberation and a growing sense of heat. He turned
around, backing away from the bulkhead where the
hallway ended. That blank wall began glowing and
bowing outward. Molten droplets oozed from the edges
of an oval that blazed brightly, forcing him to raise both
hands and shield his eyes. Lark gagged on an odor he
recalled from visits to the laboratory of the Explosers
Guild, in Tarek Town—hydrogen sulfide gas.

As the oval slumped inward, he briefly glimpsed an-
other twisty corridor beyond, glowing with an eerie
light. Lark turned to flee, but a wave of hot vapors
slammed his back, knocking him down. His forearms
struck the deck painfully hard while a surge of baked air
passed overhead and on down the hall, toward Rann
and his companions.

For an instant. Lark's senses were in such an uproar
that he felt swaddled by numbness. No information
could get through, except pain . . . and the fact that he
still lived. When he managed to open his eyes once
more, Lark blinked in disbelief.

Down the corridor, where moments ago his hunters
had been marching confidently to capture him, he now
glimpsed the last of them fleeing round the corner. Rann

Heaven's Beach    95

glanced back, terror in his pale eyes, and Jophur war-
riors heaved their bulky forms out of sight. Only two
robots remained at the intersection, taking up defensive
stances, but not firing—as if loath to try.

Lark knew he should be happy of anything that put
his enemies to flight. Yet, he felt reluctant to roll over
and see what had arrived. I just know I'm notgonna like
this, he thought.

The rotten egg smell was almost overpowering, and a
faint luminance filled the hall, coming from above and
behind his prone form, along with a faint, whispering
hum.

Gathering his courage, Lark pushed off the floor with
his scalded right arm, rolling onto his back.

It stood a few paces behind him, just this side of the
hole it had made in the bulkhead. A glowing ball,
roughly three meters across, barely able to squeeze
through the corridor. Though it had the color of bronze
metal, the intruder seemed to ooze and ripple as it
rolled slowly forward, more like a fluid-filled bag than a
balloon. Lark recalled the living cells he used to watch
through his beloved microscope, back when he and
other sages had the time to pursue knowledge, doing
what passed for science on the primitive Slope.

A cell, many times his size. Living.

And yet, all at once, Lark knew—

This is like no life I ever saw before.

The thing made sloshing sounds as it crept languidly
toward Lark, swarming over his foot, climbing upward,
rendering him immobile, then causing a chill numbness
to spread along his bones.

PflKI TWO

THE ORDERS OF LIFE

FOR /\C'ES—ever since the blessed
Irogenitors departed—some contemplative
oxygen-breathing races have wondered.
about the question of plenitude.

If Me Is so common and vibrant
here in the Five Linked C^alaxies/ they
ask/ should we not expect to see signs of
it elsewhere' /•astronomers have counted
seven hundred billion other galactic
pinwheels/ ovals/ and other vast
conglomerations of stars out there/ some of
them even bigger than our own (galaxy
One. /( seems to defy all logic that ours
would be the only nexus where sapiency
has arisen.

WXat a waste of potential/ if it
were so!

d course/ this opinion is not
universally shared. /\mong the many
social-religious alliances making up our
diverse civilisation/ some insist that we
must oe unique/ since any other situation
would only mock the ultimate greatness of
the Irogenitors. Others perceive those
billions of other galaxies as heavenly

abodes where the august Iranscendents go/ once they complete
the long process or perfecting themselves on this plane ol
reality.

A/lany have tried to pierce the veil with scientific
instruments/ such as vast telescopes/ aimed at studying our silent
neighbors. Indeed/ some anomalies have been found, lor
instance/ several targets emit rhythmic noise pulsations ol
towering complexity. Other galaxies seem burned out/ as if a
recent conflagration tore through them/ destroying nearly every
planetary system at the same time.

/\nd yet/ the data always seems ambiguous/ allowing a
variety of interpretations. The Oreat l^ibrary is filled with
arguments that have raged for aeons.

/\re other galactic groups linked together by
hyperspatial transfer points/ the way our own five spirals are/
despite huge separations in flat spacetime' Our best models
and calculations do not give dehnttive answers.

rl\OA/i time to time/ some young race gets impatient and tries
posing these questions to the Old Ones——those sage species
who have surrendered starships to develop their souls within
the L,mbrade of fides/ passing on to the next order of life.

Depending on their mood/ the ancients either ignore
such entreaties or reply in frustrating ways.

We are alone/ answered one community of venerable
ones.

I\o we are not/ countered a second. Other galaxies are
Just like ours/ teeming with multitudinous sapient species/
talcing turns uplirting each other as a sacred duty/ then turning
their attention toward the duties ot transcendence ... as we
are doing now.

One cluster of Old One? claimed to Know a different
answer——that most island universes are settled quite suddenly/

by the first race to achieve spaceflight. These first races then
proceed to fill every star system/ annihilating or enslaving all
succeeding life-forms. Juch galaxies are poor in diversity or
Insight/ having lacl<ed the wisdom that our blessed frogenitors
showed when they began the great chain of l^lplift.

I hat is wrong/ claimed yet another assembly of
venerables in their spiky habitat/ huddled amid contemplative
tides. 1 he unity 01 purpose that we sense in such galaxies only
means that they have already evolved toward united oneness!
/\ high state wherein all sapient beings participate in a grand
overmind . . .

rlr\/\L^l^y/ it grew clear that these conflicting stories must
mean just one of two things.

Cither the Old Ones really have no idea what they
are talking about/ or else . . .

\Jr else their varied answers together comprise a sermon.
/\ basic lesson.

Other galaxies are none of our business! That is what
they are teaching. We should get back to the proper tasks of
young races—struggling/ learning/ uplifting/ and striving with
each other/ gathering experience and strength lor the next
phase.

/\nswers will be forthcoming to each of us who survives
the testing/ when we ultimately face the bright light of the
Oreat narrower.

H

arry

IT SEEMED THAT E SPACE WAS NOT THE ONLY
realm where ideas had a life of their own. On his
return, Harry found Kazzkark Base teeming with hear-
say. Strange rumors roamed like ravenous parasites,
springing from one nervous being to the next, thriving
in an atmosphere of contagious anxiety.

Steering his scoutcraft to the planetoid's north pole,
Harry docked at a slip reserved for the Navigation Insti-
tute and cut power with a sense of relief. All he wanted
now was to sleep for several days without having to
endure relentless exhausting dreams. But no sooner did
he debark and begin the protocols of reentry than he
found himself immersed in a maelstrom of dubious gos-
sip.

"It is said that the Abdicator Alliance has broken into
several heretical/actions that are fighting among them-
selves, " murmured a tourmuj trade representative stand-
ing in line ahead of Harry at immigration, chattering in
hasty Galactic Four. "And the League of Prudent Neutral

102   David Brill

C/ons are said to have begun mobilizing at last, com-
bining their fleets under pargi command!"

Harry stared at the tourmuj—a lanky, sallow-skinned
being that seemed all elbows and knees—before re-
sponding in the same language.

"Said? It is said by whom? In which medium? With
what veracity?"

"With no veracity at all!" This came from an oulomin
diplomat whose tentacle fringes bore colored caps to
prevent inadvertent pollen emission. Slithering just be-
hind Harry, the oulomin expressed disdain toward the
stooped tourmuj with sprays of orange saliva that barely
missed Harry's arm.

"/ have it on good authority that the eminent and
much respected pargi intend to withdraw from the
League—and from Galactic affairs entirely—out of dis-
gust with the present state of chaos. That noble race will
shortly move on to blessed retirement, joining their an-
cestral patrons in the fortunate realm of tides. Only a
regressed fool would believe otherwise."

It was hardly the sort of speech that Harry would as-
sociate with "diplomacy." The tourmuj reacted by irately
unfolding its long legs and both sets of arms so swiftly
that its knobby head bumped the ceiling. Wincing in
pain, the trader stomped off, sacrificing its place in line.

Oh, I get it, Harry thought, glancing once more at the
being behind him, whose grasp of other-species psy-
chology was evident.

Just don't try the same on me, he thought. I'm not
budging, even if you call me a dolphin's uncle.

The diplomat seemed to recognize this and merely
waved two tendrils in a universal gesture of placid
goodwill, as they both moved forward.

Harry took out his portable data plaque and stroked
its command knobs, swiftly accessing the planetoid's
Galactic Library unit for news. It was an excellent
branch, since Kazzkark housed local headquarters for
several important institutes. Yet, the master index
claimed to know nothing about an Abdicator schism.
Moreover, according to official sources, the influential
pargi were still active in Galactic councils, calling for

Heaven's Beach   103

peace and restraint, urging all militant alliances to with-
draw their armadas and settle the present crisis through
mediation, not war.

Were both rumormongers wrong, then? During nor-
mal times, Harry would scarcely doubt the master index.
In the Civilization of Five Galaxies, it was commonly
said that nothing ever really happened until it was
logged by the Great Library. A planet might explode
before your eyes, but it wasn't a certified fact without
the rayed spiral glyph, flashing in a corner of a readout
screen.

Clearly these weren't "normal times."

While taking his turn at the customs kiosk, Harry
overheard a talpu'ur seed merchant complain to a gul-
dingar pilgrim about how many nauseating thread
changes she had had to endure during the crossing
from Galaxy Three. Harry found it hard to follow
the talpu'ur's dialect—a syncopated ratchet-rubbing of
her vestigial wing cases—but it seemed that several
traditional transfer points had shifted their oscillation
patterns, either losing coherence or going off-line com-
pletely.

The slight, spiderlike guldingar answered in the same
rhythmic idiom, speaking through a mechanical device
strapped to one leg.

"Those explanations seem dubious. In fact, they are
excuses given by great powers, as each attempts to seize
and monopolize valuable hyperspatial links for its own
strategic purposes."

Harry frowned. Worry made the fur itch beneath his
uniform. If something was happening to the viability of
t-points, the matter was of vital interest to the Navigation
Institute. Once again, he referred to the Branch Library
but found little information—just routine travel adviso-
ries and warnings of detours along some routes.

I'm sure Wer'Q'quinn will fill me in. The old serpent
oughta know what's goin' on, if anybody does.

One topic Harry wanted to hear about, but none of
the gossipers mentioned, was the Siege of Terra. Weeks
ago, when he departed to patrol E Space, the noose
around Earth and the Canaan Colonies had been draw-

T

104   David Brin

ing gradually tighter. Despite welcome assistance from
the Tymbrimi and Thennanin, battle fleets from a dozen
fanatical alliances had ceased their mutual bickering for
a time, joining cause and pressing the blockade ever
closer, choking off trade and communication to Harry's

ancestral world.

Though tempted, he refrained from querying the Li-
brary about that. Given the present political situation—
while his status was still probationary—it wouldn't be
wise to make too many inquiries about his old clan. I'm
not supposed to care about that anymore. Navigation is

my home now.

After clearing customs, his next obstacle was all-too-
unpleasantly familiar—a tall sour-faced hoon wearing
the glossy robe of a senior patron. With a magisterial
badge of the Migration Institute on one shoulder, In-
spector Twaphu-anuph gripped a plaque flowing with
data while scanners probed Harry's vessel. Every time
Harry returned from a mission, he had to endure the big
male biped's humorless black eyes scrutinizing his
ship's bio-manifest for any sign of illicit genetic cargo,
while that prodigious hoonish throat sac throbbed low
rumblings of pompous scorn.

So it rocked Harry back a bit when the brawny bu-
reaucrat spoke up this time, using rolling undertones
that seemed positively affable!

"I note that you have just returned from E Space," the
inspector murmured in GalSeven, the spacer dialect
most favored by Earthlings. "Hr-rm. Welcome home. I
trust you had a pleasant, interesting voyage?"

Harry blinked, startled by the tone of informal friend-
liness. What happened to the usual snub? he wondered.

It was normal for Migrationists to act high and mighty.
After all, their institute supervised matters of cosmic im-
portance, such as where oxygen-breathing starfarers
might colonize, and which oxy-worlds must lay fallow
for a time, untouched by sapient hands. In contrast,
Harry's organization was a "little cousin," with duties
resembling the old-time coastal guardians of Earth's
oceans—surveying hyperlink routes, monitoring space-

Heaven's fleach   105

time conditions, and safeguarding lanes of travel for Ga-
lactic commerce.

"E Space is a realm of surprises," Harry responded
cautiously. "But my mission went as well as can be ex-
pected. Thank you for asking."

A small, furry rousit—a servant-client of the hoon—
moved alongside its master, aiming a recorder unit at
Harry, making him increasingly nervous. The inspector
meanwhile towered closer, pressing his inquiry.

"Of course I am asking purely out of personal curios-
ity, but would you mind enlightening me on one matter?
Would you happen to have noticed any especially large
memoid beings while you patrolled E Space? Hrrrm.
Perchance a conceptual entity capable of extending be-
yond its native continuum, into . . . hrr-rr . . . other
levels of reality?"

Almost instinctively, Harry grew guarded. Like many
oxy-races, hoons could not bear the ambiguous condi-
tions of E Space or the thronging allaphors inhabiting
that weird realm. Small surprise, given their notorious
lack of humor or imagination.

But then why this sudden interest?

Clearly, the awkward situation called for a mix of for-
mal flattery and evasion. Harry fell back on the old yes
bwana tactic.

"It is well known that meme organisms throng
E Space like vacuum barnacles infesting a slow
freighter," he said, switching to GalSix. "But alas <oh
senior-patron-level entity> I saw only those creatures
that my poor, half-uplifted brain allowed me subjec-
tively to perceive. No doubt those impressions were too
crude to interest an exalted being like yourself."

Harry hoped the warden would miss his sarcasm. In
theory, all those who swore fealty to the Great Institutes
were supposed to leave behind their old loyalties and
prejudices. But ever since the disaster at NuDawn, ev-
eryone knew how hoons felt toward the upstarts of
Earthclan. As a neo-chimpanzee—from a barely fledged
client race, indentured to humans—Harry expected only
snobbery from Twaphu-anuph.

"You are probably right about that <oh precocious-

106  David Bfin

but-promising infant>" came the boon's response.
"Still, I remain <casually> interested in your observa-
tions. Might you have sighted any <exceptionally large
or complex> memoids traveling in <close> company
with transcendent life-forms?"

The inspector's data plaque was turned away, but its
glow reflected off a patch of glossy chest scales, flashing
familiar blue shades of approval. All checks on Harry
and his vessel were complete. There was no legal ex-
cuse to hold him anymore.

He switched languages again, this time to Anglic, the
tongue of wolflings.

"I'll tell you what, Twaphu-anuph. I'll do you a favor
and make an official inquiry about that ... in your
name, of course."

Harry aimed his own plaque and pointedly took an
ident-print before the warden could object.

"That is not necessary! I only asked informally, in
order— "

Harry enjoyed interrupting.

"Oh, you needn't thank me. We are all sworn to mu-
tual cooperation, after all. So shall I arrange for the usual
inter-institute discount and forward the report to you in
care of Migration HQ? Will that do?"

Before the flustered hoon could respond, Harry con-
tinued.

"Good! Then according to the protocols of entry, and
by your exalted leave, I guess I'll be going."

The little rousit scurried out of the way as Harry
moved forward, silently daring the barrier to prevent
him.

It swished aside, opening his path onto the avenues
of Kazzkark.

Perhaps perversely, Harry found it exciting to live in a
time of danger and change.

For almost half a galactic rotation—millions of years
—this drifting, hollowed-out stone had been little more
than a sleepy outpost for Galactic civil servants, utilizing
but a fraction of the prehistoric shafts that some extinct

Beaven's Reach   107

race once tunneled through a hundred miles of spongy
rock. Then, in just the fifteen kaduras since Harry was
assigned here, the planetoid transformed. Catacombs
that had lain silent since the Ch 'th 'turn Epoch hummed
again as more newcomers arrived every day. Over the
course of a couple of Earth years, a cosmopolitan city
came to life where each cavity and corridor offered a
melange for the senses—a random sampling of the full
range of oxy-life culture.

Some coincidence. Harry thought sardonically. It's al-
most as if all this was waiting to happen, until I came to
Kazzkark.

Of course, the truth was a little different. In fact, he
was one of the least important free sapients walking
around these ancient halls.

Walking . . . and scooting, slithering, creeping, am-
bling . . . name a form of locomotion and you could
see it being used. Those too frail to stand in half an
Earth gravity rolled everywhere on graceful carts, some
with the sophistication of miniature spaceships. Harry
even saw a dozen or so members of a long-armed spe-
cies that looked something like gibbons—with purple,
upside-down faces—leaping and brachiating from con-
venient bars and handholds set in the high ceiling. He
wanted to laugh and hoot at their antics, but their race
had probably been piloting starcraft back when humans
lived in caves. Galactics seldom had what he would call
a sense of humor.

Not long ago, a majority of those living on Kazzkark
wore uniforms of Migrlnst, Navlnst, Warlnst, or the
Great Library. But now those dressed in livery made a
small minority, lost amid a throng. The rest sported
wildly varied costumes, from full body enviro suits and
formal robes carrying runes describing their race geneal-
ogy and patronymics, all the way to beings who strode
unabashedly naked—or with just an excretory-restraint
cloth—revealing a maximum of skin, scale, feather, or
torg.

When he first entered service, most Galactics seemed
unable to tell a neo-chimpanzee from a plush recliner,
so obscure and unimportant was the small family of

108  David Brio

Terra. But that had changed lately. Quite a few faces
turned and stared as Harry walked by. Beings nudged
each other to point, sharing muted utterances—a sure
sign that the Streaker crisis hadn't been solved while he
was away. Clearly Earthclan was still gaining a renown it
never sought.

A venerable Galactic expression summed up the

problem.

"Look ye to peril—in attracting unplanned notice

from the mighty."

Still, for the most part it was easy enough to feel lost
in the crowd as he took a long route back to headquar-
ters, entranced by how much busier things had become
since he left on patrol.

Using his plaque to scan immigration profiles, Harry
knew that many of these sophonts were emissaries and
commercial delegates, sent by their race, alliance, or
corporation to seek some advantage as the staid rou-
tines of civilization dissolved in an age of rising misgiv-
ings. There were opportunities to be gained from chaos,
so agents and proxies maneuvered, playing venerable
games of espionage. Compacts were made and broken.
Bribes were offered and loyalties compromised in
double-cross gambits so ornate that the court intrigues
of the Medicis might have occurred in a sandbox. Small
clans, without any stake in galacto-politics or the out-
come of fleet engagements, nevertheless swarmed
about, endeavoring to make themselves useful to great
powers like the Klesh, Soro, or Jophur, who in turn
spent lavishly, seeking an edge over their foes.

With so much portable wealth being passed around,
an economy flourished serving the needs of each dep-
uty or spy. Almost a million free sophonts and servitor
machines saw to the visitors' biotic needs, from distinct
atmospheric preferences to exotic foodstuffs and intoxi-
cants.

It's a good thing we chims bad to give up some of our
sense of smell, trading the brain -tissue for use in sapi-
ence, Harry thought as he sauntered along the Great
Way—a mercantile avenue near the surface of Kazzkark,
stretching from pole to pole, where bubble domes inter-

Heaven's Reach   109

rupted the rocky ceiling every few kilometers to show
dazzling views of an inner spiral arm of Galaxy Five.
This passage had been a ghostly corridor when he first
came from training at Navigation Central. Now shops
and restaurants filled every niche, casting an organic
redolence so thick that any species would surely find
something toxic in the air. Most visitors underwent thor-
ough antiallergic treatments to prepare their immune
systems before leaving quarantine. And even so, many
walked the Great Way wearing respirators.

Harry found the experience heady. Every few meters,
fresh aromatics assailed his nostrils and sinuses. Some
provoked waves of delight or overpowering hunger.
Others brought him to the brink of nausea.

It kind of reminds me of New York, he pondered, re-
calling that brief time on Earth.

His ears also verged on sensory overload. The dozen
or so standard Galactic tongues came in countless dia-
lects, depending on how each race made signals. Sound
was the most frequent carrier of negotiation or gossip,
and the buzzing, clicking, groaning clamor of severat
hundred species types made the Great Way seem to
throb with physical waves of intrigue. Those preferring
visual gestures made things worse by waving, dancing,
or flashing message displays that Harry found at once
both beautiful and intimidating.

Then there's psi.

Stern rules limited how adepts might use the "vivid
spectrum" indoors. Vigilant detectors caught the most
egregious offenders. Still, Harry figured part of his ten-
sion came from a general background of psychic noise.

Fortunately, most neo-chims are deaf to psi stuff.
Some of the same traits that made a good observer in
E Space also kept him semi-immune to the cacophony
of mental vibrations filling Kazzkark right now.

Of course many of the "restaurants" were actually
shielded sites of rendezvous, where informal meetings
could take place, sometimes between star clans regis-
tered as enemies under edicts of the Institute for Civi-
lized Warfare. Harry glimpsed a haughty, lizardlike Soro,
accompanied by a minimal retinue of Pila and Paha cli-

no David Bfin

ents, slip into a shrouded establishment whose propri-
etor at once turned off the flashing "Available" sign . . .
but left the door ajar, as if expecting one more cus-
tomer.

It might have been interesting to stand around and
see who entered next to parley with the Soro matriarch,
but Harry spotted at least a dozen loiterers who were
already doing that very thing, pretending to read info-
plaques or sample wares from street vendors, while
always keeping clear line of sight to the dimmed en-

tranceway.

Harry recalled the clumsy effort of the hoon inspector
to probe him about E Space. As trust in the Institutes
unraveled, everyone seemed eager for supplementary
data, perhaps hoping a little extra might make a crucial

difference.

He couldn't afford to be mistaken for another spy.
Especially not in uniform. Some of the other great ser-
vices might be showing signs of strain, losing their trust-
worthiness and professionalism, but Navigation had an
unsullied reputation to uphold.

Passing a busy intersection, Harry glimpsed a pair of
racoonish Synthian traders, whose folk had a known
affinity for Terran art and culture. They were too far
away to make eye contact, but he was distracted by the
sight and moments later carelessly bumped into the bris-
tly, crouched form of a Xatinni.

Oh, hell, he thought as the ocelot face whirled toward
him with a twist of sour hatred. Wasting no time, Harry
ducked his head and crossed both arms before him in
the stance of a repentant client, backing away as the
creature launched into a tirade, berating him in shrill
patronizing tonal clefts of GalFour.

"To explain this insolent interruption! To abase thy-
self and apologize with groveling sincerity! To mark this
affront on the long list of debts accumulated by your
clan of worthless—"

Not a great power, the Xatinni routinely picked on
Earthlings for the oldest reason of bullies anywhere—
because they could.

"To report in three miduras at my apartment for fur-

Heaven's fleacli   ill

ther rebukes, at the following address! Forty-seven by
fifty-two Corridor of the—"

Fortunately, at that moment a bulky Vriiilh came gal-
lumping down the avenue, grunting ritual apologies to
all who had to scoot aside before the amiable behe-
moth's two-meter footsteps. The Xatinni fell back with
an angry yowl as the Vriiilh pushed between them.

Harry took advantage of the interruption to escape by
melting through the crowd.

So long, pussycat, he thought, briefly wishing he
could psi cast an insult as he fled. Instead of shameful
abasement, he would much rather have smacked the
Xatinni across the kisser—and maybe removed a few
excess limbs to improve the eatee's aerodynamics. /
hope we meet again sometime, in a dark alley with no
one watching.

Alas, self-control was the first criterion looked for by
the Terragens Council, before letting any neo-chim head
unsupervised into the cosmos at large. Small and weak,
Earthclan could not afford incidents.

Yeah . . . and a fat lotta good that policy did us in
the long run.

They gave dolphins a starship of their own, and look
what the clever fishies went and did. They stirred up the
worst crisis in Ifni-knows'how-many millions of years.

If the honest truth be told, it made Harry feel just a
little jealous.

Beyond those coming to Kazzkark on official business,
the streets and warrens supported a drifting population
of others—refugees from places disrupted by the grow-
ing chaos, plus opportunists, altruists, and mystics.

The lattermost seemed especially plentiful, these
days.

On most worlds, matters of philosophy or religion
were discussed at a languid pace, with arguments span-
ning slow generations and even being passed from a
patron race to the clients of its clients, over the course of
aeons. But here and now, Harry detected something fre-
netic about the speeches being given by missionaries

112   David Brin

who had set up shop beneath Dome Sixty-Seven. While
clusters and nebulae shimmered overhead, envoys of
the best-known denominations offered ancient wisdom
from perfumed pavilions—among them the Inheritors,
the Awaiters, the Transcenders . . . and the Abdicators,
showing no apparent sign of fragmentation as red-robed
acolytes from a dozen species hectored passersby with
their orthodox interpretation of the Progenitors' Will.

Harry knew there were many aspects of Galactic Civi-
lization he would never understand, no matter how long
or hard he tried. For instance, how could great alliances
of sapient races feud for whole epochs over minute dif-
ferences in dogma?

He wasn't alone in this confusion. Many of Earth's
greatest minds stumbled over such issues as whether the
fabled First Race began the cycle of Uplift two billion
years ago as a manifestation of predetermined physical
law—or as an emergent property of self-organizing sys-
tems in a pseudovolitionary universe. All Harry ever fig-
ured out was that most disputes revolved around how
oxy-life became sapient, and what its ultimate destiny
might be as the cosmos evolved.

"Not exactly worth killing anybody over," he snorted.
"Or gettin' killed, for that matter."

Then again, humans could hardly claim complete in-
nocence. They had slaughtered countless numbers of
their own kind over differences even more petty and
obscure during Earth's long dark isolation before Con-
tact. Before bringing light to Harry's kind.

"VSow.this is new," he mused, pausing at the far end
of the dome.

Beyond the glossy pavilions of the main sects, an aisle
had opened featuring proselytes .of a shabbier sort,
preaching from curtained alcoves and stony niches, or
even wandering the open Way, proclaiming unconven-
tional beliefs.

"Go ye hence from this place!" screeched a dour-look-
ing pee'oot with a spiral neck and goggle eyes. "For
each of you, but one place offers safety from the up-

Heaven's Resell   113

heavals to come. That is the wellspring where you be-
gan!"

Harry had to decode the heretical creed from highly
inflected Galactic Three. Use of the Collective-Respon-
sive case meant that the Pee'oot was referring to salva-
tion of species, of course, not individuals. Even heresy
had its limits.

Is he saying each race should return to its
homeworld? The mudball where its presapient ancestors
evolved and were first adopted by some patron for Up-
lift?

Or did the preacher refer to something more allegori-
cal?

Perhaps be means that each chain of Uplift is sup-
posed to seek knowledge of its own legacy, distinct/row
the others. That would call for breaking up the Institutes
and letting every oxy-life clan go its own way.

Of course Harry wasn't equipped to parse out the fine
points of Galactic theology, nor did he really care. Any-
way, the next zealot was more interesting to watch.

A komahd evangelist—with a tripod lower torso but
humanoid trunk and arms—looked jovial and friendly.
Its lizardlike head featured a broad mouth that seemed
split by a permanent happy grin, while long eyelashes
made the face seem almost beguiling. But a single, fat
rear leg thumped a morose beat while the komahd
chanted in GalSix. Its sullen tale belied those mislead-
ingly cheerful features.

"All our <current, lamentable> social disruptions have
their roots in a <despicable, nefarious> plot by the ene-
mies of all oxygen-breathing life!

"See how our great powers and alliances bleed each
other, wasting their armed might, struggling and striv-
ing in search of<vague> hints and clues to a <possible,
though unlikely> return of the <long-gone> Progeni-
tors!

"This can only serve the interests of <inscrutable, in-

114   Dovid Brin

imical> hydrogen breathers/Jealous of our<quick, ag-
ile> speed and <high> metabolisms, they have feared us
for aeons, plotting <long, slow, vile> schemes. Noiv, at
last, they are ready. See how the <wicked> hydros ma-
neuver <malignly> for our <collective> end!

"Who does not recall how <very> recently we had to
give up one of our Five Galaxies! Just half a million
years ago, <the entirety of> Galaxy Four was declared
'fallow' and emptied of all <starfaring> oxy-life culture.
Never before has the Migration Institute agreed to such a
<wholesale, traitorous> ceding of territory, whose re-
settlement repercussions are still being felt!

"We are told that the hydros <in return> abandoned
<all of> Galaxy Five, but do we not<daily> hear reports
of strange sightings and perturbations in normal space
that can only be work of the <perfidious> Zang?

"What of the <disrupted> transfer points? What of
<vast> tracts in <Level-A and Level-B> byperspace that
now turn sluggish and unusable? Why do the<great but
suspiciously silent> Institutes not tell us the truth?"

The komahd finished by pointing an all-too-humanlike
finger straight at Harry, who in his uniform seemed a
convenient representative of Navlnst. Blushing under
his fur, Harry backed away quickly.

Too bad. That was starting to get interesting. At least
someone's complaining about the stupid way the Soro
and other powers are acting. And the komahd's message
was about the future, instead of the regular obsession
with the past. All right, it's a bit paranoid. But if more
sophonts believed it, they might ease the pressure off
Earth and give those poor dolphins a chance to come
home.

Harry found it ironic then that the freethinking
Komahd generally disliked Terrans. For his own part,
Harry rather fancied their looks, and thought they
smelled pretty good, too. What a pity the admiration
wasn't reciprocal.

A ruckus from behind made him swivel around—just
in time to join a crowd scooting hurriedly toward the

Heaven's Reach   115

nearest wall! Harry felt a shiver course his spine when
he saw what was coming. A squadron of twenty fright-
ening, mantislike Tandu warriors, unarmed but still
equipped with deadly, razor-sharp claws, trooped single
file down the middle of the boulevard, the tops of their
waving eye pods almost brushing the corrugated ceil-
ing. Everyone who saw them coming scurried aside. No
one argued right of way with a Tandu, nor did any ven-
dors try to hawk wares at the spiky-limbed beings.

Before departing on his latest mission, Harry had seen
a Tandu bite off the head of an obstinate Paha who had
proudly refused to give way. Almost at once, the leader
of that Tandu group had reproved the assailant by casu-
ally chopping its brother to bits. By that act, a simple tit-
for-tat justice was served, preventing any action by the
authorities. And yet, the chief lesson was clear to all and
sundry.

Don't mess with us.

No inquiry was ever held. Even the Paha's com-
manders had to admit that its bravado and demise
amounted to a case of suicide.

Harry's pulse raced till the terrifying squadron entered
a side avenue and passed out of sight.

I . . . better not dawdle anymore, he thought, sud-
denly feeling drained and oppressed by all the clamor-
ous crowding. Wer'Q'quinn is gonna spit bile if I don't
hand in my mission report soon.

He also wanted to ask the old snake about things he
had heard and seen since landing—about hoons inter-
ested in E Space, and t-points going on the blink, and
komahd preachers who claimed—

Harry's heart almost did a back flip when his shoulder
was suddenly engulfed by a bony hand bigger than his
forearm. Slim white fingers—tipped with suckers—
gripped softly but adamantly.

He pivoted, only to stare up past an expanse of silver
robe at a tall biped who must surely mass half a metric
ton. Its head was cast like a sea ship's prow, but where
an ancient boat might have a single eye painted on each
side, this creature had two pairs, one atop the other. A

116  David Brin

flat jaw extended beneath, resembling the ram of a

Greek trireme.

It's . . . a Skiano . . . Harry recalled from the end-
less memory drills during training. He had never ex-
pected to encounter this race on the street, let alone
have one accost him personally.

What've I done now? he worried, preparing to go
through another humiliating kowtow and repentance.
At least the walking skyscraper can't accuse me of block-
ing his light.

A colorful birdlike creature perched on one of the
Skiano's broad shoulders, resembling an Earthly parrot.

"I beg your pardon for startling you, brother," the
titan said mellowly, preempting Harry's apology. It
spoke through a vodor device held in its other mam-
moth hand. The mouth did not move or utter sound.
Instead, soft light flashed from its lower pair of eyes.
The vodor translated this into audible sound.

"It seemed to me that you looked rather lost."

Harry shook his head. "Apologies for contradiction,
elder patron. Your concern warms this miserable client-
spawn. But I do know where I'm going. So, with thanks,

I'll just be on my—"

The bird interrupted, squawking derisively.
"Idiot! Fool! Not your body. It's your soul. Your soul!

Your soul!"

Only then did Harry realize—the conversation was
taking place in Anglic, the wolfling tongue of his birth.
He took a second squint at the bird.

Given the stringent requirements of flight, feathered
avians had roughly similar shapes, no matter what oxy-
world they originated on. Still, in this case there could
be no mistake. It was a parrot. A real one. The yo-ho-ho
and a bottle of rum kind . . . which made the Skiano
seem even stranger than before.

Wrong number of eyes, Harry thought numbly. You
should be wearing a patch over one—or even three/Also
oughta have a peg leg . . . and a hook instead of a

hand. ...

"Indeed, my good ape," the buzzing voice from the
vodor went on, agreeing with the talking bird. "It is your

Heaven's Reach   117

soul that seems in jeopardy. Have you taken the time to
consider its salvation?"

Harry blinked. He had never heard of a Skiano prose-
lyte before, let alone one that preached in Anglic, wear-
ing a smartass Terran bird as an accessory.

"You're talking about me," he prompted.

"Yes, you."

Harry blinked, incredulous.

"Me . . . personally7"

The parrot let out an exasperated raspberry, but the
Skiano's eyes seemed to carry a satisfied twinkle. The
machine sounds were joyous.

"At last, someone who quickly grasps the concept!
But indeed, I should not be surprised that one of your
noble lineage comprehends."

"Uh, noble lineage?" Harry repeated. No one had ever
accused him of that before.

"Of course. You are from Earth'. Blessed home of
Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, Tipler, and
Weimberg-Chang! The abode where wolflings burst to
sapience in a clear case of virgin birth, without interven-
tion by any other race of Galactic sinners, but as an
immaculate gift from the Cosmos itself!"

Harry stepped back, staring in blank amazement. But
the Skiano followed.

"The world whence comes a notion that will change
the universe forever. A concept that you, dear brother,
must come help us share!"

The huge evangelist leaned toward Harry, projecting
intense fervor through both sound and an ardent light in
its eyes.

., "The idea of a God who loves each person! Who finds
importance not in your race or clan, or any grand ab-
straction, but every particular entity who is self-aware
and capable of improvement.

"The Creator of All, who promises bliss when we join
Him at the Omega Point.

"The One who offers salvation, not collectively, but to
each individual soul."

118  David Brin

•     •     •

Harry could do nothing but blink, flabbergasted, as his
brain and throat locked in a rigor from which no speech

could break free.

"Amen!" squawked the parrot. "Amen and hallelujah!"

/uvlns Journal

RR ONCE /HAD THE BEST VIEW OF WHAT WAS
3ing on. My pals—Ur-ronn, Huck, and Pincer—
ere all in other parts of the ship where they had to
•ttle for what they could see on monitors. But I
ood just a few arm's lengths from Dr. Baskin, shar-
ing the commander's view while we made our escape
from Izmunuti.

It all happened right in front of me.
Officially, I was in the Plotting Room to take care of
the smelly glavers. But that job didn't amount to much
more than feeding them an occasional snack of synthi
pellets I kept in a pouch . . . and cleaning up when
they made a mess. Beyond that, I was content to watch,
listen, and wonder how I'd ever describe it all in my
journal. Nothing in my experience—either growing up
in a little hoonish fishing port or reading books from the
human past—prepared me for what happened during
those miduras of danger and change.

I took some inspiration from Sara Koolhan. She's an-
other sooner—a Jijo native like me, descended from
criminal settlers. Like me, she never saw a starship or
computer before this year. And yet, the young human's
suggestions are heeded. Her advice is sought by those
in authority. She doesn't seem lost when they discuss
"circumferential thread boundaries" and "quantum real-
ity layers." (My little autoscribe is handling the spelling,
in case you wonder.) Anyway, I tell myself that if one
fellow citizen of the Slope can handle all this strange-
ness, I should too.

Ah, but Sara was a sage and a wizard back home, so
I'm right back where I started, hoping to narrate the

Heaven's Reach   119

actions of star gods and portray sights far stranger than
we saw in the deepest Midden, relying on language that
I barely understand.

(On Jijo, we use Anglic to discuss technical matters,
since most books from the Great Printing were in that
tongue. But it's different aboard Streaker. When scien-
tific details have to be precise, they switch to GalSeven
or GalTwo, using word-glyphs I find impenetrable . . .
showing how much our Jijoan dialects have devolved.)

The caterwauling of the glavers was something else
entirely. It resembled no idiom I had ever heard before!
Enhanced and embellished by the Niss Machine, their
noise reached out across the heavens, while a terrifying
Zang vessel bore down toward Streaker, intent on blast-
ing our atoms through the giant star's whirling atmo-
sphere.

Even if the approaching golden globule was bluffing
—if it veered aside at the last moment and let us pass—
we would only face another deadly force. The Jophur
battleship that had chased Streaker from Jijo now hur-
tled to cut us off from the only known path out of this
storm-racked system.

Without a doubt, Gillian Baskin had set us on course
past a gauntlet of demons.

Still, the glavers bayed and moaned while tense duras
passed.

Until, finally, the hydrogen breathers replied!

That screeching racket was even worse. Yet, Sara
slapped the plotting table and exulted.

"So the legend is true!"

All right, I should have known the story too. I admit, I
spent too much of my youth devouring ancient Earth-
ling novels instead of works by our own Jijoan scholars.
Especially the collected oral myths and sagas that
formed our cultural heritage before humans joined the
Six Races and gave us back literacy.

Apparently, the first generation of glaver refugees
who came to our world spoke to the g'Keks who were
already there, and told them something about their

120 Quill Brin

grounds for fleeing the Civilization of Five Galaxies.
Centuries before their kind trod the Path of Redemption,
the glavers explained something of their reason for self-
banishment.

It seems they used to have a talent that gave them
some importance long ago, among the starfaring clans.
In olden times, they were among the few races with a
knack for conversing with hydrogen breathers! It made
them rich, serving as middlemen in complex trade ar-
rangements . . . till they grew arrogant and careless.
Something you should never do when dealing with
Zang.

One day, their luck ran out. Maybe they betrayed a
confidence, or took a bribe, or failed to make a major
debt payment. Anyway, the consequences looked pretty
grim.

In compensation, the Zang demanded the one thing
glavers had left.

Themselves.

At least that's how Sara relayed the legend to Gillian
and the rest of us, speaking breathlessly while time bled
away and the glavers howled and we plunged ever
closer to a vast, threatening space leviathan.

Piecing together what was happening, I realized the
glavers weren't actually talking to the Zang. After all,
they've reached redemption and are now presapient be-
ings, nearly bereft of speech.

But the Zang have long -memories, and our glavers
seemed instinctively—maybe at some genetically pro-
grammed level—to know how to yowl just one mean-
ingful thing. One phrase to let their ancient creditors
know.

Hey! It is us! We're here! It's us!

To this identifying ululation, all the Niss Machine had
to add/overlay was a simple request.

Kindly get those Jophur bastards of f our butts.

Help us get away from here.

Anxious moments passed. My spines frickled as we
watched the Zang loom closer. I felt nervous as an urs
on a beach, playing tag with crashing waves.

Then, just as it seemed to be swooping for the kill,

Heaven's Reach   121

our would-be destroyer abruptly swerved! A climactic
screech came over the loudspeakers. It took the Niss
several duras, consulting with the Library unit, to offer a
likely translation.

Come with us now.

Just like that, our nemesis changed into an escort,
showing us the way. Leading Streaker out of Izmunuti's
angry chaos.

We took our place in convoy as the Zang ship gath-
ered the surviving harvester machines, fleeing toward
the old transfer point.

Meanwhile, one of its companion vessels turned to
confront our pursuers.

Long-distance sensors depicted a face-off between
omnipotent titans.

The showdown was awesome to behold, even at a
range that made it blurry. I listened to Lieutenant Tsh't
describe the action for Sara.

"Those are hellfire missiles-s-s," the dolphin officer
explained as the Jophur battleship accelerated, firing
glittering pinpoints at its new adversary.

The sap-rings must want the dolphins awful bad, I
thought. If they're willing to fight their way past that
monster to get at Streaker.

The Zang globule was even bigger than the
Jophur ... a quivering shape that seemed more like
gelatin, or something oozing from a wounded traeki,
than solid matter. Once, I thought I glimpsed shadowy
figures moving within, like drifting clouds or huge living
creatures swimming through an opaque fluid.

Small bits of the main body split off, like droplets
spraying from a gobbet of grease on a hot griddle.
These did not hasten with the same lightning grace as
the Jophur missiles. They seemed more massive. And
relentless.

One by one, each droplet swelled like an inflating
balloon, interposing its expanding surface between the
two warships. Jophur weapons maneuvered agilely,
striving to get past the obstructions, but nearly all the

122   David Brin

missiles were caught by one bubble or another, trigger-
ing brilliant explosions.

From her massive walking machine, watching the
fight with one cool gray eye, Tsh't commented. "The
Zang throws parts of its own substance ahead, in order
to defend itself-f-f. So far, it has taken no offensive ac-
tion of its own."

I recall thinking hopefully that this meant the hydros
were of a calm nature, less prone to savage violence
than we are told by the sagas. Perhaps they only meant
to delay the Jophur long enough for us to get away.

Then I reconsidered.

Let's say this help from hydrogen breathers lets
Streaker make good her escape. That's great for the
Earthlings—and maybe for the Five Galaxies—but it
still leaves Jijo in a mess. The Jophur will be able to call
reinforcements and do anything they want to the people
of the Slope. Slaughter all the g'Kek. Transform all the
poor traeki. Burn down the archive at Biblos and turn
the Slope into their private genetic farm, breeding the
other races into pliable little client life-forms. . . .

Gillian's earlier plan, to draw the battleship after us
into a deadly double suicide, would have caused my
own death, and that of everyone else aboard—but my
homeworld might then have been safe.

The trade-offs were stark and bitter. I found myself
resenting the older woman for making a choice that
spared my life.

I also changed my mind about the Zang.

Well? What're you waiting/or? Shoot back!

The Jophur were oxygen beings like myself, distant
relatives, sharing some of the same DNA that had spread
around the galaxies during a predawn era before
Progenitors arose to begin the chain of Uplift. Neverthe-
less, right then I was cheering for their annihilation by
true aliens. Beings from a strange, incomprehensible or-
der of life.

Come on, Zang. Fry the big ugly ring stacks!

But things went on pretty much the same as distance
narrowed between the two giants. The globule spent
itself prodigiously to block missiles and gouts of deadly

Heaven's Reach   123

fire from the great dreadnought. Yet despite this, some
rays and projectiles got through, impacting the parent
body with bitter violence. Fountains of gooey material
spewed across the black background, sparkling gor-
geously as they burned. Waves rippled and convulsed
across the Zang ship. Still it forged on while the glavers
yowled, seeming to urge the hydros on.

"T-point insertion approaching, " announced a dol-
phin's amplified voice. It had a fizzing quality that
meant the speaker was breathing oxygen-charged wa-
ter, so it must be coming from the bridge. "All hands
prepare for transition. Kaa says-our guides are acting
strange. They're choosing an unconventional approach
pattern, so this may get rough!"

Gillian and Sara gripped their armrests. The dolphins
in the Plotting Room caused their walkers' feet to splay
out and magnetize, gripping the floor. But there was
little for me and the glavers to do except stare about
with wild, feral eyes. In the forward viewer, I now saw
the starscape interrupted by a twist of utter blackness.
Computer-generated lines converged while figures and
glyphs made Sara murmur with excitement.

I watched the ship ahead of us, the first Zang globule,
shiver almost eagerly as it plunged at a steep angle
toward the twist. . . .

Then it fell in a direction I could not possibly describe
if my life depended on it.

A direction that I never, till that moment, knew ex-
isted.

I glanced quickly at the rearward display. It showed
the other hydro vessel shaking asunder before repeated
fierce blows as the Jophur battle cruiser fired desper-
ately with short-range weapons. The two behemoths
were almost next to each other now, matched in veloc-
ity, still racing after us.

A final, frantic hammering ripped through the Zang
ship, tearing it into several unraveling gobs.

For a moment, I thought it was over.

I thought the Jophur had won.

Then two of those huge gobs curled, almost like liv-

r

124  Oavid Brin

ing tendrils, and settled across the gleaming metal hull.
They clung to its surface. Spreading. Oozing.

Somehow, despite the distance and flickering haze, I
had the sense of something probing for a way in.

Then the image vanished.

I turned back to the main viewer. Transition had be-
gun.

K

aa

THERE WAS A FINE ART TO PILOTING A STARSHIP
through the stretched geometries of a transfer point.
No machine or logical algorithm could manage the
feat alone.

Part of it involved playing hunches, knowing
when to release the flange fields holding you to one
shining thread and choosing just the right moment to
make a leap—lasting both seconds and aeons—across
an emptiness deeper than vacuum . . . then clamping
nimbly to another slender discontinuity (without actu-
ally touching its deadly rim) and riding that one forward
to your goal.

Even a well-behaved t-point was a maelstrom. A spa-
ghetti tangle of shimmering arcs and folds, bending the
cosmic fabric through multiple—and sometimes partial
—dimensions.

A maze of dazzling, filamentary imperfections.
Stringlike cracks in the mirror of creation.
For those wise enough to use them well, the glowing
strands offered a great boon. A way to travel safely from
galaxy to linked galaxy, much faster than using hyper-
space.

But to the foolish, or inattentive, their gift was a quick
and flashy end.

Kaa loved thread-jumping more than any other part of
spaceflight. Something about- it meshed with both sides
of neo-dolphin nature.

Heaven's Reach   125

The new brain layers, added by human genecrafters,
let him regard each strand as a flaw in the quantum
metric, left behind when the universe first cooled from
an inflating superheated froth, congealing like a many-
layered cake to form the varied levels of real and
hyperspace. That coalescence left defects behind—
boundaries and fractures—where physical laws bent
and shortcuts were possible. He could ponder all of that
with the disciplined mental processes Captain Creideiki
used to call the Engineer's Mind.

Meanwhile, in parallel, Kaa picked up different tex-
tures and insights through older organs, deep within his
skull. Ancient bits of gray matter tuned for listening—to
hear the swishing structure of a current, or judge the
cycloid rhythms of a wave. Instruments probed the
dense tangle of fossil topological boundaries, feeding
him data in the form of sonar images. Almost by intu-
ition, he could sense when a transfer thread was about
to play out, and which neighboring cord he should
clamp on to, sending the Streaker darting along a new
gleaming path toward her next goal.

Thomas Orley had once compared the process to
"leaping from one roller coaster to another, in the mid-
dle of a thunderstorm."

Creideiki had expressed it differently.

* Converging nature

* Begins and ends, lives and dies,

* Where tide meets shoal and
sky ..."

Even during the expedition's early days—when the cap-
tain was still with them and Streaker's brilliant chief
pilot Keepiru handled all the really tough maneuvers—
everyone had nevertheless agreed that there was noth-
ing quite like a t-point ride with Kaa at the helm—an
exuberance of daring, flamboyant maneuvers that never
seemed to go wrong. Once, after a series of absurdly
providential thread jumps let him break a million-year-
old record, taking the crossing from Tanith to Calafia in

126   Oaviil Brio

five and a quarter rnictaars, the crew bestowed on him a
special nickname.

"Lucky."

In Trinary, the word-phrase meant much more than it
did in Anglic. It connoted special favor in the fortune
sea, the deep realm of chance where Ifni threw her dice
and ancient dreamers crooned songs that were old be-
fore the stars were born.

It was a great honor. But some also say that such
titles, once won, are hard to keep.

He started losing his during the fiasco at Oakka, that
awful green world of betrayal, and things went rapidly
downhill after that. By the time Streaker fled to a murky
trash heap beneath Jijo's forlorn ocean, few called him
Lucky Kaa anymore.

Then, in a matter of days, fate threw him the best and
crudest turns of all. He found love . . . and quickly
lost it again when duty yanked Kaa away from his heart,
sending him hurtling parsecs farther from Peepoe with
each passing minute.

At the very moment she needed me most.

So he took little joy from this flight through a laby-
rinth of shimmering threads. Only grim professionalism
sustained him.

Kaa had learned not to count on luck.

Behind him, the water-filled control room seemed eerily
silent. Without opening his eyes or breaking concentra-
tion, Kaa felt the other neo-fins holding tense rein over
their reflex sonar clicking, in order not to disturb him.

They had cause for taut nerves. This transfer was like
no other.

The reason gleamed ahead of Streaker—a vast object
that Kaa perceived one moment as a gigantic jelly-
fish . . . then like a mammoth squid, with tentacles
bigger than any starship he had ever seen. Its fluid pro-
file, transformed for travel through the t-point's twisted
bowels, gave him shivers. Instinct made Kaa yearn to
get away—to cut the flanges and hop any passing

Heaven's Beach   127

thread, no matter where in the universe it might lead—
just to elude that dreadful shape.

But it's our guide. And if we tried to get away, the
Zang would surely kill us.

Kaa heard a faint caterwauling cry, coming from the
dry chamber next door—the plotting room. By now he
recognized the wailing sound of glavers, those devolved
creatures from Jijo who had voluntarily returned to ani-
mal presapience. That alone would be enough to give
him the utter willies, even without this bizarre affinity
the bulge-eyed beasts seemed to have with a completely
different order of life. That understanding offered
Streaker a way clear of the dreaded Jophur, but at what
cost?

Saved from one deadly foe, he pondered. Only to face
another that's feared all across Galactic Civilization.

In fact, such dilemmas were becoming routine to the
dolphin crew. The whole universe seemed filled with
nothing but frying pans and fires.

They're getting ready, Kaa contemplated as a gentle
throbbing passed along the tentacles of the squidlike
shape ahead. Twice before, this had just preceded a
jump maneuver. On both occasions, it had taken all his
skill to follow without slamming Streaker into a nearby
string singularity. The hydros used a thread-riding style
unlike any he had seen before, following world lines
that were more timelike than spacelike, triggering micro
causality waves that nauseated everyone aboard. Noth-
ing about the Zang method was any more efficient. Each
jarring maneuver—and churning neural reflex—made
Kaa want to swerve back and do it in a way that made
more sense.

I could probably get you there in half the time, he
thought resentfully toward the squid-shaped thing. If
you just told me where we're going.

True, the resonances had changed since he last used
this t-point, back when Streaker fled the horrid Fractal
World, attempting Gillian's last desperate gamble . . .
the "sooner's path," seeking a hiding place on far-off

128  David firin

Jijo. When that second singularity nexus reopened near
Izmunuti, it must have jiggered this one as well. Still,
there must be sin easier way to get where the Zang
wanted to go than—

Sonar images merged into focus. He perceived a
bright cluster of threads just ahead ... a Gordian tan-
gle with no spacelike strands at all.

Ugh! That ghastly clutter has got to be where the hy-
dros are aiming, damn them.

And yet, listening carefully to the transposed sound
portrait, he thought he could sense something about the
knotty mess. . . .

You know, I'll bet I can guess which thread they're
gonna take.

Kaa's attention riveted. This was important to him.
More than duty and survival were at stake. Or the
vaunted reputation neo-dolphin pilots had begun to
earn among the Five Galaxies. Even regaining his nick-
name held little attraction anymore.

Only one thing really mattered to Kaa. Getting the job
done. Delivering Gillian Baskin and her cargo safely.
And then finding a way back to Jijo. Back to Peepoe.
Even if it meant never piloting again. He triggered an
alarm to warn the others.

Here we go!

The "squid" uncoiled, preparing for its final leap.

/uvins Journal

AM AT A LOSS TO DESCRIBE EVEN A SINGLE MO-
| ment of our time inside the t-point.

Comparisons come to mind. Like a Founders' Day
fireworks display. Or watching a clever urrish tinker
I throw sparkling exploser dust during a magic show,

or

Give up, Alvin.

All I really recall from that nauseating passage is a
blur of dazzling ribbons waving across every monitor
screen. While Sara Koolhan shouted ecstatically, watch-

Heaven's Reocli   129

ing her beloved mathematics come alive before her
eyes, the more experienced Gillian Baskin kept grunting
in dismayed surprise—a sound I found worrisome.

The gravity fields pitched and fluxed. Sparks flew
from nearby instrument banks. Neo-fin crew stomped
their walker machines close, dousing hot spots with in-
ert gas. All told, this first-time space traveler figured we
were experiencing no typical passage.

In fact, I soon felt too miserable to notice much of
anything. I just spread my arms in a wide circle so the
glavers could huddle inside, mewling pathetically. But
the shrieking cry of Streaker's engines tore through all
my efforts to umble reassuringly.

Without any doubt, it was among the worst couple of
miduras in my life, even when I compare it to the awful
time when my friends and I fell off the edge of a subsea
cliff in our broken Wuphon 's Dream, with icy water jet-
ting at my face as we tumbled toward the cold hell of
Jijo's Midden.

At one point a dolphin cried out—"Here we go!"—
and things rapidly got a whole lot worse. My second
bowel did a lurch against my heart. Then I found I
couldn't breathe as every sound around me abruptly
ceased!

For a long, extended moment it felt like being swad-
dled in a dense bale of bee cotton, as if I were being
torn from the universe, looking back at it from the end
of a long tunnel, or from the bottom of a deep, deep
well.

Then, just as suddenly, I was back! The cosmos
swarmed around me again. A great weight seemed to lift
off my vertebral spines, allowing me to inhale sharply.

We Jijoan boons love our sailing ships, I thought,
fighting off waves of queasiness. We never get sick at
sea. But our star traveling ancestors must've been
throwing up all the time, if this was how they bad to get
about. No wonder legends say they were such grouches.

Glancing up, I saw that Gillian and Sara were already
on their feet, moving tensely toward the big display.
Tsh't and the dolphin staff piloted their walkers to

130   Oaviil Brin

crowd just behind the humans, peering over their shoul-
ders.

A bit shaky, I stood and joined them. On the main
screen, all the roiling colors were dissipating fast.
Streaker's roaring engines dropped to a soft mutter as
the ripple-swirls parted like folds of a curtain, re-
vealing . . .

. . . stars.

I gazed at strange constellations.

Stars that are some damn Ifni-incalculable distance
from the ones I know.

How is one supposed to feel when a long-held, im-
possible dream comes true?

Alvin, you are now a long, long way from home.

While I mused on that marvel, Streaker slowly turned.
The shining skyscape flowed past our gaze—strange
clusters, nebulae, and spiral arms whose light might not
reach Jijo for thousands or millions of years—until at last
we caught sight of our escort, the huge Zang ship-entity.

And the place where it was leading us.

A gasp shuddered through the Plotting Room, as ev-
ery Earthling expressed the same emotion at once.

"Oh, no," groaned Lieutenant Tsh't. "It c-can't be!"

Dr. Gillian Baskin sighed.

"I don't believe it! All that misery . . . just to wind up
back here7"

Before me, starting to fill the forward screen, there
stretched yet another sight I could barely describe at
first. A structure of some kind, nearly black as space.
Only when Gillian ordered further image enhancement
did it stand forth from the background, glowing a deep
shade of umber.

It looked roughly spherical, but spiky all around, like
one of those burr seeds that stick to your leg fur when
you go tramping through undergrowth. I thought it must
be another mammoth starship, looming frightfully close.

Then I realized—we were still barreling along at great
speed, but its apparent size was changing only very
slowly.

Heaven's Reach   131

It must be really huge, I realized, shifting my imagina-
tion. Even bigger than the Zang ship!

That jaundiced globule cruised alongside Streaker,
shivering in a way that made me nervous. Scratchy
noises assailed us again through the loudspeakers, mak-
ing the glavers sway their big heads, rolling bulbous
eyes and moaning.

"They say that we must follow," translated the Niss
Machine.

Lieutenant Tsh't stuttered.

"Sh-shall we try for the t-transfer point? We could turn
quickly. Dive back in. Trust Kaa to—"

Gillian shook her head.

"The Zang wouldn't let us get two meters."

Her shoulders hunched in a human expression of
misery that no hoon could mimic. Clearly, this jagged
place was a familiar sight that no one aboard Streaker
would have chosen to visit again.

I caught the eye of Sara Koolhan. For the first time,
my fellow Jijoan seemed just as much at a loss as I. She
blinked in apparent confusion, unable to grasp the im-
mensity of this thing ahead of us.

A strange sound came from the only male human
present. The mute one who never speaks—Emerson
d'Anite. He had been especially quiet during the trip
from Izmunuti, silently studying the strange colors of
t-space, as if they carried more meaning than the words
of his own kind.

Now, staring at the huge, prickly ball, his face ex-
pressed the same astonishment as his crewmates' faces,
intense emotion twisting the dark man's wounded fea-
tures. Sara moved quickly to Emerson's side, taking his
arm and speaking gently.

I recall thinking, If this place made the Terrans des-
perate enough to flee to Jijo, I'm not surprised they're
upset finding themselves right back here.

A familiar voice cried out behind me, in tones of
awed delight.

"Uttergloss!"

I turned in time to see Huck come wheeling into the

132  David Brin

Plotting Room, waving all four of her agile g'Kek eyes
toward the big screen.

"That thing looks so cool. What is it?"

Another pal reached the open door not far behind
her. An urrish head snaked through at the end of a long,
sinuous neck, its single nostril flaring at the unpleasant
reek of Earthling fear.

Arriving from another direction, a red qheuen lunged
his armored bulk rudely past Ur-ronn while she hesi-
tated. Pincer-Tip's vision cupola spun and he snapped
his claws in excitement.

I should have expected it, of course. They weren't
invited, but if my friends share one instinct across all
species boundaries, it's a knack for finding trouble and
charging straight for it.

"Hey, furry legs!" Huck snapped, nudging my flank
with two waving eyestalks while the other pair strained
to peer past the crowd. "Make your overstuffed carcass
useful. Clear a way through these fishy things so I can
see!"

Wincing, I hoped the dolphins were too busy to note
her impertinence. Rather than disturb the crew, I bent
down and grabbed Huck's axle rims, grunting as I lifted
her above the crowd for a better view. (A young g'Kek
doesn't weigh much, though at the time my back was
still healing. It twinged each time she squirmed and
spun from excitement.)

"What is that thing?" Huck repeated, gesturing toward
the huge spiky ball.

Lieutenant Tsh't raised her glossy head from the soft
platform of her mechanical walker, aiming one dark eye
at my g'Kek friend.

"It'ssss a place where we fishy things suffered greatly,
before coming to your world."

Had I been human, my ears would have burned with
embarrassment. Being a hoon, my throat sac puffed
with apologetic umbles. But Huck barged on without
noticing.

"Sheesh, it looks big!"

The dolphin emitted snorting laughter from her moist
blowhole.

Heaven's Reach   133

"You c-could say that. The shell encloses a volume of
approximately thirty astrons, or a trillionth of a cubic
parsec."

Huck's stalks expressed a blithe shrug.

"Huh! Whatever that means. I'll tell you what it re-
minds me of. It looks like the spiny armor covering a
desert clam!"

"Lookssss can be deceiving, young Jijoan," Tsh't an-
swered. "That shell is soft enough to cut with a wooden
spoon. If you approached and exhaled on it, the patch
touched by your breath would boil away. Its average
density is like a cloud in a snowstorm."

That doesn't sound too threatening, I pondered. Then
I caught the startled look on Sara Koolhan's face. Our
young human sage frowned as her eyes darted back and
forth, from data panels to the main screen, then to Tsh't.

"The infrared . . . the reemission profiles . . .
You're not saying that thing actually contains—"

She stopped, unable to finish her sentence. The dol-
phin officer snickered.

"Indeed it does. A star resides at the heart of that soft
confffection. That deceptive puff of p-poison ssssnow.

"Welcome, dear Jijoan friends. Welcome to the Fractal
World."

HE DIDN'T FEEL COLD. NOT EXACTLY. EVEN
though, logically, he ought to.
A cloying mist surrounded Lark as membranes
pressed against him from all sides, keeping his
body bent nearly double, with knees up near his
chin.

Lark felt as he imagined he might if someone
crammed him back into the womb.
Soon anotlier similarity grew apparent.
He wasn't breathing anymore.

In fact, his mouth was sealed shut and swollen plugs
filled both nostrils. The rhythmic expansion of his chest,

134   Baviil Drill

the soft sigh of sweet air, these notable portions of life's
usual background . . . were gone!

With this realization, panic nearly engulfed Lark. A
red haze obscured vision, narrowing to a tunnel as he
struggled and thrashed. Though his body seemed reluc-
tant at first, he obliged it to try inhaling . . . and
achieved nothing.

He tried harder, commanding effort from his sluggish
diaphragm and rib cage. Lark's spine arched as he
strained, until at last a scant trickle of gas slipped by one
nose plug—perhaps only a few molecules—

—carrying an acrid stench!

Sudden paroxysms contorted Lark. Limbs churned
and bowels convulsed as he tried voiding himself into
the turbid surroundings.

Fortunately, his gut was empty—he had eaten little
for days. A cottony feeling spread through his extremi-
ties like a drug, filling them with soothing numbness as
the fit soon passed, leaving behind a lingering foul taste
in his mouth.

Lark had learned a valuable lesson.

Next time you find yourself wrapped up in fetal posi-
tion, crammed inside a stinking bag without an instinct
to breathe, take a bint. Go with the flow.

Lark felt for a pulse and verified that his heart, at least,
was still functioning. The persistent stinging in his si-
nuses—a noxious-familiar stench—was enough all by
itself to verify that life went on, painful as it was.

Turning his head to look around, Lark soon noticed
that his bag of confinement was just one of many float-
ing in a much larger volume. Through the obscuring
mist he made out other membranous sacks. Most held
big, conical-shaped Jophur—tapered stacks of fatty
rings that throbbed feebly while their basal leg segments
pushed uselessly, without any solid surface for traction.
Some of the traekilike beings looked whole, but others
had clearly been broken down to smaller stacks, or even
individual rings.

Knotty cables, like the throbbing tendrils of a mule
spider, led away from each cell . . . including his own.
In fact, one penetrated the nearby translucent wall,

ileuen's Reacli  135

snaking around Lark's left leg and terminating finally at
his inner thigh, just below the groin.

The sight triggered a second wave of panic, which he
fought this time by drawing on his best resource, his
knowledge as a primitive scientist. Jijo might be a back-
water, lacking the intellectual resources of the Five Gal-
axies, but you could still train a working mind from the
pages of paper books.

Use what you know. Figure this out!

All right.

First thing . . . the cable piercing his leg appeared to
target the femoral artery. Perhaps it was feeding on him,
like some space-leech in a garish, pre-Contact scifi yarn.
But that horror image seemed so silly that Lark sus-
pected the truth was quite different.

Basic life support. I'm floating in a poison atmo-
sphere, so they can't let me breathe or eat or drink. They
must be sending oxygen and nutrients directly to my
blood.

Whoever "they" were.

As for the jiggling containers, Lark was enough of a
field biologist to know sampling bags when he saw
them. Although he could not laugh, a sense of ironic
justice helped him put a wry perspective on the situa-
tion. He had put more than enough hapless creatures in
confinement during his career as a naturalist, dissecting
the complex interrelationships of living species on Jijo.

If nature passed out karma for such acts, Lark's bur-
den might merit a personal purgatory that looked some-
thing like this.

He strained harder to see through the mist, hoping not
to find Ling among the captives. And yet, a pall of lone-
liness settled when he verified she was now^here in
sight.

Maybe she escaped from Rann and the Jophur, when
these yellow monsters invaded the Polkjhy. If she made it
to the Life Core, she might clamber through the jungle
foliage and be safe in our old nest. For a while, at least.

He glimpsed walls beyond the murk, estimating this

136   David Brin

chamber to be larger than the meeting tree back in his
home village. From certain visible furnishings and wall-
mounted data units, he could tell it was still the Jophur
dreadnought, but invaders had taken over this portion,
filling it with their own nocuous atmosphere.

That ought to be a clue. The familiar-horrid scent. A
toxicity that forbade inhaling. But Lark's bruised mind
drew no immediate conclusions. To aJijoan—even a so-
called "scientist"—all of space was a vast realm of terri-
ble wonders.

Have they seized the whole vessel?

It seemed farfetched, given the power of mighty
Jophur skygods, but Lark looked for some abstract so-
lace in that prospect. Those traeki-cousins meant only
bad news to all the Six Races ofJijo, especially the poor
g'Kek. The best thing that could happen to his
homeworid would be if battleship Polkjhy never
reached home to report what it had found in an obscure
corner of Galaxy Four.

And yet, this situation could hardly be expected to
make him glad, or grateful to his new captors.

It took a while, but eventually Lark realized—some of
them were nearby!

At first, he mistook the quivering shapes for lumps in
the overall fog, somewhat denser than normal. But
these particular patches remained compact and self-
contained, though fluid in outline. He likened them to
shifting heaps of pond scum ... or else succinct thun-
derheads, cruising imperiously among lesser clouds.
Several of these amorphous-looking bodies clustered
around a nearby sample bag, inspecting the Jophur pris-
oner within.

Inspecting? What makes you think that? Do you see
any eyes? Or sensory organs of any kind?

The floating globs moved languidly, creeping through
the dense medium by extending or writhing temporary
arms or pseudopods. There did not seem to be any per-
manent organs or structures within their translucent
skins, but a rhythmic movement of small, blobby
subunits that came together, merged, or divided with a
complexity he could only begin to follow.

Heaven's Reach  137

He recalled an earlier amoebalike creature, much big-
ger than these—the invader who had burst through a
ship's bulkhead, scaring away Rann and the other pur-
suers who had Lark cornered. That one had seemed to
look right at Lark, before swarming ahead rapidly to
swallow him up.

What could they be? Did Ling ever mention anything
like this? I don't remember. . . .

All at once Lark knew where he had encountered the
foul smell before. At Biblos ... the Hall of Sci-
ence ... in a part of the great archive that had been
cleared of bookshelves in order to set up a chemistry
lab, where a small band of sages labored to recreate
ancient secrets, financed and subsidized by the Jijoan
Explosers Guild.

Trying to recover old skills, or even learn new things.
The guild must have bee^zfull of heretics like Sara. Be-
lievers in "progress."

I never thought of it before, hut the Slope was rife with
renegade thinking even weirder than my oivn. In time,
we'd probably have had a religious schism—even civil
war—if gods hadn't come raining from the sky this
year.

He thought about Harullen and Uthen, his chitinous
friends, laid low by alien treachery. And about Dwer
and Sara—safe at home, he hoped. For their sake alone,
he would blow up this majestic vessel, if that meant Jijo
could be shrouded once more in blessed obscurity.

Lark's dour contemplations orbited from the melan-
choly past, around the cryptic present, and through a
dubious future.

Time advanced, though he had no way of measuring
it except by counting heartbeats. That grew tedious, af-
ter a while, but he kept at it, just to keep his hand in.

I'm alive! The creatures in charge here must find me
interesting, in some way.

Lark planned on stoking that interest, whatever it
took.

/uvins Journal

WELCOME, DEAR JIfOAN FRIENDS. WELCOME TO
the Fractal World."

That line would have been a great place to fin-
ish this journal entry.

The moment had an eerie, intense drama. I
could sense the tragic letdown of the Streaker crew,
having fled all the way to Jijo's hellish deeps, and lost
many comrades, only to wind up back at the very spot
that had caused them so much pain in the first place.

But what happened next made all that seem to pale,
like a shadow blasted by lightning.

"Maybe it'sss a different criswell structure, "suggested
Akeakemai, one of the dolphin technical officers, calling
from the bridge. "After all, there's supposed to be mil-
lions of them, in just this galaxy alone."

But that wishful hope shattered when Tsh't confirmed
the star configurations.

"Besides. What are the chances another criswell
would sit this close to a transfer point? Most lie in re-
mote globular clusters.

"No," the lieutenant went on. "Our Zang friends have
brought us back for s-sssome bloody reason . . . may
they vaporize and burn for it."

We four kids from Wuphon gathered at one end of the
Plotting Room to compare notes. Ur-ronn communi-
cated with her friends in Engineering. Her urrish lisp
grew stronger as she became more excited, explaining
what she had learned about the spiky ball.

"It is hollow, wjith a radius avout three tines as wide
as Jijo's orvit, centered on a little red dwarf star. It is all
jagged vecause that creates the highest surface area to

Heaven's Reich   139

radiate heat to surface. And it's just like that on the in-
side too, where the uneven surface catches every ray of
light from the star!"

"Actually, a simple sphere would accomplish that,"
explained the Niss Machine in professorial tones. A pic-
torial image appeared, showing a hollow shell sur-
rounding a bright crimson pinpoint.

"Some pre-Contact Earthlings actually prophesied
such things, calling them—"

"Dyson spheres!" Huck shouted.

We all stared at her. She twisted several vision-stalks
in a shrug.

"C'mon guys. Catch up on your classic scifi."

Hoons think more slowly than g'Keks, but I nodded
at last.

"Hr-rm, yes. I recall seeing them mentioned in novels
by ... hr-r . . . Shaw and Alien. But the idea seemed
too fantastic ever to take serious . . ."

My voice trailed off. Of course, seeing is believing.

"As I was about to explain," the Niss continued,
somewhat huffily, "the simple Dyson sphere concept
missed an essential geometric requirement of a stellar
enclosure. Allow me to illustrate."

A new pictorial replaced the smooth ball with a
prickly one—like a knob of quill-coral dredged up by a
fishing scoop. The computer-generated image split
open before our eyes, exposing a wide central void
where the tiny star shone. Only now a multitude of
knifelike protrusions jutted inward as well, crisscrossing
like the competing branches of a riotous rain forest.

"Latter-day Earthlings call this a criswell structure.
The spikiness creates a fractal shape, of dimension ap-
proximately two point four. The interior has a bit more
folding, where the purpose is to maximize total surface
area getting some exposure to sunlight, even if it comes
at a glancing angle."

"Why?" Pincer-Tip asked.

"To maximize the number of windows, of course,"
answered the Niss, as if that explained everything.

"Energy is the chief limiting factor here. This small
sun puts out approximately ten to the thirty ergs per

140  David Brin

second. By capturing all of that, and allowing each in-
habitant a generous megawatt of power to use, this
abode can adequately serve a population exceeding one
hundred thousand billion sapient beings. At lower per
capita power use, it would support more than ten
quadrillions."

We all stared. For once, even Huck was stunned to
complete silence.

I struggled for some way to wrap my poor, slow
thoughts around such numbers.

Put it this way. If every citizen of the Six Races ofJijo
were suddenly to have each cell of his or her body
transformed into a full-sized sapient being, the total
would still fall short of the kind of census the Niss de-
scribed. It far surpassed the count of every star and life-
bearing planet in all five galaxies.

(I figured all this out later, of course. At the time, it
taxed my stunned brain to do more than stare.)

Ur-ronn recovered first.

"It sounds . , . crowded," she suggested.

"Actually, population levels are constrained by en-
ergy and sun-facing surface area. By contrast, volume
for living space is not a serious limitation. Accommoda-
tions would be fairly roomy. Each sovereign entity could
have a private chamber larger than the entire volcano
you Jijoans call Mount Guenn."

"Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh . . ." Pincer-Tip stuttered from five
leg vents at once, summing up my own reaction at the
time. "P-p-people made this thing . . . t-t-to live in?"

The Niss hologram curled into a spinning abstraction
of meshed lines that somehow conveyed amusement.

"These inhabitants might consider the term 'people'
insultingly pejorative, my dear young barbarian. In
fact, most of them are classified as higher entities than
you or me. Fractal colonies are primarily occupied by
members of the Retired Order of Life. In this place—and
about a billion other structures like it, scattered across
the Five Galaxies—elder races live out their quiet years
in relative peace, freed from the bickering noise and
fractious disputes of'younger clans."

A nearby dolphin snorted derisively, though at that

Heaven's Reach   141

moment I did not grasp the bitter irony of the Niss Ma-
chine's words.

Sara Koolhan wandered back to join our group.

"But what is it made of?" the young sage asked.
"What kind of materials could possibly support anything
so huge?"

The pictorial image zoomed, focusing our view on
one small segment of a cutaway edge. From a basically
circular arc, craggy shapes projected both toward the
star and away from it, splitting into branches, then sub-
branches, and so on till the eye lost track of the smallest.
Faceted chambers filled every enclosed volume.

"The inner surface is built largely of spun carbon,
harvested from various sources, like the star itself. Hy-
drogen-helium fusion reactors produced more, over the
course of many millions of years. Carbon can withstand
direct sunlight. Moreover, it is strong in centrifugal ten-
sion.

"The outer portions of this huge structure, on the
other band, are in sub-Keplerian dynamic conditions.
Because they feel a net inward pull, they must be strong
against compression. Much of the vast honeycomb
structure therefore consists of field-stabilized metallic
hydrogen, the most plentiful element in the cosmos,
mixed into a ceramic-carbon polymorpb. This building
material was stripped from the star long ago by mag-
netic induction, removing roughly a tenth of its overall
mass—along with oxygen and other components
needed for protoplasmic life. That removal bad an
added benefit of allowing the sun to burn in a slower,
more predictable fashion.

"The external shell of the criswell structure is so cold
that it reradiates heat to space at a temperature barely
above the universal background ..."

My ears kind of switched off at that point. I guess the
Niss must have thought it was making sense. But even
when me and my friends labored through recordings of
the lecture later, consulting the autoscribe one word at a
time, only Ur-ronn claimed to grasp more than a fraction
of the explanation.
. Truly, we had arrived at the realm of gods.

142   David Brin

I drifted away, since the one question foremost in my
mind wasn't being addressed. It had nothing to do with
technical details.

I wanted to know why\

If this monstrous thing was built to house millions of
millions of millions of occupants, then who lived there?
Why gather so many beings into a giant snowball, sur-
rounding a little star? A "house" so soft and cold that I
could melt portions with my own warm breath?

All that hydrogen made me wonder—did the Zang

live here?

Above all, what had happened to make the Streaker
crew fear this place so?

I observed Gillian Baskin standing alone before two
big displays. One showed the Fractal World in real light
—a vast disk of blackness. A jagged mouth, biting off

whole constellations.

The other screen depicted the same panorama in
"shifted infrared," resembling the head of a garish medi-
eval mace, glowing a shade like hoonish blood. It grew
larger and slowly turned as Streaker moved across the
night, approaching the monstrous thing at a shallow an-
gle. I wondered how many sets of eyes were watching
from vast chill windows, regarding us with a perspective
of experience going back untold aeons. At best such
minds would consider my species a mere larval form. At
worst, they might see us no more worthy than insects.

Our escort, the giant Zang vessel, started spitting
smaller objects from its side—the harvester machines it
had managed to salvage from the chaos at Izmunuti,
carrying their crumpled sails. These began spiraling
ahead of us, orbiting more rapidly toward the vast
sphere, as if hastening on some urgent errand.

It occurred to me that I was privileged at that moment
to witness four of the great Orders of Life in action at the
same instant. Hydrogen breathers, machine intelli-
gences, oxy-creatures like myself, and the "retired" phy-
lum—beings who built on such a scale that they thought
nothing of husbanding a star like their own personal
hearth fire. As a Jijo native, I knew my tribe was crude
compared to the august Civilization of Five Galaxies.

Heaven's Reach   143

But now it further dawned on me that even the Great
Galactic Institutes might be looked on as mere anthills
by others who were even higher on the evolutionary
pyramid.

I guess I know where that puts me.

The dark human male joined Dr. Baskin before the
twin screens, sharing a glance with her that must have
communicated more than words.

"You can feel it too, Emerson?" she said in a low
voice. "Something is different. I'm getting a real creepy
feeling."

The mute man rubbed his scarred head, then abruptly
grinned and started whistling a catchy melody. I did not
recognize the tune. But it made her laugh.

"Yeah. Life is full of changes, all right. And we might
as well be optimistic. Perhaps the Old Ones have grown
up a bit since we've been away." Her mirthless smile
made that seem unlikely. "Or maybe something else dis-
tracted them enough to forget all about little us."

I yearned to follow up on that—to step forward and
press her for explanations. But somehow it felt im-
proper to interrupt their poignant mood. So I kept my
peace and watched nearby as the harvester robots cir-
cled ahead and vanished beyond the limb of the Fractal
World.

A little while later, a worried voice spoke over the
intercom. It was Olelo, the ship's detection officer, call-
ing from the bridge.

"For some time we've been picking up substantially
higher systemwide gas and particulate signaturesss,"
the dolphin reported. "Now we're seeing reflections
from larger grain sizes, just ahead, plus entrained ionic
flows characteristic of sssolar wind."

Dr. Baskin looked puzzled.

"Reflections? Reflecting what? Starlight?"

There was a brief pause.

'TVo ma'am. Spectral profiles match direct illumina-
tion by a nearby class M8 dwarf."

This time, Emerson d'Anite and I shared a baffled
look. Neither of us understood a word—he due to his

144  David Brin

injury, and me because of my savage birth. But the in-
formation must have meant plenty to the other human.

"Direct . . . but that can only mean . . ." Her eyes
widened in a combination of fear and realization. "Oh
dear sweet—"

She was cut off by a sudden alarm blare. Across the
Plotting Room, all conversation stopped. The image on
the main screen zoomed forward, concentrating directly
ahead of Streaker's path, to the limb of the great sphere
that was now rotating into view.

Huck spread all her eyestalks and uttered a hushed
oath.

"Ifni!"

Neo-dolphins rocked their walkers in nervous agita-
tion. Ur-ronn clattered her hooves and Pincer-Tip kept
repeating—"Gosh-osh-osh-osh-osh!"

I had no comment, but reflexively began umbling to
calm the nervous beings around me. As usual, I was
probably the last one to comprehend what lay before
my ogling gaze.

An indentation, interrupting the curved-serrated con-
tour of the sphere.

A wide streamer of faint reddish light, wafting toward
the stars.

A scattering of myriad soft glints and twinkling points,
like embers blowing from a burning house.

Our Jijoan sage, Sara Koolhan, stepped forward.

"The sphere . . . it's ruptured!"

Olelo's anxious voice reported again from the bridge.

"Confirmed . . . We've got-t a breach in the crisu'ell
structure! Jt'sss a ... a big hole, at least an astron or
two acrosss. Can't tell yet-t, but I think. ..."

There was another long pause. No one spoke a word
or dared even breathe while we waited.

"Yes, it's verified," Olelo resumed. "The collapse is
continuing as we ssspeak.

"Whatever happened to this place . . . it's still going
on."

Gilli

ian

B PANORAMA OF DEATH HAD HER RIVETED.

"I will grant you one thing, " remarked the voice
from the spinning hologram. "Wherever you Ter-
rans travel in the universe, you do tend to leave a
mark."

She had no reply for the Niss Machine. Gillian hoped
if she kept silent it would go away.

But the tornado of whirling lines moved closer in-
stead. Sidling by her left ear, it spoke her native tongue
in soft, natural tones.

"Two million centuries.

"That is how long the Library says this particular
structure existed, calmly orbiting the galaxy, a refuge of
peace.

"Then, one day, some wolflings came by for a brief
visit. "

Gillian slashed, but her hand swept through the ho-
logram without resistance. The abstract pattern kept
spinning. Its mesh of fine lines cast ghost-flickers across
her face. Of course the damned Niss was right. Streaker
carried a jinx, bringing ruin everywhere it went. Only
here, the consequent misfortune surpassed any scale
she could grasp with heart or mind.

Instruments highlighted grim symptoms of devastation
as, escorted by the huge Zang globule-vessel, Streaker
entered a ragged gap in the tremendous fractal shell,
bathed in reddish sunlight that was escaping confine-
ment for the first time in aeons. A storm of atoms and
particles blew out through the same hole, so dense that

146  David irin

at one point the word "vacuum" lost pertinence. A no-
ticeable pressure appeared on instruments, faintly re-
sisting the Earthship's progress.

There was larger debris. Chunks that Kaa moved nim-
bly to avoid. Some were great wedges, revealing hexag-
onal, comblike rooms the size of asteroids. Tumbling
outward, each evaporating clump wore shimmering tails
of dust and ions. Thousands of these artificial comets lit
up the broad aperture ... a cavity so wide that Earth
would take a month in its orbit to cross it.

"Albeit reluctantly, Dr. Baskin, " the Niss concluded,
"I admit I am impressed. Congratulations."

Nearby, a throng of walker-equipped neo-dolphins
jostled among the passengers. The Plotting Room grew
crowded as off-duty personnel came to gawk at the
spectacle. But a gap surrounded Gillian, like a moat
none dared cross, except the sardonic Tymbrimi ma-
chine-mind. No one exulted. This place had caused the
crew great pain, but the havoc was too immense, too
overwhelming for gloating.

Nor would it be fair. Just a few factions of Old Ones
had been responsible for the betrayal that sent Streaker
fleeing almost a year ago, while some other blocs actu-
ally helped the Earthship get away. Anyway, should
hundreds of billions die because of the greed of a few?

Don't get carried away, she thought. There's no proof
this disaster has anything to do with us. It could be
something completely unrelated.

But that seemed unlikely. Sheer coincidence beg-
gared any other explanation.

She recalled how their previous visit ended—with a
final backward glimpse during Streaker's narrow get-
away.

We saw violence erupting behind us, even as someone
opened up a door, letting us make a break for the trans-
fer point. I saw a couple of nearby fractal branches get
damaged, and some windows broken, while sects
clashed over Emerson's little scoutship, seizing and
preventing him from following us.

Gillian's friend paid dearly for his brave rearguard ac-
tion, suffering unimaginably cruel torture and abuse be-

Heaven's Reach   147

fore somehow, mysteriously, being transported to Jijo
right after Streaker. The speechless former engineer was
never able to explain.

Amid the guilt of abandoning him, and our hurry
fleeing this place, who would have guessed the Old Ones
would keep on fighting after we escaped! Why? What
purpose could an apocalypse serve, after we took our
cursed cargo away?

But a horrible tribulation must have followed. Ahead
lay ample testimony. Plasma streamers and red-tinged
dust plumes . . . along with countless long black shad-
ows trailing from bits of dissolving rubble, some larger
than a moon, but all of them as frail as snowflakes.

She pondered the ultimate cause—the treasures
Streaker carried, like Herbie,^ the ancient cadaver that
had taken over her study, like Poe's raven, or Banquo's
ghost. Prizes lusted after by fanatical powers hoping to
seize and monopolize their secrets, winning some ad-
vantage in a Time of Changes.

It was imperative to prevent that. The Terragens
Council had made their orders clear—first to Creideiki
and later to Gillian when she assumed command.
Streaker's discoveries must be shared openly, according
to ancient Galactic custom, or not at all. Mighty races
and alliances might violate that basic rule and think they
could get away with it. But frail Earthclan dared not
show even a hint of partiality.

In an age of rising chaos, sometimes the weak and
friendless have no sanctuary but the law. Humans and
their clients had to keep faith with Galactic institutions.
To do less would be to risk losing everything. Unfortu-
nately, Gillian's quest for a neutral power to take over
the relics had proved worse than futile.

It wasn't for lack of trying. After the Great Institutes
proved untrustworthy at Oakka, Gillian had what
seemed (at the time) an inspired notion.

Why not pass the buck even higher?
She decided to bring the relics here, to a citadel for
species that had "moved on" from the mundane, petty
obsessions plaguing the Civilization of Five Galaxies. At
one of the legendary Fractal "worlds, harassed Earthlings

148  David Brio

might at last find dispassionate advice and mediation
from beings who were revered enough to intercede,
halting the spasmodic madness of younger clans. These
respected elder sapients would assume responsibility
for the burden, relieve Streaker of its toxic treasures,
and force the bickering oxygen alliances to share.

Then, at long last, the weary dolphins could go home.

And I could go searching/or Tom, wherever be and
Creideiki and the others have drifted since Kithrup.

That had been the theory, the hope.

Too bad the Old Ones turned out to be as fretful,
desperate, and duplicitous as their younger cousins who
still dwelled amid blaring hot stars.

It's as if we were a plague ship, carrying something
contagious from the distant past. Wherever we go, ra-
tional beings start acting like they've gone mad.

Monitors focused on the nearest edge of the great
wound, revealing a shell several thousand miles thick,
not counting the multipronged spikes jutting both in
and out. Dense haze partly shrouded the continuing
tragedy but could not mask a sparkle of persistent con-
vulsions. Structural segments buckled and tore as Gillian
watched. Fractal branches broke and went spinning
through space, colliding with others, setting off further
chain reactions.

The massive spikes on the sunw^ard side glittered in a
way that reminded Gillian.

Windows. When we first came here . . . after they
opened a slim door to let us through . . . the first thing
I noticed was how much of the inner face seemed to be
made of glass. And beneath those immense panes—

She closed her eyes, recalling how the telescope had
revealed each branchlet was its own separate world.
Some greenhouses—larger than her home state of Min-
nesota—sheltered riotous jungles. Others shone with
city lights, or floating palaces adrift on rippled seas, or
plains of sparkling sand. It would take many millions of
Earths, unrolled flat, to cover so much surface, and that
would not begin to express the diversity. She might

Heaven's Beach   149

have spent years magnifying one habitat after another
and still routinely found something distinct or new.

It was the most majestic and beautiful place Gillian
had ever seen.

Now it was unraveling before her eyes.
That haze, she realized, aghast. It isn't just structural
debris and subliming gas. It's people. Their furniture
and pets and clothes and houseplants and family al-
bums ... Or whatever comprised the equivalent for
Old Ones. What human could guess the wishes, inter-
ests, and obsessions that became important to species
who long ago had seen everything there was to see in
the Five Galaxies, and had done everything there was to

do?

However abstruse or obscure those hopes, they were
dissolving fast. Just during Streaker's brief passage
through the gaping wound, more sapient beings must
have died than the whole population of Earth.

Her mind quailed from that thought. To personalize
the tragedy invited madness.

"Is anyone trying to stop this?" she asked in a hoarse

voice.

The Niss Machine paused before answering.
"Some strive bard. Behold their efforts."

The monitor view shifted forward as Streaker finally
arrived at the habitat's vast interior space.

Just like the last time, Gillian abruptly felt as if she had
entered a vast domed chamber of bright corrugated
stalactites and measureless shadows. Although the far-
thest portions of the vault were several hundred million
kilometers away, she could nevertheless make out fine
details. The imaging system monitored her eyes to track
the cone of her attention, highlighting and amplifying
whatever she chose to regard.

Directly ahead—like a glowing lamp in the center of a
basilica—a dwarf star cast its warming glow. The visible
disk was dimmer and redder than the spendthrift kind of
sun where nursery worlds like Terra spun and flour-
ished. By stripping the outer layers for construction ma-
terial, the makers of this place had created a perfect
hearth fire, whose fuel ought to last a hundred billion

150  Oovid Bfin

years. To stare straight at the disk caused no physical
pain. But its plasma skin, placid during their first visit,
now seemed covered by livid sores. Dazzling pinpoints
flared as planet-sized gobs of debris tumbled to the roil-
ing surface.

Yet, Gillian soon realized such collisions were excep-
tional. Most of the jagged chunks were being inter-
cepted and burned by narrow beams of searing blue
energy, long before they reached the solar photosphere.

"Of course even when they succeed in pulverizing
rubble, the mass still settles downward as gas, eventually
rejoining the sun from which it was stripped so long
ago. The star's thermonuclear and atmospheric
resonances will be adversely affected. Still, it reduces the
number of large ablative impacts, and thus many ac-
tinic flares."

"So the maintenance system functions," Gillian com-
mented, with rising hope.

"Yes, but it is touch and go. Worse yet, parts of the
system are being abused."

The monitor went blurry as it sped to focus on a point
along a far quadrant of the criswell sphere, where one
of the blue scalpel-rays was busy with less altruistic
work, carving a brutal path across the jagged landscape,
severing huge fractal branchlets, shattering windows
and raising mighty gouts of steam.

Gillian cried an oath and stepped back. "My God. It's
genocide!"

"We have learned a sad lesson during this expedi-
tion, " the Niss Machine conceded. "One that should
very much interest my Tymbrimi makers, if we ever get
a chance to report it.

"When an oxygen-breathing race retires from Galac-
tic affairs to seek repose in one of these vast shells, it does
not always leave behind the prejudices and loyalties of
youth. While many do seek enlightenment, or insights
needed for transcendence, others stay susceptible to
temptation, or remain steadfast to alliances of old."

In other words, Gillian had been naive to expect de-
tachment and impartiality from the species living here.

r

Heaven's Beacli   151

Some were patrons—or great-grandpatrons—of Earth's
persecutors.

She watched in horror as some faction misused a de-
fensive weapon—designed to protect the whole colony
—against a stronghold of its opponents.

"Ifni. What's to keep them from doing that to us!"

"Dr. Baskin, I haven't any idea," the spinning ho-
logram confided. "Perhaps the locals are too busy in
their struggles to notice our arrival.

"Or else, it could be because of the company we
keep."

A screen showed the great Zang ship—floating just
ninety kilometers away, quivering as the grim, sooty
wind brushed its semiliquid flanks. Clouds of smaller
objects fluttered nearby. Some were machine entities.
Others qualified as living portions of the massive vessel,
detached to do errands outside, then quietly reabsorb
when their tasks were done.

"I've confirmed my earlier conjecture. The hydrogen
beings are coordinating efforts by the harvester robots
and other machine beings to help shore up and stabilize
the Fractal World."

Gillian nodded. "That's why they were at Izmunuti.
To fetch construction material. It's an easy source of car-
bon just one t-point jump'away."

"Under normal conditions, yes. Until unforeseen
storms erupted, precipitated by that psi wave from Jijo.
The harvesters we saw there were apparently just a
small fraction of those involved in this massive effort."

"It's a repair contract, then. A commercial deal."

"I assume so. Since Galaxy Four has been evacuated
by oxygen-breathing starfarers, it would be logical for
Old Ones to seek help from the nearest available source.
Shall I confirm these suppositions by tapping into the
Fractal World's data nexus?"

"Do no such thing! I don't want to draw attention. If
no one has noticed us, let's leave it that way."

"May I point out that some groups within the retired
order weren't inimical? Without their assistance we
could never have eluded capture the first time. Perhaps
those groups would help again if we make contact."

152 David Bnn

Gillian shook her head firmly.

"I'm still worried the Jophur may show up any min-
ute, hot on our heels. Let's just settle our business with
the Zang and get away. Have you heard anything from
them?"

Sara Koolhan thought the hydrogen breathers had
some ancient claim on the glaver race ... a debt to be
paid now that glavers had regained presapient inno-
cence. But even so, how would the transaction take
place? "was it proper or moral for the Streaker crew to
hand over another oxy-species without formal sanction
by appropriate institutes? Would the creatures be safe
aboard a craft built to support a completely different
chemistry of life?

More to the point, would the Zang let Streaker go
afterward? According to sketchy Library accounts, hy-
dros did have concepts of honor and obligation, but
their logic was skewed. They might reward the Earth-
lings ... or blast them to get rid of a residual nui-
sance.

At least they didn't drag us here for prosecution, as I
feared. They haven't banded us over to the Old Ones.
Not yet.

A small voice of conscience chided Gillian. Here she
was, worried about how to skulk away in her tiny star-
ship, saving less than a hundred lives, while around
them nation-sized populations were dying each moment
that she breathed.

One more reason not to let the Niss contact the
Fractal World's comm net. She needed to keep the ca-
lamity as abstract as possible. A gaudy special-effects
show. A vast collision of impersonal forces. Right now,
any confirmation of the real death toll might push her to
despair.

It's not our fault.

We came here seeking help within the law. Within our
rights.

True, Streaker brought curses from the Shallow Clus-
ter. But how could we know madness would strike the
eminent and wise?

This isn 't our fault!

Tsh't

IT WOULD BE THE PERFECT TLME, WHILE EVERY-
one else was preoccupied with the spectacle outside.
Streaker seemed likely to be motionless for a while, so
Tsh't didn't have to be at Dr. Baskin's beck and call,
pretending to share command when everyone knew
who gave the orders anyway.

Many crew members ignored the chance to go off
duty when their shifts ended, finding excuses to hang
around. They stared, wide-eyed, at the shattered glory
of the Fractal World, commenting to each other with
rapid clicks, exchanging bets whether the frantic efforts
by myriad hireling robots would save the giant
wounded habitat. After a couple of hours, several
gawkers had to be ordered below to rest. But when her
own watch period finished, Tsh't quickly took advan-
tage of the excuse to leave.

This might be her only chance to go below and check
out her suspicions.

/ know Gillian snuck somebody or something aboard,
she thought. Back in that little Jijoan village, where
boons happily sail crude boats, even though they can't
swim a stroke. It was a stormy night, and I was busy
discussing technical matters with that urrish black-
smith. But I know Akeakemai. He's a regular teacher's
pet, and would do anything Gillian asked.

He's lying or hiding something.

Something he smuggled in the back way when I
wasn 't looking.

It worried Tsh't to be left in the dark like this. She was
supposed to be Gillian's close confidant and co-com-

154   David Brin

mancler. The show of distrust disturbed her. Especially
since she deserved it.

f'i'c seen no si{{n that anyone has connected me to the
dead humans.

Nevertheless, Tsh't worried as she sent her walker
stomping down one of Streaker's main corridors. The
hallway felt deserted, emptied by attrition after three
years on the run.

a/course it's always possible that Gillian picked up
something with that psi talent of hers. She may suspect
the demise oj Kunn and fass was no case of double
suicide.

Tsh't fought to suppress the disturbing image of those
two human corpses. Slie quelled a nervous tremor that
coursed her dorsal nerves, making the moist skin shiver
and her flukes thrash on the rear portion of the walker's
soft suspension hammock.

How badly she yearned for a real swim! But nearly all
the water had been flushed out to lighten Streaker's
frantic breakout from Jijo. Dragging a heavy coat of car-
lion soot from smoldering Izmunuti, the Earth vessel
needed every bit of agility, so nearly all the residence
and recreation areas were now hone-dry. Soon, long
queues would form at sick bay, as neo-dolphins re-
ported skin sores and bruised ribs. After too much time
spent lying prone atop jarring machines, even the softest
field-effect cushion made you feel like you had been
beached and stranded on a shore covered with sharp
pebbles.

\ou' Dr. Makanee is gone, along with three nurses—
left behind to take care of the Jijo colonists—and I'm the
one u'ho has to figure out bow to stretch our remaining
mod staff and cover the inevitable complaints. Some-
how. despite everything, team efficiency and morale
hare got to be kept up. That's what the high and mighty
Dr. Hciskin leaves to me—all the grungy details of run-
ning a ship and crew—while she ponders vast issues of
policy and destiny, leading us hither and yon across the
Fire dalaxies. trying this and then trying that, fleeing
from one disaster 'to the next.

The bitterness was not unmixed with affection. Tsh't

Heaven's fleacn   155

genuinely loved Gillian, whose skill at getting Streaker
out of jams had proved nearly as impressive as her affin-
ity for getting into them. Nor did Tsh't resent human
beings as patrons. Without their awkward, well-
meaning efforts at genetic engineering, the Tursiops
race might never have taken the final step from bright,
innocent animals to promising starfarers . . . and Tsh't
would not have seen the Starbow, or Hercules Arch—or
the Shallow Cluster.

Terragens culture granted neo-fins more rights and
respect than a new client race normally received in the
Civilization of Five Galaxies. Most clients spent a hun-
dred millennia in servitude to their patrons. Humans
were doing about as well as they could, under the cir-
cumstances.

But there are limits to what you can expect from wolf-
lings, she thought, entering a double airlock to pass into
Streaker's Dry Wheel.

The latest pathetic episode proved this point. Just
hours after arriving inside the Fractal World, Gillian Bas-
kin had decided to see whether they were prisoners or
guests. Waiting till the Zang seemed preoccupied—su-
pervising a swarm of machine entities doing repair work
—she had ordered Kaa to gently nudge Streaker's en-
gines, easing the ship through the opening toward a
beckoning glitter of starlight.

The Zang dropped what it was doing, scattering robot
attendants, racing with astonisliing agility to cut off the
Earthlings' escape.

Still covered with several meters.of star soot, Streaker
could not outrun the giant globule. Gillian acquiesced,
turning the ship back into the immense habitat. She then
ordered a general stand-down. Except for watch crew,
everyone was told to get some rest. The Zang vessel
returned to work. without evident rancor. And yet Tsh't
felt a hard-won lesson was reinforced.

Humans were sapient for only a few thousand years
longer than us dolphins—a mere eyeblink in the story of
life in the universe. It's not their fault they are ignorant
and clumsy.

156  David Brin

That only means they need help. Even if they are too
obstinate to ask for it.

An elevator ride took her to the rim of the wide
centrifugal wheel, where rooms lined a long hallway
that seemed to curve up and away in both directions.
The great hoop straddled Streaker halfway along its
length and could be spun up to provide weight on those
occasions when the crew needed to turn off floor grav-
ity for some reason—if they were doing sensor scans in
deep space, for instance ... or evading fleets of pur-
suers by hiding in an asteroid belt. There was a draw-
back, though. Whenever they had to land on a planet's
surface—as happened at Kithrup, Oakka, and Jijo—
most of the Dry Wheel's rooms were out of reach.

To anyone except a biped who's a skilled climber, that
is.

Tsh't strode past the sealed door to Dr. Baskin's of-
fice, where layers of security devices guarded
Creideiki's treasure—the relics responsible for so much
grief. This part of the Dry Wheel was always "bottom,"
whenever Streaker lay grounded. Dolphins routinely
used nearby suites and workshops, but those on the
opposite side were often inaccessible. In fact, the crew
seldom thought of them at all.

That's where I'd bide something, if I were Gillian.

The Wheel was spinning right now, so Tsh't had no
trouble striding around its wide circumference, passing
laboratories once used by scientists like Ignacio Metz,
Dennie Sudman, and the neo-chimpanzee geologist
Charles Dart. She kept lifting her jaw to listen, as if ner-
vously expecting to hear ghost footsteps of the bright
young Calafian midshipman Toshio Iwashika ... or
the strong, confident gait of Gillian's lost Tom Orley.

But they were gone. All of them, along with Creideiki
and Hikahi. Dead, or else abandoned on poisonous
Kithrup—which was almost the same as being dead.

They were the best of us, taken away before our trials
really began. How much would have been different if
the captain and the others were still aboard? Instead
command fill to Gillian and me . . . a physician-
healer and the ship's most junior lieutenant . . . who

r

Heaven's Reach   157

never imagined we'd have to carry such a burden, year
after dreary year.

Fatigue wore at Tsh't. During sleep shifts she would
cast her clicking sonar song toward the Whale Dream,
praying for someone to come take away the hardship,
the responsibility.

We Streakers are in way over our heads. All of Earth-
clan is! Gillian was right about one thing. We need help
and advice. But we won't get it from eatees. Not from
the Great Institutes, or the Old Ones.

She's forgotten one of life's great truths, known by
almost every human and dolphin from childhood.
When you're in real bad trouble, the place to turn is
your own family.

Using her neural tap, Tsh't called up the ship's main-
tenance system and ordered a trace of atmospheric pol-
lutants, concentrating room by room on the section of
the Dry Wheel directly opposite from Dr. Baskin's office
—the sector routinely left on "top" when Streakerlay on
a planet's surface. The part that dolphins were likely to
ignore, even when it was accessible.

Aha! Just as I thought. An elevated profile of carbon
dioxide, plus several ketones, a touch of methane, and a
strange pair of alcohols. Sure signs of respiration by an
oxygen-breathing life-form . . . though clearly not an
Earthling.

And it's all centered . . . here.

She made her walker halt before a door labeled
HAZARDOUS ORGANIC MATERIALS—and chuckled at Gillian's lit-
tle joke.

A slight nudge of volition caused a work-arm to swing
forward from her tool harness, aiming a slim drill at the
door, near the jamb, where a hole might not be noticed
right away. A fine whirring was the only sound. Her
cutter penetrated, vaporized, and vac-disposed debris as
it moved ahead.

Tsh't mused on how she was now compounding her
own felony. Her growing record of treason. It all started
the last time Streaker visited the Fractal World, when
everyone grew aware that the Old Ones were going to
disappoint them. As crew morale sank, Tsh't decided it

158  Oavid Brin

was time to act on her own. To send a message, contact-
ing the one source whose help could be relied on.

Fortunately, the Fractal World had regular commercial
mail taps. Even while Gillian parried increasing threats
and imprecations from various factions of the Retired
Order, Tsh't found it fairly simple to dispatch a secret
message packet, programmed to go bouncing across the
Five Galaxies, paranoically covering its own tracks and
randomly rerouting before heading for its final destina-
tion—a time-drop capsule whose coordinates she had
memorized as a youth, long ago. One tuned to respond

to just one species in the universe.

By then, Gillian had already decided to flee the cris-
well structure and try the "sooner option"—absconding
through forbidden Galaxy Four, sneaking past a blaring
giant star, then taking shelter on a proscribed world

called Jijo.

A clandestine rendezvous seemed easy enough for

Tsh't to arrange. . . .

The drill bit broke through. She commanded the arm
back and sent a fiber communicator snaking through
the hole, rearing like a cobra inside the sealed room.

It scanned left and right until a lanky bipedal figure
came into view, seated on a bench before a small table.

The head lifted, as if reacting to a sound. When the
creature turned halfway around, Tsh't gasped at the

sight.

A slanted, narrow face with a jutting, chinless jaw and

large, bared teeth.

Yet, the eyes and brow seemed uncannily human,

squinting as they caught sight of the spy probe.

Hurriedly, the head turned away again. Shoulders
hunched to block her view. Tsh't saw both arms grope
for a box—a bio-support unit designed for maintaining
small animals sampled from an ecosystem. Deft hands
pulled out something squirmy. She couldn't follow what
was happening, but it seemed as if the biped was eating
the wriggly creature, or embracing it.

The shoulders relaxed, arms settling to the tall being's
side as it stood up and gracefully turned around.

The face was transformed. Now it looked more noble

Hmeii's Beacti   159

than human. More genially amused than a Tymbrimi.
More patient and understanding than a god.

Well, well. It is him. The very one.

The Rothen's face quivered in a few places, where its
mask-symbiont was still nestling in—a living creature
crafted to become part of his features, providing fine
cheekbones, a regal chin, and lips that both covered the
teeth and drew a tender, gracious smile.

The Missionary.

Tsh't remembered his visit to Earth, long ago, when
she was still half grown and barely able to speak. It was
like yesterday, the image of him preaching in a hidden
undersea grotto to a tiny gathering of dolphin converts.

"The universe is a lonely place," he had said then.
"But not as dangerous as it seems. The present govern-
ment of Earth may consist of Darwinists and unbeliev-
ers, but that does not matter. Remember, despite the
propaganda of those preaching wolfling pride, that you
are not alone. We who crafted the genes of humanity in
secret, guiding them toward a great destiny, remain
steadfast to that dream. The same glorious goal. We still
act behind the scenes, protecting, preserving, preparing
for the Day.

"And as we love our human clients, so we also love
you. For ours is a special clan, with a future more
splendid than any other. Dolphins will play a great role
when the time comes. Especially those of you who choose
the Danik Way."

It had felt singular to grow up as a member of an
exclusive sect, knowing a great and reassuring Truth. Of
course the Terragens Constitution promised religious
freedom, but in practice it would only bring on ridicule
to reveal too much, too soon. Most dolphins believed
the myth that humans must have evolved sapience with-
out intervention from above. An absurd notion, but too
strong a current for dissenters to fight openly.

Even among humans and chimps, where Danikenite
beliefs were more common, debates raged between
conflicting cults. Many had their own candidates for the
secret patrons . . . the mystery race said to have up-
lifted Homo sapiens long ago. Several Galactic races

160  Oovid Brin

were called "more likely" than the obscure, secretive
Rothen.

So Tsh't had kept it to herself, through school, train-
ing, and early assignments for the TAASF. She bided her
time through the disasters at Morgran, Kithrup, and
Oakka. Until one day she realized humans just weren't
up to the task. Gillian Baskin was among the best, and
could do no more.

It was time to seek help higher up the family tree.

The Rothen would know what to do.

Now her emotions roiled with conflict, complexity, and
confusion. She had come here uncertain what to expect.

I knew about the symbiont. TheJijoans saw a Rothen
unmasked. It's all in the reports. And yet, to see that
bared face for myself—

The glimpse of Ro-kenn's natural features had been
shocking. And yet, Tsh't now felt warmed by the same
reassuring smile she recalled from childhood.

/ can understand the need for a mask. It isn't neces-
sarily dishonest. Not if it helps them do their work better,
guiding Earthlings toward our destiny.

It's what's inside that counts.

"Well?" Ro-kenn said, taking a step toward the door.
He brought both hands together, his long arms sticking
out from the sleeves of a bathrobe made for a tall hu-
man. The captive must have been sent in secret by the
Sages ofJijo, after capturing him in the highland place
they called Festival Glade—perhaps the sole survivor of
a mixed Rothen-human expedition that had met treach-
ery and disaster, first from the Six Races and then the
crew of the Jophur battleship.

Everything came together in Tsh't's heart. The longing
she had carried since childhood. The frustration of three
horrible years. The guilt over having acted against Gil-
lian's wishes. The far larger guilt of assassinating two
humans—even if it was in the interest of a greater cause.

She had come here intending to confront Ro-kenn. To
demand an explanation of what had happened.

The message I sent . . . tuned to be picked up by a

Heaven's flBich   i6l

Rothen mind. It told you about Gillian's destination.
You were supposed to come in secret toJijo . . . to help
us. To rescue us.

Now they say you persecuted the sooners, including
Jijo's human settlers. They say your people soldJijo to the
Jophur for pocket change. They say you are swindlers,
who convert gullible Earthlings to follow you, in order to
use them as shills and petty thieves.

One of the men I killed—the pilot Kunn—I did it to
protect our secret. But how can I be sure. . . .

None of that came out. The words would not come.

Instead, all the streams coursing through her sud-
denly combined in an emotional confluence. Despair,
which had dominated for so long, cracked and gave
way to its only true enemy.

Hope.

Tsh't had to take several deep breaths, then found the
will to speak.

"Massster . . . there is something I have come to
confessssss."

A look of surprise briefly crossed the Rothen's face,
and his left cheek quivered.

Then a warm smile spread, and with a deep, gentle
voice he spoke.

"Indeed, child of the warm seas. I am here. Take your
time and I will listen. Be assured that redemption is
found in telling all."

an

I WONDER HOW LONG I'VE BEEN IN HERE. IS THERE
any way to tell if it's been hours, days ... or
months?

If they understand my body chemistry well enough
to keep me alive, these beings could turn my con-
sciousness on and off like a lamp. They might change
the way I perceive duration, simply by adjusting my me-
tabolism.

or

162   David Brin

That, too, felt like a clue. Lark yearned to compare

notes with somebody.

With Ling, the way they used to, when they were

wary adversaries, then allies, and finally lovers. He
missed her terribly. Her warm skin and rich scent, but
most of all her vivid mind. Amid all their ups and
downs, it was her unpredictable wit that most fascinated
Lark. He would give anything now, just to talk to her.

/ was supposed to find a way to rescue her from Rann
and the Jophur. Now all I can do is spin fantasies of a
space-suited Ling blasting her way through that far
wall, lasers in both hands, yanking me out of this awful
vault so we can fly off together in some hijacked . . .

The enticing daydream dissolved as he realized that
something had changed. His spine crawled with an un-
easy sensation ... a feeling of being watched. Lark
turned his head . . . and shuddered reflexively.

A large blobby . . . thing floated near the membrane
barrier, roughly spherical, but with bulges and ripples
that swelled rhythmically, in ways that somehow con-
veyed life . . . and perhaps even intent. Currents of
yellow mist flowed past, but it maintained position with
a blur of tiny waving tendrils, as numerous as hairs on

the leg of a hoon.

Cilia, Lark thought, recognizing a form of locomotion

used by tiny organisms you might see under a micro-
scope. He had never heard of this means occurring on a
macro-entity anywhere near this size. As a biologist, he

found it quite odd.

But curiosity turned to amazement when the creature

abruptly sucked in all the waving cilia. Ballooning out-
ward to the left, it elongated into a cylinder. Depres-
sions at both ends deepened, penetrating along its
length until they met, forming a hollow tube that began
flexing longitudinally. Jets of yellow fluid compressed
and shot out one opening, propelling the beast rapidly

around Lark's little transparent cell.

Three times it circumnavigated this way. Lark had an

impression it was looking him over from all angles.

That's not any normal gas or vapor out there, he
thought. But it doesn't seem like liquid, either.

Heaven's Reach   163

He had a feeling that the medium might have some-
thing to do with the creature's flexibility—its knack for
switching from tendrils to siphon-jet propulsion.

Wherever it evolved, the environment must be
stranger than anything I ever read about in the
archives. That is . . . except . . .

Lark's eyes opened in sudden realization, so wide that
the lids nudged small, clear cups that arched over them.
Till that moment he hadn't even been aware of the pro-
tective coverings, but when his action let a few harsh
molecules sneak past, he paid with stinging tears and
deep, laryngial moans.

Yet, that hardly interrupted the rapid flow of Lark's
thoughts.

Hydrogen breathers! The ancient scrolls call them one
of the great orders of life. Sharing the Five Galaxies with
oxy-types, but completely separate from our civilization,
sticking to their own worlds and interests as we keep to

ours.

Of course that oversimplified matters. Even in the few
Biblos texts to mention hydro-life, it was clear that dan-
ger stalked each uneasy interaction between the two
different molecular heritages. Minimizing contact made
up a large part of the duties of the Migration Institute,
which designed its leasehold rules partly to protect fal-
low worlds, but also to lessen the shared space where
accidental encounters might take place.

Jijo's in Galaxy Four. Except for official Institute
ships, there aren 't supposed to be any of our kind/lying
about these spiral arms right now. It's one reason Jijo
was an attractive candidate for the Sooner Path.

One eye was still blurry, but he squinted with the
other as the hydro-being slowed to a halt and flowed
back into a roughly spherical shape.

Am I looking at their equivalent of a policeman? Or
an immigration official?

A hollow-looking vacuole formed under the crea-
ture's surface. Bubbles escaped, glistening with strange
surface tension. Lark thought of someone farting under-
water, but for all he knew it was actually an eloquent
lecture on fine points of interorder cosmic law.

164   David Brin

Maybe it's demanding to know what I'm doing here.
Requesting my passport and visa. Asking for my
plea ... or whether I want a blindfold . . .

The hollow space within kept growing as the creature
grew distended toward Lark. Within the vacuole, he
made out several floating objects—each one looking at
first like miniature versions of the larger entity. These
took up various positions in the void, then began to
change, taking on new shapes and colors.

Well I'll be . . .

One turned a shade of blue somewhat deeper than
the sky back home. It stopped rippling and seemed to
harden an adamant shell, covered with symmetrical ar-
rangements of bumps and blisters. Lark even saw a mi-
nuscule emblem take form—a rayed spiral insignia near
the top of the oblate spheroid. He swiftly recognized a
near perfect representation of the Jophur battleship
Polkjby.

I get it. Communication by sign and picture show.
And that other glob . . . is that supposed to be a hydro
ship?

The guess was soon confirmed as he watched a grow-
ing confrontation between two space behemoths, all
played out within a space no larger than a traeki's
topknot. Lark watched with transfixed fascination as the
Jophur cruiser blasted away at the yellow globule. At
first, its arrows were thwarted by swarms of sudden,
flimsy balloons. But then more missiles and fire bolts
got through, hammering the onrushing foe mercilessly,
until the hydro vessel shredded into ragged pieces that
flapped like tattered banners. Yet, several of these still
managed to drape across parts of Polkjby s hard metal
hull.

So that's how they boarded. It was combat unlike any
he had read about, or dreamed of.

Now the blue shell expanded before him, and Lark
saw the fight continue within. Yellowish beachheads
spread from half a dozen points of insertion, advancing
swiftly at first, then meeting stiffening resistance. Lark
saw small glitters scurrying near the battlefront, proba-

Heaven's Beacli   165

biy representing individual Jophur and their fierce,
slashing battle robots.

Sometimes, one or two of those sparks fell into a yel-
low stain. Instead of being extinguished they were
swept toward collection points in the rear.

Captives. Prisoners of war.

When it happened to another pinpoint, Lark felt an
abrupt surge of sensation sting his thigh.

That's me!

It also made him realize something else,

They aren 't just communicating with me visually.
There's a chemical component! Some of my understand-
ing comes by watching the demonstration. But they
must also be sending meaning down the nutrient tube
directly, into my very blood.

Awareness of the fact might have sickened and re-
pelled him ... except that a strange calmness per-
vaded Lark's limbs. Another effect of molecular
inducement, no doubt. As a biologist, he was fascinated.

Hydros must have over a billion years' experience
dealing with us oxies. That doesn't necessarily make it
easy to bridge the vast gulf between life orders, or else
they'd be talking to me directly, in audible words. But
they've accumulated tricks, I'm sure.

It put a new perspective on things. He had spent his
entire professional life entranced by the wild diversity
among just the few million oxygen-breathing species
prevalent on one part of a single planet. Now he real-
ized there were beings for whom the difference be-
tween a Jophur and a human must appear nearly
inconsequential.

Have they ever beheld an Eartbling before? It would
seem unlikely. And yet they can play me like an urrish
fiddle.

Lark felt humbled . . . and contemplated whether
that was also a reaction imposed or suggested from the
outside.

No matter. The important thing is that they want me
to learn. They're interested in keeping me alive, and
making me understand.

For the time being, at least, I can live with that.

E

merson

E MIGHT NOT BE AN ENGINEER ANYMORE, BUT

he could still appreciate good work.
With an excellent view of the vast repair project

—from his own private little observation bubble,

tucked behind Streaker's bridge—Emerson could
see nearly the whole vaulting edifice, from its central
hearth-star all the way to the gaping laceration that now
mangled the majestic sphere, exposing a wide swath of
untamed stars. Despite frantic efforts by great machines
to mend ancf patch, innumerable lumps of ragged debris
still poured outward through the hole, crumbling to
dust, vapor, and armadas of radiant comets.

The sphere's injury reminded him of his own maim-
ing, which also had occurred in this very place.

Trembling, Emerson's hand raised toward the area
near his left ear. A filmy creature quivered at his touch—-
the rewq symbiont he had brought along from Jijo. To-
gether with unguents supplied by a traeki pharmacist,
the rewq was partly responsible for his surviving an in-
jury that should otherwise have left him dead or a living
vegetable. The tiny thing released its gentle clasp on a
surface blood vessel and rippled aside, letting Emerson
stroke the scar tissue surrounding a hole in his head.
Not an accidental lesion, but a deliberate hurt.

This was where it had happened, about a year ago.
Here—he recalled climbing into a small fighter craft,
ready to sacrifice himself and cover Streaker's desperate
escape.

Here—he blazed forth in the little scoutship, shouting
defiance at those hostile factions whose demands and
extortions disproved their vaunted reputation for wise

Heaven's Reacli   167

neutrality . . . cries that turned joyful when a different
clique of Old Ones intervened, opening a door in the
great shell to let Gillian and the others escape.

Here—exultation cut off as his tiny vessel was seized
by slabs of force, hemming it in, then abrading and dis-
solving the armored scout like a skinned pineapple,
yanking him to a captivity worse than any he could have
imagined.

Emerson was still hazy on what followed. His captors
used potent conditioning that made memory excruciat-
ing. For most of the last year, he had wandered in a fog
of amnesia, punctuated by bouts of searing agony
whenever he tried to recall.

Defeating that programming had been his greatest
victory. Emerson's mind was now his own again—what
remained of it, that is. Anguish-reflexes still tried to di-
vert his roaming thoughts, impeding him from salvaging
further recollections, but he had learned to fight back by
not giving a damn about pain. Emerson knew each
throbbing impulse meant he was putting another piece
back in place, thwarting their purpose.

If only he knew what that purpose was.

Lacking important parts of his old brain, Emerson
could not express in words the irony he felt, crouched
in his secret little bubble niche, looking across the broad
corrugated vistas of the Fractal World. Even mute, his
emotions had a complex, fine-grained texture.

For instance, by all rights, he should be experiencing
satisfaction from the rack and ruin tearing through this
place. As swarms of huge robots poured in through the
sphere's gaping wound, converging to shore up its un-
raveling rim, he ought to be hoping for them to fail. That
would be vengeance—for his tormentors to be
smashed, for all their hopes and works to fall like ash
into an emancipated sun.

But there was something else inside him, older and
stronger than wrath.

Love of a certain kind of beauty.

The gracefulness of artifice.

The glory of something well made.

He could still recall the day—ages ago—when

168  David Brin

Streaker entered this redoubt of the Retired Order for
the first time, full of naive hopes that would soon be
betrayed. Awed by the splendor, he and Karkaett and
Hannes Suessi had argued ecstatically over the ultimate
function of this titanic habitat—to cheat the eroding rub
of time, taming the wasteful extravagance of a star. It
seemed an engineer's paradise.

And he still felt that way! Remarkably, he cheered the
robot workers on. Emerson figured he would have re-
venge on his tormentors, simply by surviving. So long as
Streaker roamed free, frustration must surely fill those
cold eyes he recalled peering down at him while cruel
instruments reamed his mind, sifting and squeezing for
secrets he did not have. . . .

Emerson shuddered. Why hadn't the Old Ones simply
killed him when they finished trawling through his
brain? Instead, they mutilated and cast his writhing body
across space in some unknown manner to crash-land on

lonely Jijo.

It seemed a lot of trouble to go to. In a strange way,
the special attention bolstered Emerson's sense of worth

and self-esteem.

So he was willing to be magnanimous. He rooted for
the repair mechanisms as they spun vast, moon-sized
spools of carbon fiber, weaving nets to catch and hold
tottering fractal spikes, made of fragile snow and wider
than a planet. He applauded the robot tugs, swarming
like gnats to divert huge, drifting ruins away from colli-
sion paths that might wreak untold devastation. Emer-
son did not think of sapient beings living beneath those
countless, glittering windows. Perhaps it was the lack of
words, but to him, the Fractal World seemed not so
much a habitat as a creature in its own right, self-
contained, self-aware, and wounded, fighting for its life.

He used a pocket terminal to get close-ups. Unable to
command by voice or keyboard, he found the little com-
puter was conveniently programmed in other ways. It
coaxed him to use a language of gestures that must have
been developed for disabled aphasics on Earth, a handy
mix of hand motions, eye flicks, and plain old pointing
that usually conveyed what he wanted. It sure beat the

Heaven's Reach   169

clumsy, grunting efforts he used on Jijo, when commu-
nicating with poor Sara often reduced them both to tears
of futility.

And yet ... he recalled those months fondly. The
sooner world had been beautiful, and the illegal colony
of six allied races had moved him deeply with their
strangely happy pessimism. For that reason, and for
Sara's sake, he wished there were something he could
do for the Jijoans.

For that matter, he wished he could do something for
anybody—Gillian, the Streakers ... or even the
hordes of hardworking robots, laboring to save an edi-
fice that was built when early dinosaurs roamed Earth.
Lacking useful work, he was reduced to staring at a
great drama unfolding outside.

Emerson hated being a spectator. His hands clenched.
He would rather be using them.

With a rapid set of winks, he called up the scene in
the Plotting Room, where Gillian met with Sara and the
youngsters from Wuphon Port. They were joined by a
tall stack of fuming, waxy rings—Tyug, the traeki alche-
mist of Mount Guenn Forge, who filled out a quorum of
the Jijo's Six Races. Amid their animated discussion he
saw the young centauroid urs, named Ur-ronn, gesture
toward their small herd of glavers, mewling and licking
themselves nearby. Beings whose ancestors had roamed
the stars, but who since had reclaimed innocence—the
method prescribed for winning a second chance.

Emerson wasn't quite sure of the connection, but ap-
parently those reverted creatures had something to do
with the huge, blobby star,vessel that escorted Streaker
here.

He was proud when a word came floating to mind.
Zang.

Except to prevent Streaker from leaving, the great
globule seemed indifferent at first, concentrating on the
repair task, directing mechanical hirelings to weave vast
nets of black fiber, bandaging cracks in the huge edifice.
But after a day or so, the Zang were forced to pay atten-
tion when mysterious objects drifted toward the Earth-

170 David Bnn

ship, approaching from various parts of the immense
inhabited shell, nosing close to investigate.

The Zang drove each snoop away, keeping a cordon
around the Terragens' cruiser. Yet, Streaker's exotic
guardians showed no interest in acknowledging Gil-
lian's frequent messages.

Emerson recalled one of the few definite facts known
about the mighty hydrogen breathers—they had differ-
ent ways of viewing time. Clearly, the Zang felt their
business with Streaker could wait.

Now he listened as Gillian consulted with the Jijo na-
tives, trying to form a plan.

"What if we just herd the glovers onto a shuttle and
send it over? Do we have a clue whether that would
satisfy the Zang? Or if the glavers would be safe?

"Suppose the answer to both questions is yes. What
does Galactic law say about a situation like this? Are we
supposed to ask the Zang for a receipt?"

Out of the flood of words, only "Zang" had any solid
meaning to him. The rest floated just beyond clear com-
prehension. And yet, to Emerson, the rich sibilance of
her voice was like music.

Of course he had always nursed a secret passion for
Dr. Gillian Baskin, even when her husband, Thomas
Orley, lived aboard Streaker—the sort of harmless infat-
uation that a grown man could control and never show.
At least not crudely. Life wasn't fair, but he did get to be
around her.

Alas the infatuation started affecting his judgment af-
ter Tom vanished heroically on Kithrup. Emerson started
taking risks, trying to emulate Orley. Attempting to
prove himself a worthy replacement in her eyes.

A foolish quest, but natural. And it paid off at Oakka,
where minions of the Library and Migration Institute be-
trayed their oaths, conspiring to seize Streaker's cargo to
benefit their birth clans instead of all civilization. There,
Emerson threw himself into a wild gamble, and his
boldness paid off, helping win a narrow victory—an-
other brief deliverance—enabling Streaker to flee and
fight another day.

But here . . .

Heaven's Reach   171

He shook his head. In viewing tapes from Streaker's
departing point of view, Emerson now realized that his
sacrifice in the borrowed Thennanin scout had made
very little difference. Streaker's escape path had begun
opening even as he charged ahead, ignoring Gillian's
pleas to return. He would have gone to Jijo anyway, and
in more comfort, if he had just stayed aboard this ship
and never fallen into the clutches of the Old Ones.

Scanning the near edge of the torn Fractal World, he
immersed himself in the fantastic task of preservation.
Numbers and equations were no longer trustworthy, but
he still had an engineer's instincts, and these thrilled as
he watched machines bolster vast constructions of ice
and carbon thread. He had never seen cooperation on
such scale among hydros, oxies, and machines.

That thought made the cosmos seem a nicer place
somehow.

Time passed. Emerson no longer thought in terms of
minutes and hours—or duras and miduras—but the un-
even, subjective intervals between hungers, thirsts, or
other bodily needs. And yet, he began feeling tensely
expectant.

A bedeviling sense that something was wrong.

For a while he had difficulty placing it. The dolphins
on duty in the bridge seemed unconcerned. Everything
was calm. None of the display screens showed any ob-
vious signs of threat.

Likewise, in the Plotting Room, Gillian's meeting
broke up, as people dispersed to workstations or else
observed the awesome vista surrounding Streaker. No-
body appeared alarmed.

Emerson conveyed to the little holo unit his desire to
tap the ship's near-space sensors, scanning along its hull
and environs. As he went through the exercise twice,
the creepy feeling came and went in waves. Yet he
failed to pin anything down.

Calling for a close-up of Gillian herself, he saw that
she looked uncomfortable too—as if some thought were
scolding away, just below consciousness. A holo image
stood before her. Emerson saw she was examining the
area around Streaker's tail section.

172   Oavid Brin

Signaling with a grunt and a pointed finger, Emerson
ordered his own viewpoint taken that way. As the cam-
era angle swept along the ship's outer hull—coated with
its dense star-soot coating—he felt a growing sense of
relief. If Gillian was also looking into this, it might not
be just his imagination. Moreover, her instincts were
good. If there were a serious threat, she would have
taken action by now.

He was already feeling much better as the holo image
swept past Streaker's rear set of probability flanges,
bringing the stern into view.

That was Emerson's first clue.

Feeling better.

Ironically, that triggered increased unease.

Back on Jijo—ever since he had wakened, delirious,
in Sara's treehouse with a seared body and crippled
brain—there had always been one pleasure that ex-
celled any other. Beyond the soothing balm of secre-
tions from the traeki pharmacists. Beyond the
satisfaction of improved health, or feeling strength re-
turn to his limbs. Beyond the wondrous sights, sounds,
and smells of Jijo. Even beyond the gentle, loving com-
pany of dear Sara. One bliss surpassed any competitor.

It happened whenever the pain stopped.

Whenever the conditioned agony, programmed into
his racked cortex, suddenly let go of him—the abrupt
absence of woe felt like a kind of ecstasy.

It happened whenever he stopped doing something
he wasn't supposed to do. Like trying to remember. Any
attempt at recollection was punished with agony. But
the reward was even more effective, at first. A hedonis-
tic satisfaction that came from not trying anymore.

And now Emerson sensed a similarity.

Oh, it wasn't as intense. Rewards and aversions mani-
fested at a much subtler level. In fact, he might never
have noticed, if not for the long battle he had fought on
Jijo, learning to counter pain with obstinacy, by facing it,
like some tormented prey turning on its pursuer . . .
then transforming the hunter into the hunted. It was a
hard lesson, but in time he had mastered it.

Not . . . there ... he thought, laboriously forming

Heaven's fleacli   173

the words one at a time, in order to lock in place a fierce
determination.

Go . . . back. . . .

It felt like trying to fight a strong wind, or swimming
upstream. Each time the holo scene made progress
toward the ship's bow, he felt strange inside. As if the
very concept of that part of Streaker was peculiar and
somehow improper, like trying to visualize a fifth di-
mension.

Moreover, it apparently affected computers, too. The
instruments proved balky. Once his view passed for-
ward of the first set of flanges, the camera angle kept
wandering aside, missing and curving back around
toward the stern again.

A torrent of cursing escaped Emerson. Rich and ex-
pressive, it flowed the way all speech used to, before
his injury. Like songs and some kinds of poetry, exple-
tives were fired from a part of the brain never touched
by the Old Ones. The stream of invective had a calming,
clarifying effect as Emerson turned away from all artifi-
cial tools and images. Instead, he pressed his face close
to the bubble window, made of some clear, incredibly
strong material that Earth's best technicians could not
imitate. He peered forward, toward Streaker's bow.

It felt like trying to see through your own blind spot.
But he concentrated, fighting the aversion with all the
techniques he had learned on Jijo.

At last, he managed barely to make out glimmers of
movement amid the blackness.

Sensing his strong desire to see, the rewq symbiont
slithered downward, laying its filmy body over his eyes
—translating, amplifying, shirting colors back and forth
until he grunted with surprised satisfaction.

Objects swarmed around Streaker's prow. Robots, or
small shiplike things. They darted about, converging en
masse near a part of the ship that everyone aboard
seemed to have conveniently forgotten!

Emerson glimpsed a small, starlike flare erupt. Glints
of actinic flame.

He wasted no more time cursing. On hands and
knees, he scuttled put of the little observation dome,

174  David Brin

built by some race much smaller than humans that had
once owned this ship long before it was sold, fifth-hand,
to a poor clan of ignorant wolflings, freshly emerged
from an isolation so deep they used to wonder if, in all
the universe, they lived alone.

He had no way to report his discovery. No words to
shout over an intercom. If he went to the Plotting Room,
grabbed Gillian's shoulders, and forced her to look for-
ward, she would probably respond. But how long might

that take?

Worse, could it even risk her life? Whatever means
was being used to cast this spell, it bore similarities to
his own prior conditioning and Emerson recognized a
special brand of ruthlessness. Those responsible might
sense Gillian's dawning awareness, and clamp down
harshly through her psi talent.
He could not risk exposing her to that danger.
Sara? Prity? They were his friends and dear to him.
The same logic held for the other Streakers. Anyway,
there was too little time to make himself understood.
Sometimes you had to do things yourself.
So Emerson ran. He dashed forward to the cavernous
hangar—the Outlock—that rilled Streaker's capacious
nose. All the smaller vessels that once had filled the
mooring slips when they departed Earth were now
gone. The longboat and skiff had been lost with Orley
and the others at Kithrup. Even before that, the captain's
gig had exploded in the Shallow Cluster—their first terri-
ble price for claiming Creideiki's treasure.

Now the docks held mgged little Thennanin scout-
boats, taken from an old hulk the crew had salvaged. It
felt all too familiar, slipping into one of the tiny armored
vessels. He had done this once before—turning on
power switches, wrestling the control wheel built for a
race with much bigger arms, and triggering mechanisms
to send it sliding down a narrow rail, into a tube that

would expel it. ...

Emerson quashed all memory of that last time, or else
courage might have failed him. Instead, he concentrated

Heaven's Beach   175

on the dials and screens whose symbols he could no
longer read, hoping that old habits, skills, and Ifni's luck
would keep him from spinning out of control the mo-
ment he passed through the outer set of doors.

A song burst unbidden into his mind—a pilot's an-
them about rocketing into the deep black yonder—but
his clenched jaw gave it no voice. He was too busy to
utter sound.

If it were possible to think clear sentences, Emerson
might have wondered what he was trying to accom-
plish, or how he might possibly interfere with the at-
tackers. The little scout had weapons, but a year ago he
had not proved very adept with them. Now he could not
even read the controls.

Still, it could be possible to raise a ruckus. To disrupt
the assailants. To dash their shroud of illusion and alert
the Terran crew that danger lurked.

But what danger?

No matter. Emerson knew his brain was no longer
equipped to solve complex problems. If all he accom-
plished was to draw the attention of the Zang—bringing
their protective wrath down on the trespassers—that
might be enough.

The wounded Fractal World turned before him as the
airlock closed and he gently nudged the boat's thrusters,
moving toward the interlopers. Waves of aversion in-
creased in strength as he drew nearer. Pain and plea-
sure, disgust and fascination—these and many other
sensations washed over him, rewarding Emerson each
time his eyes or thoughts drifted away from the activity
ahead, and punishing every effort to concentrate. With-
out the experience on Jijo, he might never have over-
come such combination. But Emerson had learned a
new habit. To seek discomfort—like a child pressing a
loose tooth, attracted by each throbbing twinge, teasing
and probing till the old made way for the new.

The little rewq helped. Sensing his need, it kept rip-
ple-shifting through various color spectra, conveying

176  David Brin

images that wavered elusively, but eventually resolved
into discernible shapes.

Machines.

He realized at least a dozen spindly forms had already
latched themselves to Streaker's nose. They clambered
like scavenging insects probing the eye of some helpless
beast. If the goal were simple destruction, it would all
be over by now. Their aim must be more complex than
that.

He recognized the hot light of a cutting torch. Either
they were trying to burn their way into the ship, to
board her, or ...

Or else their effort was aimed at cutting something
off. A sample, perhaps. But of what?

Emerson pictured Streaker in his mind, a detailed im-
age, unimpaired by his aphasia with sentences. The
memory was wordless, almost tactile, from years spent
loving this old salvaged hull in ways a man could never
love a woman, supervising so many aspects of its trans-
formation into something unique—the pride of Earth-
clan.

All at once he recalled what lay beneath that bitter,
flickering glare.

A symbol. An emblem supposedly carried by all ships
flown by oxygen-breathing, starfaring races.

The rayed spiral crest of the Civilization of Five Galax-
ies.

Incongruity stunned Emerson. At first he wondered if
this might be yet another trick, deceiving his percep-
tions once again, making him think that was their target.
All this seemed an awful lot of effort to expend simply
defacing Streaker of its bow insignia.

Anyway, the machines were clearly having more trou-
ble than they had bargained for. The dense carbon coat
burdening the Earthship was obdurate and resistant to
every attempt by Hannes Suessi and the dolphin engi-
neers to remove it. As he drew closer, Emerson saw that
only a little progress had been made, exposing a small
patch of Streaker's original hull.

He almost laughed at the aliens' discomfiture.

Then he looked beyond, and saw.

Heaven's Reacli   177

More machines. Many of them, swarming darkly, con-
verging from the starry background. Almost certainly
reinforcements, coming to make short work of the job.

It was time to act. Emerson reached for his weapons
console, choosing the least potent rays, lest he damage
Streaker by mistake.

Well, here goes nothing, he thought.

I sure Kope this works.

So intent was he on aiming—carefully adjusting the
crosshairs—that he never noticed what had just hap-
pened within his crippled mind.

His use of two clear sentences, one right after an-
other, smoothly expressing both wryness and hope.

Gdli

ian

REALIZATION CRACKLED THROUGH HER CON-
sciousness like pealing thunder. She cried out a
shrill command.
"Security alert!"

Klaxons echoed down the Earthship's half-
deserted halls, sending dolphins scurrying to combat
stations. The ambient engine hum changed pitch as
Suessi's crew increased power to shields and weapon
systems.

"Niss, report!"

The spinning hologram spoke quickly, with none of
its accustomed snideness.

"We seem to have been suborned by a combined psi-
cyber stealth attack, with an aim toward distracting
Streaker's defenders, both organic and machine. The
fact that you and I roused simultaneously suggests the
emitter source has been abruptly destroyed or degraded.
Preliminary indications suggest they used a sophisti-
cated logic entity whose memic-level was at least
class—"

"What's our current danger?" Gillian cut in.

"I detect no immediate targeting impulses or
macroweaponry aimed at this vessel. But several nearby

178 Oavia Bnii

automatons show latent power levels that could turn
dangerous at close range.

"So far, it seems they are content to fire away at each
other."

She stepped toward the display showing a camera
view of the ship's bow . . . exactly opposite from the
region she had been inspecting, suspicious of some un-
known menace. Her heart pounded as she saw how
close it had been. All might have been lost, if the intrud-
ers had not fallen to righting among themselves. Sharp
flashes surged and flared as spiderlike shapes lashed at
each other, casting battle shadows uncomfortably close.

"Where the hell are the Zang?" Gillian murmured un-
der her breath.

Scanning the area of space where the hydrogen enti-
ties had been, her instruments showed no sign of the
big globule-vessel . . . only a disturbing, elongated
cloud of drifting ions. Perhaps it's only backwash from
their engines, when they departed on an errand. They
may be back at any moment.

Her mind quailed from the other possibility—that
some weapon had removed the Zang from the local
equation. A weapon powerful enough to leave barely a
smudge of disturbed atoms in its wake.

Either way, the psi attack kept us from noticing our
guardians were gone. Someone went to a lot of trouble
making sure we'd sit still for a while.

She felt Suessi's engines dig in as Kaa started backing
away from the combat maelstrom. But the pilot only-
made a little headway before the swarm of conflict fol-
lowed, as if tethered to Streaker by invisible cords.

"Do you have any idea who—"

"None of the combatants has identified itself."

"Then what were they trying—"

"It appears that some group was attempting to steal
Streaker's WOM archive."

"Streaker's . . . ?"

Her question froze in her throat. Gillian's mouth
closed sharptyas she understood.

By law, each Galactic vessel was supposed to carry a
"watcher" ... a device that would passively chronicle

Heaven's fleacti   179

the major features of its travels. Some units were sophis-
ticated. Others—the sort that a poor clan could afford—
were crude mineral devices, capable only of recording
the ship's rough location and identifying any ships
nearby. But all of them fell into the category of "write-
only memories" . . . designed to store knowledge but
never be read. At least never within the present epoch.
Eventually, each was supposed to find its way into the
infinite archives of the Great Library, to be studied at
leisure by denizens of some later age, when the pas-
sions of this one had faded to mere historical interest.

At once, the strategem behind this attack made sense
to her.

"The Old Ones . . . they must have found the
codes, enabling them to read our WOM. It would tell
them where Streaker's been!"

"Enabling them to backtrack our voyage and find the
Shallow Cluster."

Gillian's reaction was strangely mixed. On the one
hand, she felt angry and violated by these beings who
would meddle in her mind and rob Streaker of its trea-
sure. Information her crew had guarded for so long, and
Tom and Creideiki paid for with their lives.

On the other hand, it might solve so many problems if
the thieves succeeded. Some mighty faction would then
have the secret at last, perhaps using it to dominate the
next age. Battles and great conspiracies could then
surge onward, perhaps letting Earth and her colonies
drift back into the side eddies of history, neglected and
maybe safe for a while.

"I'm surprised no one tried this before," she com-
mented, wary as she watched the minibattle follow
Streaker's retreat across the vast interior of the Fractal
World.

"Indeed, it seems a logical ploy to try seizing the
watcher from our bow. I can only hazard that our prior
enemies lacked the means to read a coded WOM."

If so, it spoke well for the neutrality of the Library
Institute, that even the richest clans and alliances could
not break the seals. That made Gillian wonder. Might
the betrayals at Oakka have been an aberration? Perhaps

180  David Bfin

it was just Streakers run of typical bad luck that put it at
the mercy of rare traitors. Institute officials might be

more honorable elsewhere.

If so, should we try again? Gillian wondered. Maybe
head for Tanitb and try surrendering ourselves to the

authorities one more time?

Meanwhile, the Niss whirled thoughtfully. The Tym-
brimi-designed software entity flattened into a planate
whirlpool shape before speaking once again.

"It must have taken them much of the last year, using
their influence as elder members of the Retired Order, to
access the keys. In fact ..."

The mesh of spinning lines tightened, exhibiting

strain.

"In fact, this casts a pall across our earlier miracu-
lous escape from this place."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we thought we were being aided by al-
truistic members of the Retired Order, benevolently help-
ing us elude persecutors in. the name of justice. But
consider how conveniently easy it was! Especially the
way we stumbled on references leading to the so-called

Sooner Path— "
"Easy! I had to squeeze our captured Library for it,

like pressing wine from a stone! It was—"

"It was easy. I now see that in retrospect. We must
have been infected by a lesser meme parasite, conveying
the attractive notion of fleeing toJijo. A nearby sanctu-
ary with just one way in and one way out. A haven
whose only exit would lead us right back here again."

Gillian blinked, abruptly seeing what the machine

was driving at.

Suppose one faction hoped to seize Streaker's WOM,
but knew it would take a while to access the right codes
for reading it? Fugitive wolflings could not be left just
hanging around in the open till then. Someone else

might snatch the prize!

What better way to stash the memory unit for safe-
keeping than by sending it into hiding, guarded by the
self-preservation skills and instincts of tested survivors?
The Earthship's own crew.

Henen's Beach  181

"If we had not turned up about now, no doubt they
would have sent word toJijo luring us back. Indeed, the
plan has earmarks—patience and confidence—that
resonate of the Retired Order.

"Only now this failure to seize the object of their de-
sire shows that their scheme broke down. Not everything
is going their way. This faction still has enemies. More-
over, note how dismal the state of their power has be-
come, under these conditions of calamity!"

"Calamity" was right. As Gillian watched, fighting
seemed to ripple outward around them. Tactics sensors
showed signs of conflagration spreading toward the
nearest ragged edge of the wounded criswell structure.

"At this rate," she mused, "someone's gonna get fed
up and use one of those big disintegrator rays. Maybe
on us. We better think about getting out of here."

"Dr. Baskin, while we have been talking I've thought
of little else. For instance, I have endeavored to call our
captor-protector, the Zang ship entity, to no avail. A
leading hypothesis must be that it was destroyed."

Gillian nodded, having reached the same conclusion.

"Well, if it ain't coming, I don't care to hang around
waiting."

She raised her voice toward the intercom.

"Kaa! Give it a full effort. Let's make a break for
t-point!"

The pilot acknowledged with a click burst of assent.

" Cornered by orcas,

* With our backs against sharp coral,
* Watch them eat plankton! *

As Streaker started pulling away, the battle storm fol-
lowed. Detectors showed still more machines converg-
ing from all sides. Still, a gap slowly began to grow.

Then the Niss interrupted again.

"Dr. Baskin, something else has come to my attention
that I know will concern you.

"Please observe."

The main viewer zoomed toward one corner of the
fiery brawl—a scrap far smaller than some other battles

182   David Brio

Streaker had observed, though nearness made the
flashes and explosions seem more garish by far. Rapid
glimpses revealed that most of the fighters were ma-
chines, lacking any boxy enclosures to protect proto-
plasm crews. Clearly, the varied factions of "retired"
races preferred doing combat by proxy, using mechani-
cal hirelings rather than risking their own necks.

Then one object loomed into view, more squat in pro-
file than any other—a tubby dart, rounded and heavily
armored. Gillian recognized the outline of a Thennanin

scoutcraft.

"Ifni!" she sighed. "Has he done it again?"
"If you mean Engineer Emerson d'Anite, I can tell
you that interior scans show no sign of him within this
ship. I surmise it is him out there, unleashing weapons
with quite futile abandon, missing nearly everything be
shoots at. Organic beings really should not face
mecbanicals in close combat. It is not your forte."

"I'll bear that in mind," Gillian murmured, deeply torn
over what she could or should do next.

merson

WHEN HE REALIZED HE WASN'T HITTING ANY-
thing—and no one was shooting back—Emerson
finally shut down the fire controls. Apparently, no-
body thought him worth much worry, or effort. It
felt irksome to be ignored, but at least no faction
seemed bent on avenging the robots he had taken out
with those first few lucky shots, igniting this fury.

Combat surged around him. There was no making
sense of the shadowed struggle as machines flayed

other machines.

Anyway, it soon dawned on him that something else
was going on. Something more important and personal

than events taking place outside,

Waves of confusion swept through Emerson's mind.
Nothing unusual about that. By now he was quite

used to feeling befuddled. But the type of disorientation

Heaven's Head)   183

was exceptional. It felt like peering past dark clouds of
delirium. As if everything till then had been part of a
vivid dream, filled with perverted logic. Like a fever-
racked child, he had made no clear sense of anything
going on around him for a very long time. But in a brief
instant light seemed to pierce the mist, limning corners
that had been shrouded and dark.

Like a hint, or a passing scent, it lasted but a moment
and was gone.

He suspected a trick. Another psi distraction . . .

But the light must have been more than that! The joy
it brought was too intense. The sense of loss too devas-
tating when it vanished.

Then, without warning, it was back again, much
stronger than before.

Something he had been missing for a long time.

Something precious that he had never fully appreci-
ated until it was taken from him.

I ... I can think . . .

. . . I can think in words again!

Not just words, but sentences, paragraphs!

I'm piloting a Thennanin war dart. . . . Streaker
lies behind me. . . . Over there, and across nearly the
whole of heaven, I see the blemished sky arch of the
Fractal World. ...

At once an overwhelming flood of understanding
filled Emerson. Things he had seen on Jijo and since.
Concepts that had eluded him because they could not
be shaped with images and feelings alone, but needed
the rich subtlety of abstract language to shape and an-
chor them with a webbery of symbols.

Sadness flooded him when he thought of all the
things he had wanted to tell Sara during their long jour-
ney together across the Slope. And to Gillian, after he
returned home a devastated cripple. Two different kinds
of love he could never express—or sort out—until now.

How is this possible? My brain . . . they destroyed
my speech centers!

For some reason, after the Old Ones finished interro-
gating him, they had decided to let him live, but in si-
lence. The means to do this they found simply by

184  David Brin

reading his own memories of poor wounded Creideiki.
When they mimicked giving him the same injury, the
resulting cruel mutilation had left him half dead . . .

and less than half a man.

That much he had already worked out laboriously on
Jijo, even without putting it in words. But the answer
was never satisfying. It never explained the brutal logic
behind such an act.

That was when it came to him.

A voice. One he had forgotten till that moment.

One he identified with chill, unblinking eyes.

"INACCURACY. WE DID NOT DESTROY THOSE PORTIONS OF YOUR
ORGANIC BRAIN. WE BORROWED/TOOK/EXPROPKIATED A FEW GRAMS OF
TISSUE FOR USE IN A GREAT GOAL. OUR NEED WAS GREATER THAN
YOURS. "

The effrontery of that claim nearly made Emerson
howl with rage. Only by fierce discipline did he manage
to form a reply, shaping it through pathways he had not
used in too long a time. His voice sounded unpracticed,
with an odd nasal twang.

"You bastards maimed me so I'd never talk about

what you did!"

A sensation of aloof amusement accompanied the re-
sponse.

"THAT WAS BUT A MINOR SIDE BENEFIT. IN FACT, WE DESIRED/
NEEDED THE TISSUE ITSELF. IF TSUTV BE TOLD, IT SEEMED FAR MORE
VALUABLE TO US THAN YOU EVER WEKE UKEIY TO BE, AS A WHOLE

ENrrrY . . . ALTHOUGH IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN BETTER IF YOU WF.RE

OF A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT SPECIES. BUT WE HAD PHYSICAL POSSESSION
OF JUST ONE EARTHUNG , SO IT WAS ORDAINED THAT YOU WOULD BE
OUR DONOR. "

The explication left him more befuddled than ever.
"Then how come I can talk now?"

"IT IS A MATTER OF LINKAGE AND PROXIMITY. WE LEFT QUANTUM
RESONATORS LINING THE CAVITY IN YOUR BRAIN, WHERE THE EXCISED
TISSUE ONCE RESIDED. THESE HAVE CAUSAL CONNECTIONS WITH OTHER
RESONATORS COATING THE SAMPLE WE TOOK AWAY. IF YOU ARE CLOSE
ENOUGH, UNDER THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES, OLD NEURAL PATHWAYS
MAY RESUME THEIR FORMER FUNCTION. "

Emerson blinked. Leaning toward the scoutship's

Heaven's Reach   185

curved window, he peered at the dark skyscape, flicker-
ing with silent explosions.

"YES, THE CAPSULE IS NEARBY, BROUGHT CLOSE TO YOU BY A
WORKER DRONE. ONE THAT SEEMS INNOCUOUS, EVADING ATTENTION
FROM THE FACTIONS BATTLING AROUND YOU.

"IN FACT, THE DKONE CAN COME MUCH CLOSER STILL. THE TISSUE
MIGHT BE YOURS AGAIN, UNDER CERTAIN CONDITIONS . "

He wanted to scream at his former captors, declaring
that they had no right to bargain with him over some-
thing they had stolen in the first place. But they would
only dismiss that as whimpering over wolfling standards
of fairness. Anyway, Emerson's mind was racing now,
covering a great deal of territory in parallel, using both
the old logic tracks and new techniques he had picked
up during exile.

"If I serve you, then I'll get my speech centers back?
What's the matter? Did your former scheme fail?"

"SOME OF US STILL HAVE FAUWCOWIDENCE IN THAT PLAN.
THOUGH AT BEST IT WAS ALWAYS A GAMBLE—AN ATTEMPT TO BRIBE
ONE WHO IS/WAS FAR AWAY FROM HERE.

"BUT NOW, DEFYING ALL EXPECTATION, YOU ARE NEAR US ONCE
AGAIN. IT PRESENTS ANOTHER POSSIBILITY FOR SUCCESS. "

"Oh, I just can't wait to hear this," Emerson com-
mented, but he had learned the first time that sarcasm
was wasted on the Old Ones.

"THE CONCEPT SHOULD BE SIMPLE ENOUGH FOR YOUR LEVEL OF
BEING TO UNDERSTAND. IF YOU HURRY, YOU CAN REBOARD THE
EARTHSHIP AND FIND/RETRIEVE INFORMATION WE DESIRE. A SIMPLE
TRADE WOULD FOLLOW, AND WHAT YOU DESfRE MOST WILL BE YOURS. "

Emerson clamped down, refusing to put in words
some of the thoughts glimmering at the back of his
mind. Whatever he expressed that way—even subvocal-
izing—must pass through a lump of protoplasm that lay
out there somewhere, carried by a machine drifting
amid the slashing rays and bursting mines. A piece of
himself that others could sieve at will.

"So now you want to make a deal. But a year ago you
thought you didn't need my useless carcass anymore.
Why did you send me to Jijo, then? Why am I still alive?"

The voice seemed resigned about providing an expla-
nation.

186  David Bfin

"THEREARE BOUNDARY CONDmONS TO THE UNIVERSAL WAVE FUNC-
TION, AFFECTING WORLDLJNES PROPAGATING IN AIL DIRECTIONS. YOUR
PHYSICAL EXISTENCE IN A FUTURE TIME IS ONE OF THESE BOUNDARY
CONDITIONS . OUR ACTIONS MUST BE COMPATIBLE WITH KNOWN FACTS.

"HOWEVER, THERE fS LOOSENESS IN THE SUP AND PLAY OF
WORLDLINES. NUMERICAL CALCULATIONS SHOWED THAT IT WAS ONLY
NECESSARY TO PUT YOU ClOSE TO YOUR PEERS, ALIVE, AT A CERTAIN
PLACE AND TIME, IN ORDER FOR ACCOUNTS TO BALANCE. PLACING YOUR
BODY ON JlJO, WITHIN ACCESSIBLE RANGE OF YOUR COLLEAGUES, AP-
PEARED ADEQUATE. "

He stared, appalled at both the power and the cal-
lousness implied by that statement.

"You . . . you'd call that hellish journey I went
through accessible^"

The voice did not reply to that. Emerson's question
might as well have been rhetorical.

His eyes skimmed the scout's displays. Now the let-
ters and glyphs made instantaneous sense, indicating
Streaker's growing speed and distance. Clearly, Gillian
was making another run toward the stars.

"THAT'S RIGHT. YOU HAVE ONLY A FEW DURAS TO ACT. IF YOU DO
NOT REBOARD AND ACCEPT OUR OFFER, WE WILL BE FORCED TO DE-
STROY THE EARTHSHIP AND ALL YOUR COMRADES. "

Emerson laughed.

"That assumes your enemies will let you! They almost
grabbed Streaker's WOM, before your faction inter-
fered. They might have something to say about your
plans, in turn.

"Besides, I'm an important boundary condition, right?
You gotta help me live into the future, alongside my
friends, or your whole cause-and-effect thingamajig falls
apart!"

"THE DEMANDS OF CAUSALITY ARE NOT AS STRICT AS YOU IMPLY,
HUMAN. DO NOT TEST YOUR QUESTIONABLE VALUE, OR TAUNT US WITH
DISRESPECT. "

He laughed aloud.

"Or what? You'll punish me? You'll inflict paint"
Silence greeted his challenge, but he could tell the
scorn had had an effect, this time. Contempt was a slim
weapon, but 'they weren't used to it. The words stung
them.

Heaven's Reach   137

On the other hand, the Old Ones knew Emerson had
little choice. Remaining behind was not an option, if he
could avoid it. His hands decided for him, nudging to
the scout's throttle, sending it accelerating after
Streaker . . . though he felt a rising sense of dread.

What would happen when he left the vicinity of the
robot carrying the missing piece of himself? Would it
follow? Lurking nearby so he could continue to think?

When the voice spoke again, it seemed cool and dis-
tant.

"WE NOW SUPPLY YOU WITH A CODE TO USE M CO/VTACTWl-; US,
WHEN YOU ARE READY TO ACT ON OUR OFFER. "

A series of colors filled Emerson's mind—a simple se-
quence that seared its way into memory. He could not
forget it if he tried.

Then his former captors offered a parting comment.

"O.EARLY WE MISESTIMATED YOUR LEVEL OF SAPIENCY, IN BELIEVING
THAT SIMPLE AVERSION CONDITIONING COULD SWAY YOU EARLIER. CON-
GRA'n/LATJONS ON YOUR APPARENT TENACITY AND FLEXIBIIJTY.

"NEVER-IHELESS, WE HAVE CONFIDENCE IN THE EFFECTIVENESS OF
OUR FINAL INDUCEMENT. "

With that, the voice cut off, though Emerson wasn't
done with them yet.

"Well let me tell you what you can do with your Ifni-
damned offer, you gorslucking spawn of retard slime
molds! Go seek redemption up your own clocoas, you
jef-eating, dirt-licking, damned-to-Gehenna—"

Emerson's stream of invective went on while he sped
after Streaker, hurrying past robot combatants that grap-
pled and slashed one another, but never laid a claw or
ray on him. He cursed on and on, enjoying the rich
flood of invective and the feel of words spilling from his
mouth, keeping it going for as long as he could. Each
added second of crass language seemed a victory.

Swearing was his touchstone. Filling the small cabin
with hoarse noise, he clung to the knack of speech,
fiercely refusing to let distance—or the enemy—rip it
away.

Soon he noted that Streaker was slowing down, paus-
ing in its flight to let him catch up. The act of loyalty
warmed him as the docking tunnel opened, spilling a

188  Osvid Brin

welcome glow. But Emerson kept shouting his opinion
of the Old Ones—their ancestry, their character, and
their likely destiny on the great pyramid of existence.

Only when he finished latching to Streaker's guid-
ance beam did Emerson pause long enough to remem-
ber something.

Cursing didn't count.

He could do that even on Jijo. Like singing and
sketching, profanity did not use the part of his brain that
was stolen.

Emerson tried to say something else—to comment on
the battle, the sky filled with shattered debris, or his
own growing fear—and failed.

Desperately, his thoughts whirled, rummaging
through his tormented brain, seeking an aptitude that
had seemed so fluid and natural just moments before. A
lifelong skill that villains had robbed from him, then
briefly returned, but for too short a time.

It felt like trying to extend an amputated limb. The
ghost was still there. A hint of volition. Meanings filled
his mind, along with a readiness to act, to prompt sen-
tences. To speak.

But some key element was gone again, and with it all
the things he had hoped and planned saying to Sara. To
Gillian.

Emerson slumped in a seat that had been built for a
much larger pilot, a creature of great physical power,
respected across the Civilization of Five Galaxies. His
arms sank from the massive controls and his chin met
his chest as tears streamed from eyes suddenly too
foggy for seeing. He felt helpless, like an overwhelmed
child. Like an ignorant wolfling.

Till that moment, Emerson had thought himself famil-
iar with loss. But now he knew.

There was always someplace deeper you could go.

Gilli

ian

LIEUTENANT TSH'T REPORTED FROM THE
bridge. Turbulent bubbles fizzed as her tail slashed
through oxywater.

"Engineer d'Anite is back aboard. Sh-shall we ac-
celerate again?"

Gillian felt indecision like a heavy beast, clawing and
dragging at her arms, her shoulders.

"Have sensors picked up any sign of the Zang?"

The Niss hologram expressed worry with taut lines.

"The hydrogen-breathing entities may be destroyed,
along with their vessel. But even if the Zang are preoc-
cupied elsewhere, some of these battling factions will
surely unite to prevent our departure."

"We don't know their motives, or even how many
cliques—"

"By appraising tactical patterns I count at least five
different groups. Their forces are mostly robots of the
sepoy-soldiery type, receiving instructions from various
sectors of the Fractal World, working for local associa-
tions of the Retired Order."

The Niss paused for a moment, then resumed.

"Let me revise. I perceive SIX battle patterns. One
seems aimed toward opening an escape path for us. So it
appears we do have allies among the combatants."

"It appeared that way last time, too," she replied.
"These helpers—are they strong enough to protect us?"

"Doubtful. The crucial moment will come when we
pass through the narrowest part of the gap that's been
torn in the Fractal World. Any group might choose to
destroy us at that point, using the defense beams we saw
earlier."

190  David Bfin

That was a cheery thought to dwell on as Streaker
reentered the gaping corridor filled with evaporating de-
bris and shimmering artificial comets. Only this time a
sparkle of battle also followed the Earthship, ebbing and
surging around it.

Gillian had Kaa steer just half a million kilometers
from one ragged edge of the great wound, threading a
path between the stumps and stark shadows of titanic,
brittle spires.

"Maybe someone will think twice about shooting at
us with those big guns, if we're so close to the shell
itself."

From here they could make out some of the giant
machines striving to shore up the torn criswell structure,
using nets woven from great spools of carbon thread to
arrest its decay. These were a completely different order
of mechanism, autonomous and sapient—hired work-
ers, not slaves.

In fact, though, most of the supply spools looked
nearly empty. They are running short of raw materials,
Gillian thought. All their efforts may fail if this keeps
up . . . especially if bands of Old Ones fight instead of
helping.

A dolphin's joyful shout erupted behind Gillian. She
turned in time to see Emerson d'Anite enter the Plotting
Room, his head and shoulders slumped in apparent de-
pression.

"Well, there's our hero—" Gillian began. But Sara
Koolhan rushed past with a glad cry to embrace her
friend. The little neo-chimpanzee, Prity, leaped among
them, and soon Emerson was enveloped. Dolphins
gathered around, clicking excitedly while their walkers
hissed and clanked. The Jijoan youngsters—Alvin and
his friends—slapped Emerson's back, shaking his hand
and telling him how wonderful he was.

Even if their words made no sense to him, the air of
approval seemed to wash away some of the man's dour
mood. His eyes lifted to meet Gillian's, and she returned
his tentative .smile with one of her own. But then the
Niss cut in.

"Two new swarms are approaching, Dr. Baskin."

Heaven's Reich   191

She turned to look. "More sepoy robots?"
"No . . . and it worries me. These fresh arrivals are
much more formidable beings, Gillian. They are inde-
pendent constructor-contractors. Autonomous members
of the Machine Order of Life."

"Show me!"

The fresh arrivals were already near, coming in
crowds of about a dozen each from opposite directions
—one depicted as a cluster of red dots, the other green.
Each group swept imperiously through the battle zone.
As evidence of their status, none of the combatant ro-
bots fired on the newcomers. Instead, most scurried out
of their way.

This looks bad, Gillian thought as the fierce green
sparkles entered visual range. Each of the leaders re-
sembled a giant spiny sea urchin, almost a tenth as long
as Streaker, though most of that was in spindly leg-
appendages that writhed as the mechanism flew toward
Streaker's tail.

"Impact-t in thirty secondsss!" called Tsh't from the
bridge. "Shall we open fire?"

"Negative!" Gillian shouted. "No one has used a beam
or particle weapon on us yet. I'm not about to start. Let's
see what their business is first."

One swarm converged near Streaker's aft end. Several
of the big, spiky mechs clamped on. Soon, a bright,
shimmering glow began to float around them.

"They are dissolving the ship!" the Niss cried out.
"Matter removal rates exceed thirty tons per sec-
ond . . . and rising. We must fight them off!"

Tsh't reported targeting one of the machines with a
laser turret, but Gillian countermanded the fire order.

"Don't do a thing till I say so! Akeakemai, give me a
zoom focus on the machines that are still floating out
there, behind the ones that landed!"

It was hard to peer past the fog that was being kicked
up. But Gillian thought she made out a giant cylinder. A
hooplike shape.

"It's a spool! Like the ones they unreel when they
weave repair nets." She turned her head and cried,

192  DiyH Bfin

"Quick. What is the spectral signature of the removed

material? Is it pure carbon?"
A brief pause. When the Niss spoke again, it sounded

subdued.

"Carbon it is."

"How pure?"

"Very. The vapors contain no metal from Streaker's

true bull. How did you know?"

Gillian's throat still felt as if her heart was beating
there. But some of the panicky feeling ebbed.

"These big guys don't give a damn about petty bicker-
ing among hot-tempered oxy-life-forms. They have a
job to do, and they're running out of raw materials.
Their best supply of carbon was already disrupted when
the Jijoans somehow triggered flares on Izmunuti. But
we carry layers of the same material sought by the har-
vester sail-ships! This work team must have sensed us
passing nearby and sent machines to fetch more for re-
pairs."

"Confirmed," said the Niss. "As they move slowly
along the hull, evaporated material is being sucked up
and spun into polycarbon fiber, leaving the fuselage be-
neath intact."

Hannes Suessi called jubilantly from Engineering,
clearly delighted to learn how the machines swiftly re-
moved a coating that had stymied him for months.

"At this rate, we'll shed several megatons in no time,"
he added. "It's gonna make us much more nimble."

By now the second swarm—shown as red pinpoints
—arrived in the vicinity of Streaker's nose. Another set
of enormous mechanisms clamped onto the bow. These
huge visitors showed no special interest in the area
around the rayed spiral symbol.

Gillian nodded.

"I guess they'll strip us from both ends now. Let's pray
this really does leave the hull itself intact. If our luck has
turned, their presence may deter anyone else from
shooting at us till we're near the t-point."

The Niss whirled thoughtfully.

"Of course there is another danger. If law and con-
sensus are totally broken throughout the Fractal World,

Heaven's Reach   193

nothing prevents the various 'retired' factions from get-
ting in touch with their younger cousins, via hyperwave
or time drop."

"In other words, we might see battlefleets of Soro,
Jophur, or Tandu come boiling through at any minute.
Great." She sighed. "All the more reason to get the
hell—"

The spinning moire patterns suddenly ballooned out-
ward—an expression of surprise.

"Something is different," the Niss announced. "The
group at the bow . . . it is not doing the same thing as
those at the stern."

Gillian took a step forward.

"Show me!"

At first the scene looked similar. Several long-legged
machines clung to Streaker's soot-covered hull, plying
the black surface with shimmering rays. Only this time
no milky haze of vapor poured toward mouthlike col-
lectors. No streams of dark fiber spun out the machines'
back ends, to collect on huge spools. Instead, some-
thing weird happened to the dense coating Streaker had
picked up during its passages through Izmunuti's atmo-
sphere. A rainbowlike sheen rippled and condensed
slickly behind the great mechanisms as they marched a
spiral pattern along the hull.

No one spoke for several minutes. So unexpected and
unexplained was this behavior that Gillian had no idea
how to react.

"They're . . . not taking the carbon away. They
are—"

"Transforming it, somehow," agreed the Niss.

At last, Suessi called. The chief engineer's cyborg im-
age appeared on a secondary screen. Although his head
was now a mirrored dome, Gillian could tell from the
old man's body language that he had a theory.

"The soot poured out by Izmunuti . . . the phases
that condensed on us were mostly carbon, all right. But
a large fraction consisted of fullerenes—so-called 'buck-
eyballs' and 'buckeytubes.' There were a lot of Penrose
diamond states, too. The material had some mighty
strange properties, as we found when we tried cutting it,

194  David Brin

back on Jijo. All sorts of caged impurities give it traits
like a high temperature superconductor, plus an altered

coefficient of friction—"

"Hannes!" Gillian interrupted. "Please get to the

point."

The silvery dome nodded.

"I've scanned the surface these new machines are
leaving behind. The coating is far more uniform than
raw star soot. The buckey states intermesh with each
other in ways I've never seen. I'd have to guess the
properties we observed before would be enhanced by
many orders of magnitude."

One of the dolphins muttered.

"Oh great-t. Now it will be even harder to ssscrape

off!"

Gillian shook her head.
"But what are they trying to accomplish? To seal us

inside?"

If so, there might still be time to evacuate the ship,
sending the crew scrambling for airlocks at the stern.
Perhaps they might find shelter among the first group of

machines.

"Our forward laser turret has a clear line of fire," an-
nounced Tsh't.

Gillian motioned with her right hand, restraining any

action for now.

One of the kids from Jijo spoke up then. The little
wheeled g'Kek, who called herself Huck, made a good
lookout, since she was able to scan four screens at once

with her waving eyestalks.

"Uh-oh," she remarked. "It looks like our new visitors

are gonna start fighting, too."

She pointed to where support vessels from both
groups could be seen drifting toward each other. Barely
constrained energies crackled as a showdown devel-
oped. Scanners showed that many of the lesser war ma-
chines were withdrawing from this confrontation.

They'll use us as a battleground. How could things

possibly get any worse?

Gillian knew it was a mistake to put it that way. One

Heaven's Reach  195

should not tempt Ifni, the goddess of luck, who could
always come up with one more ratcheting of fate.

The Niss hologram coiled nearby. Its voice was low,
resigned.

"Now we are being scanned from the Fractal World
itself. Those controlling the great disintegrator beams
have turned their targeting apparatus our way. We may
soon go the way of the late Zang."

"They'll risk hitting the habitat, right where it's most
vulnerable!"

"Apparently, some think it worth the risk, in order to
intimidate us. Or else they would destroy what they can-
not keep."

Gillian had seen those shafts of annihilation in action.
Streaker could be vaporized in seconds.

THESE WERE HELLISH CIRCUMSTANCES. AND YET,
for a biologist, it might be heaven. While his body
endured cramped confinement in a stinking plastic
bag, Lark's mind sped through lessons expanding
his parochial view of the vast panorama of life.

He grew deft at a new form of communication, re-
ceiving visual images that came enhanced by meanings
and connotations sent through a tube directly to his
bloodstream. A language of hormones and mood-
tweaking peptides. And it went both ways. Whenever
Lark understood something new, he did not have to
speak or even nod his head. The mere act of compre-
hending had metabolic effects—a familiar endorphin
burst of satisfaction—that his alien tutor quickly de-
tected. Likewise, confusion or frustration brought rapid
changes. The globule-teacher kept revising its presenta-
tion until Lark grasped what he was being shown.
It was a strangely active kind of passive study.
Would you call this a form of'telepathy'he wondered.
Yet, the method also seemed slow and crude. As vi-
sual lessons, the demonstrations were a lot like puppet

196  David Brin

shows. Physical portions of his instructor would bud off
the parent body to float within a vacuole cavity, twisting
and transforming themselves into living models or man-
nequins to play out a little scene. The same images
might have been presented far swifter, and more vividly,
using one of the computerized display units he had seen
Ling use, on Jijo and in the Jophur ship.

Inefficient or not, Lark eventually realized why his

captors used this approach.

It's fundamental to the difference between bydrogen-
and oxygen-based ways of looking at the universe.
At a glance, the two worlds seemed utterly unalike.
While both biologies were based on carbon mole-
cules, one used the reactive chemistry of oxidizing
atmospheres, with liquid water serving as the indis-
pensable solvent. Only narrow circumstances of temper-
ature and pressure could nurture this kind of life from
scratch. Normally, it arose in filmy skins of ocean and
air, coating Earthlike worlds. Venturing beyond these
lean oases, oxy-life must carry the same rare conditions

with them into space.

"Reducing" environments were far more abun-
dant, covering cold, giant planets like Jupiter, Saturn,
Uranus, or Titan—and even the broad, icy domain of
comets. Some of these worlds soaked in abundant hy-
drogen, while others featured methane, ammonia, or
cyanogen. But most shared a few common features—
enormous, dense atmospheres and turbulent convecting
layers, somewhat like the roiling strata of a sun. Life-
giving heat often flowed upward, from a hot planetary
core. Sometimes there was no solid "surface" at all.

Because of this, most hydros were creatures of a vast,
boisterous sky. Up and down became tall, unlimited,
almost coequal with the other two dimensions. Nor was
travel a matter of exertive flying, by defying gravity with
napping wings, but of adjusting buoyancy and propel-
ling through fogs so dense the pressure was like the

bottom of Earth's sea.

In such a realm, there were advantages to size. Big
creatures cruised with languid grace, sifting for organic
food. When caught in strong downdrafts, only a giant

Heaven's fleacli   197

could fight free and keep from being hauled to searing,
crushing depths. So huge did some hydro-beings grow,
they could be viewed from space, resembling titanic,
self-contained clouds.

And that was where organic chemistry—the De-
signer's Assistant—might have left things, if not for ac-
tion by another party.

The Critic.

Evolution.

Inevitably, the logic of reproduction and advantage
took hold on reducing worlds, as it did on oxidizing
ones like Earth . . . though in different ways.

Oxy-life counted on liquid water to carry out the com-
plex colloidal chemistry of proteins and amino acids.
Yet, too much watery flow would dilute those same pro-
cesses, making them useless. Even in the warm sea, this
meant Grafting compact packages—cells—of just the
right size to evolve life's machinery. For two billion
years, the limit of biological accomplishment on the
early Earth had been to spread single-celled organisms
through the ocean, soaking up sunlight and devouring
each other while slowly improving their molecular tech-
niques.

Until one day a' cell consumed another—and let it
continue living. A primitive eukaryote took in a blue-
green alga and gave it a home, exchanging safe living
quarters for sugars produced from photosynthesis. This
act of cooperation gave the combined team a crucial
edge in competition with other cells.

Nor was it the only joint venture. Soon, cells paired
up in quantity, amassing and colluding, forming tempo-
rary or permanent associations to gain advantage over
other teams. Complex organisms flourished, and evolu-
tion accelerated.

Some call it the food chain, or the Dance of Life. I've
seen it played out on Jijo, in so many subenvironments
and ecosystems. Plants use photosynthesis to store food
energy in carbohydrates. Herbivores eat plants. Carni-
vores prey on herbivores, completing the cycle by re-
turning their own substance to the ground when they
defecate or die.

198  livid Bfin

It looks like a well-tuned machine, with each part re-
lying on the others, but paradoxes abound. Everything
that seems at first like cooperation has its basis in com-
petition. And nearly every act of competition takes part
in a bigger, healthier system, as if cooperation were in-
herent all along.

Of course that oversimplified matters. Sometimes the
balance was thrown off kilter—by some environmental
change, or when one component species escaped natu-
ral controls keeping it in check. Like a cancer, it might
"compete" out of existence the very econetwork that
had enabled it to thrive in the first place.

Still, the basic pattern was nearly always the same on
millions of fecund little worlds. Take compact bags of
protein-laced water. Provide sunlight and minerals. Get
them busy vying in life-or-death rivalry. Over the long
run, what emerges will be ever-greater and more com-
plex alliances. Cooperative groups that form organs,
bodies, packs, herds, tribes, nations, planetary societ-
ies ... all leading to the fractious but astounding Civi-
lization of Five Galaxies.

The story of hydrogen-based life had similarities, but the
plot took a different twist.

On Jovian-type worlds, size emerged from the start.
Simple beings of vast extent flapped and fluttered across
skies broad enough to swallow several hundred Jijos.
Evolution caused such creatures to improve, though
more slowly at cooler temperatures. Indeed, change did
not always come about through reproduction and inher-
itance. More often, some part of a huge, drifting beast
might stumble onto a new chemical trick or behavior.
That portion would spread laterally, consuming and re-
placing the flesh next to, it, gradually transforming the
whole entity.

Death was still part of the process, but not quite in the
same way it occurred on Earth.

To us, dying is a quantal thing. An individual may
succeed in having offspring, or not. But either way, per-
sonal extinction stalks you all your life, and must even-

Heiven's Reacli   199

tually win, however hard you struggle or however much
you innovate.

But to hydros, everything is murky, qualitative. With-
out such clear lines, death is relative. So long as a trans-
formation happens slowly and smoothly, you look at it
with no more dread than I fear cutting my hair.

Instead of building up through hard-won cooperation
among tiny cells, life on Jupiter-type worlds was large
from the start. It did not revolve as much around coop-
eration-competition. Self and other were known con-
cepts, but distinguishing between the two had less
central a role in existence than it did to oxy-beings.

Then how do you organize yourselves•?Lark thought at
one point, wrestling with frustration. How do you recog-
nize objects, goals, opponents, or ideas?

Lark's tutor could not read his mind, or perceive his
questions as discrete sentences. But clearly some kind
of meaning entered his bloodstream, secreted by Lark's
brain when he posed a query. It was a slower, less effi-
cient process than speech, involving many iterations.
But he wasn't going anywhere.

Objects throbbed within the vacuole, budding off the
parent body, pulsing as they crossed the open space,
then merging together or recombining with the greater
whole. For quite some time, Lark had watched these
little forms writhe into subtly formed shapes that per-
formed for his edification. Now, all at once, he realized
the deep truth underlying it all.

These little subselves. They are . . .

A throbbing wave penetrated his thigh, swarming
down a leg then up his torso. The sensation was unlike
any other, and Lark abruptly realized he had been given
a name.

A name he could not repeat aloud in any language, or
even in his thoughts—so he translated as best he could.

Deputies.

In their native environments, hydrogen-breathing en-
tities did not tend to look outward for learning or fulfill-
ment. If one huge beast encountered another, it might
lead to combat, or predation—or peaceful intercourse—

200 David Bnn

but little chance of permanent companionship. The vast
winds of a Jovian sky soon scattered all acquaintances.
A return visit or rendezvous was next to impossible.

Growth requires challenge, however. So, for conver-
sation, appraisal, or understanding . . . they turned

within.

Contained by spacious membranes, the core of a nat-
ural hydro-being was an oasis of calm amid planet-sized
storms. Sheltered chambers could be fashioned at will,
and small subunits budded to float freely for a while,
engaging others in myriad ways. Like a human's internal
thoughts and fantasies, these deputies might cluster,
converse or clash, working out countless scenarios for
the good of the greater whole.
Simulations.

Lark glanced at the globule-creature floating just out-
side his membrane enclosure. It had seemed autono-
mous, but now he knew the hydro was a mere "deputy"
of something larger still—perhaps the huge ship-entity
that had sacrificed itself under withering Jophur fire in
order to penetrate this place.

Lark abruptly recalled something he had read once, in
a rare galacto-xenology text, about a type of hydro-life
called Zang.

Their great passion is simulating the world . . . the
universe . . . hut not through math or computers. They
do it by crafting living replicas, models, mimicries, in-
side their own bodies.
In an odd way, it seemed familiar.
Like the way we humans explore future possibilities
with our imaginations.
But there was more.

Because we start life as little bags of water—as cells—
we oxies must work our way from the ground up, by a
complex, bootstrapping dance of competition and coop-
eration, building coalitions and societies, gradually be-
coming creatures capable of taking the process in hand,
through Uplift., For all its faults, our galaxy-spanning
civilization is the culmination of all that.
From'many . . . one.

Heaven's React)  201

Hydros do it differently. They begin large, but loneli-
ness forces them to subdivide, to seek diversity within.

From one . . . many.

The insight filled Lark with sudden heady pleasure.
To behold both differences and similarities with an en-
tirely different empire of life was a gift he had never
imagined receiving. One beyond his ability to ask or
anticipate.

He yearned to share it, to tell Ling everything, and
hear her enthralled insights. . . .

Sadness was an abrupt flood, equal to the pleasure of
moments before. Both emotions meshed and swirled, a
mixture that poured into his veins, driven by his pound-
ing heart. In moments it reached the tube in his leg, and
then—

The tutor-entity floating nearby gave a sudden jerk.
The globule quivered, as if contemplating the chemicals
given off by Lark's body during his epiphany, when ev-
erything became clear.

At least a hundred tiny vacuoles opened throughout
its bulbous body. In each of these, a froth of nearly
microscopic animalcules suddenly burst forth .and inter-
acted, frenetically merging, bouncing, and dividing. Lark
stared, fascinated to watch a Zang "think" right in front
of him. In practice, it was complex and blurringly fast.

The fizzing commotion ended as quickly as it had
begun. All the little openings collapsed and the minus-
cule subdeputies resorbed into the main body. Lark's
tutor throbbed— '

He felt another wave of stimulation penetrate his leg,
a warm sensation that spread quickly through his guts
and arteries—a form of communication so intimate that
it transcended any thought of embarrassment. It simply
was.

Appreciation.

At least that was how Lark interpreted the molecular
wave—hoping that it was not wishful thinking.

Appreciation is welcome.

Appreciation is reciprocated.

202   David Brill

A short time later, he lost consciousness. A sudden
drowsiness told Lark that his hosts wanted him to sleep
—and he did.

Awareness returned nearly as swiftly. He had no idea
how much later it was, only that he had been moved.

No longer did a spacious chamber surround him,
filled with other prisoners and visibly noxious fumes.
Instead, his transparent cocoon had been transplanted
to a much smaller room. And there were other changes,

too.

The membranes surrounding him had shrunk to form-
fit against his body, like a baggy suit of clothes. Lark
found that he was standing up. Perhaps they had even
walked him here, prompting his body to move like a
marionette. The notion was unpleasant, but freedom to
stretch out from a cramped fetal position more than

made up for it.

He still could not breathe, and relied on the thigh

catheter for life support, but Lark's surroundings looked
less hazy and there was not as great a sensation of

nearby cold.

Carefully, tentatively, he shuffled his feet to turn

around.

One of the Zang hovered nearby, though whether it

was his erstwhile tutor he could not tell. Probably not.
This one resembled the warrior-globule he had encoun-
tered in the halls of Polkjhy—the being that had burst
through a wall, frightened Rann away, and rushed for-
ward to take Lark captive. On close inspection, it was
possible to see some of the adaptations necessary to
shield hydrogen-breathing envoys against a caustic oxy-
gen environment. Thick protective layers glistened, and
it maintained a spherical form, ideal for minimizing ex-
posure.

So, we're both suited up. Girded to meet each other

halfway. Except that I'm still anchored by an umbilicus,
and you fellows can shut me off like a light, anytime

you want.

Heaven's fleacli  203

Lark raised his eyes beyond the Zang, and saw a fea-
ture of the room that had escaped his notice till now.

A window . . . looking outside!

Careful not to trip, he shuffled close, eager to see the
stars. It would be his first direct view of space since he
and Ling were trapped aboard theJophur vessel when it
took off from Jijo.

But instead of strange constellations, his attention was
riveted at once by something vastly more strange—an
object, floating against blackness, that somewhat resem-
bled a spiny hedge anemone you might find behind a
rock in an alpine meadow back home. Except his im-
pression this time was of incredible size. Somehow, he
felt the prickly thing might be as large as Jijo ... or
bigger still.

Soon, he could tell one more thing. The dark object
was damaged. Glimmering sparks could be seen, twin-
kling in dim reddish light that poured through a jagged
opening, torn across one hemisphere.

Polkjhy appeared to be heading toward that gaping
hole, at a very rapid clip.

Earlier, the Zang seemed to say they had not suc-
ceeded in taking over the ship. Maybe their resources
are stretched too thin. From simulated charts, it ap-
peared that theJophur still command the engines, weap-
ons, and life support.

Perhaps they are speeding to a place where they can
get help ridding the ship of infestations like the
Zang . . . and me.

Or else, maybe theJophur think this is where they'll
find the "prey" Rann spoke of—the Earthship everyone's
been searching for.

Lark turned his head to regard the warrior-globule.
Did it have a purpose in bringing him here, and show-
ing him this scene? Perhaps the Zang had figured out
that Lark was no friend of the Jophur. Maybe they
wanted an alliance. If so, he would gladly comply . . .
on one condition.

You must help me find and release Ling. Give us a
lifeboat, or some other way out of here, either back to
Jijo or someplace else safe.

204  David Brin

You do that, and I'll act as your hound, sniffing out

and hunting down my own kind.

Lark was being intentionally wry in his thoughts, of
course. Only compared to hydrogen breathers could
Jophur possibly be called his "kind." But sardonicism
was probably far too subtle for the Zang to read by

sifting his blood.

If we're going to team up, we'll need much better

communications.
He watched the globule for any sign of an answer, or

even comprehension. But instead, a few moments later,
it seemed to jump in sudden agitation and surprise.
Waves of nervous excitement entered Lark's body from

the catheter.

What? What is it!

Spinning around, he sought a reason. Then his gaze
passed through the window once again.

Oh, Ifni . . .

The battleship had already plunged much closer to
the great corrugated ball, clearly aiming for the hole in
one side. Lark noted at once that it seemed hollow, and
glimpsed a compact round flame glowing within. Lark
had no idea what to make of the scene, or what the
flame could be. Anyway, something else quickly caught

his attention.

Sparkling explosions rippled along one edge of the
wide cavity. He watched several of the giant quills or
spikes break off and drift in slow motion, already dis-
solving as the aperture widened destructively.

Most of the havoc seemed to be wrought by sharp
needles of light, generated somewhere deep inside the
great shell. A dozen or so rays converged on a single
point, a speck, near a rim of the great wound, creating a
painful mote of brilliance. Reflections off this target did
most of the glancing damage to the nearby shell.

The speck darted about, sometimes evading the shafts
completely, leaving them to hunt as it fled outward from
the gap at a rapid clip. Whenever a pursuing ray caught
up with it, the distant spark glared so brightly that Lark
had to blink and avert his gaze.

What's going on? What is happening out there?

Heaven's Reach  205

Once again, he felt like the ignorant savage that he
was. Wisdom hovered nearby—the Zang no doubt un-
derstood these strange sights. But it might take several
miduras of patient puppet shows to explain even the
simplest aspect.

An abrupt thrumming vibration shook the floor be-
neath Lark's feet. The masters of Polkjby were doing
something.

He recognized the grating tempo of weapons being
fired.

Soon, a double handful of glittering objects could be
seen darting away from this ship, tracing an arc across
space, hurtling at fantastic speed toward the sundered
ball-of-spikes.

Are those missiles?

Lark recalled how the Commons of Jijo surprised the
Jophur by attacking this very ship with crude chemical
rockets. He had a feeling the bright arrows out there
were more deadly, by far.

At first he thought the weapons might be joining the
attack on the bright speck. But their glitter swept on past
it, following each of the cruel rays toward its source.

Another swarm of emotion-laden connotations swept
through Lark's body. This time it was easy to interpret
the Zang's critical commentary.

Hasty.

Unwise.

Self-defeating.

His tutors did not approve of the Jophur action. But
there was nothing to be done about it now. The missiles
had already vanished into the great cavity.

For lack of anything better to do, Lark nervously
watched and waited.

A short time later, the bright beams began winking
out, one by one.

Still glowing, their target kept darting toward deep
space, while Polkhjy plunged to meet it.

L,wasx

|ALMNESS, MY RINGS.

c

Cultivate serene reflection, I urge you.

Stroke the wax.

Respect the wisdom of our captain-leader.

TRUE, that august stack has not been itself lately. Some
of its component rings suffered wounds when human
vermin infiltrated our control center, using a crude
bomb to attempt sly sabotage.

TRUE, a far worse shipboard infestation has now
driven our proud crew from several decks, forcing us to
abandon and quarantine portions of our dear Polkjhy-
vessel to the Zang blight.

TRUE, our leader's rings-of-command have fumed
odd-smelling flavors and scents lately, prompting a few
priest stacks to vent mutinous steam, fomenting rebel-
lious vapors among the crew.

NEVERTHELESS, be assured that I/we shall remain
loyal to our commander. After all, was not this con-
joined pile of ill-fitting rings put together as an experi-
ment, designed and implemented at the behest of our
captain-leader? If another chief takes charge, the new
leader might order our/My swift disassembly into spare

parts!

MY RINGS, SOME OF YOU DO NOT SEEM ADE-
QUATELY OUTRAGED AT THAT PROSPECT.

Therefore, as your beloved Master Torus, let Me re-
mind you (with'jolts of electric pain/affection) that a
Jophur is not the same sort of composite being as the

Heaven's Renli 207

one you composed on feral Jijo, when together you
made up the traeki sage, Asx.

We/you/I are much greater now.

Ever since the gracious Oalie intervened, rescuing our
race from placid unassertiveness, the Jophur clan has
risen to power and eminence among vigorous compet-
ing races of the Civilization of Five,Galaxies. This is not
a destiny to be given up lightly. Especially with signs
and auguries now pointing to an onrushing Time of
Changes. With each passing jadura it grows clear that
fortune may turn around, presenting us with the clues/
hints/coordinates/relics carried by the dolphin-wolfling
ship.

HENCE, MY/OUR AGREEMENT WITH THE CAP-
TAIN-LEADER'S DECISION TO INTERVENE!

Let the senior priest stack rant about law and deco-
rum. Should we stand back and allow the Earthlings to
be incinerated? After all we have been through, chasing
them across vast reaches and five levels of hyperspace,
with our prey/prize finally in sight, should we now let
panicky members of the Retired Order lash out and de-
stroy the greatest treasure in the known cosmos?

TRUE, we have no legal standing here in Galaxy Four.
No formal right to fire missiles into the fractal sanctuary
just ahead. But' it is their own fault that we were forced
to act! The Earthship and its contents are of rightful in-
terest to o«rlife order—we descendants of the Progeni-
tors who still cruise star-speckled lanes. Retirees should
mind their own business, contemplating deep thoughts
and obscure philosophies, preparing their genetic lines
for transcendence, not meddling in affairs that are no
longer their concern!

One by one, our superlight projectiles strike their
targets on the habitat's inner shell . . . and one by one,
disintegrator beams flicker out.

BEHOLD! The last one goes dark, leaving the Terran
vessel still driving ahead under its own power.

Success!

Now the wolflings sprint with alarmed speed toward
the transfer point, hoping to escape this trap toward

208  David Brin

some unknown sanctuary beyond. But their hope is for-
lorn.

We are here, in good position to pounce.

(But how is it possible?!

Our second stack of cognition makes this query, vent-
ing steam-of-curiosity.

{Truly, we/I are glad to see the Earthlings survive those
terrible, destructive rays. But bow was it achieved?
Should they not have vaporized during the first mo-
ments they fell under attack by such voracious beams?}

The same question travels in muted tones among Jophur
stacks responsible for tactical evaluation. Pastel shad-
ows of troubled concern flash across light-emitting ring
flanks, while a worried mist wafts over that portion of
the control center. Specialist toruses grow hot as they
interact with computers, laboring to solve this quandary.
How did the Earthship survive such a fierce assault?
Is this yet another insidious wolfling trick?

Are they still receiving protection from the meddling
Zang, in violation of the basic rule that each life order
should mind its own business?

Are the hydrogen breathers truly willing/ready to risk
Armageddon over matters they could not care about, or
comprehend?

Now the senior priest stack ventures to challenge our

captain-leader openly.

Striding forward on its ring of legs, that illustrious/
sacred composite being nods its oration peak in a circle

of righteous accusation.

"THIS IS INTOLERABLE! BY SENDING THOSE MIS-
SILES, YOU/WE HAVE SURELY ALIENATED ANY AF-
FECTION THIS'COLONY OF RETIREES MIGHT HAVE
NURTURED FOR OUR RACE, CLAN, AND ALLIANCE!"

The captain-leader, perhaps sensing a precarious situ-

Heaven's Reach  209

ation, replies in calmer tones, venting aromas of sweet
confidence.

"OF REPERCUSSIONS THERE WILL BE FEW.

"OF LEGAL FAULT, WE HAVE NONE, SINCE THOSE DIRECTING THE
BAYS WERE CLEARLY OUTLAWS, ACCORDING TO THE CODES OF THEIR
OWN LIFE ORDER.

"WE ACTED TO PROTECT A TREASURE SOUGHT BY ALL OXYGEN-
BREATHING CIVILIZATION."

Many crew-stacks vent agreement. But the priest-
stack is in no mood to be mollified.

"FEW REPERCUSSIONS? EVEN NOW, EXPLOSIONS
CONTINUE ROCKING THE HABITAT WHERE OUR
MISSILES FELL! THE ENTIRE GREAT STRUCTURE IS IN
JEOPARDY!"

No denying that it is a serious matter. Lawsuits may
result, dragging through the courts for thousands, or
even millions of years. Nevertheless, confident-soothing
aromatics swell from our glorious commander.

"THE SOCIAL AND PHYSICAL FABRIC OF THIS HABITAT WAS AL-
READY TORN APART BY THE MERE PRESENCE OF PATHOGENIC TER-
RANS. NOW, ALL STACKS TAKE NOTE: OUR ONBOARD LIBRARY HAS
DOWNLOADED POPULATION DATA FROM THIS MACROHABITAT. RE-
GARD HOW A MAJORITY OF OCCUPANTS HAS ALREADY DEPARTED!

"SOME FLED TO OTHER RETIREMENT HOMES, FARTHER FROM THE
DANGEROUS PASSION-WAVES OF YOUNGER HACES.

"OTHERS HAVE CHOSEN TO ABANDON RETIREMENT! EVEN NOW,
THEY REJOIN OUR LIFE-ORDER, SEEKING COMPANIONSHIP AMONG
THEIR FORMER CLIENTS, BECOMING ACTIVE ONCE AGAIN IN THE FLUX-
TURMOIL OF THE CIVILIZATION OF FIVE GALAXIES.

"A THIRD PORTION OF REFUGEES HAS MOVED ON. AHEAD OF
SCHEDULE, THEY DEPART, AIMED FOR TRANSCENDENT REALMS."

Reverent silence greets our commander's news.
Within this very stack—among our/My own conjoined
rings, there is brief unanimity of spirit. From Master To-
rus all the way to the humblest greasy remnant of old
Asx, there is agreement about one thing—I/we/you are
privileged to live in such times. To take part in such
wonders. To see/observe/know events that will be
legendary in eras beyond the morrow.

Our captain-leader continues.

"So, UKE THE EMPTY SHELL OF AN OUIUT EGG, THIS HABITAT IS

210   David Btin

LESS IMPORTANT THAN IT MAY APPEAR. A MERE FEW TRILLIONS RE-
MAIN IN THOSE TORTURED PRECINCTS. FOR THAT REASON, LET US
CONCERN OURSELVES NO MORE WITH ITS FATE. ANY REPARATIONS
ADJUDGED AGAINST US CAN BE PAID TRIVIALLY OUT OP OUR REWARD,
WHEN THE EARTHSHIP IS SAFELY IN CUSTODY, SEALED BY JOPHUR

WAX!"

The captain-leader's supporters cheer loudly, emitting
joyful scent clouds. And yet, our/My contribution to the
acclaim seems weak, lacking enthusiasm. Some of you
rings, as tender and compassionate as a traeki, dwell
dismally on the bad luck of those "mere few trillions."
Relentlessly, the priest-stack maintains its indictment.
"SUCH FOOLISHNESS! HAD YOU FORGOTTEN OUR
OWN DIFFICULTIES? WE HAD EXPECTED/HOPED TO
FIND AID HERE, IN RIDDING DEAR POLKJHYOV ITS
HUMAN-PLUS-ZANG INFESTATIONS. NOW SUCH
HELP WILL NOT COME AT ANY PRICE!"

Our captain-leader hisses, rearing higher upon the
command dais, clearly losing both temper and patience.
Underlings quail back in dismay.

"THAT SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL. ZANG PESTS ABE ISO-
LATED. WHILE THE QUARANTINE HOLDS, NO PRIORITY EXCEEDS THAT
OF CAPTURING THE EARTHUNG SHIP'."

Others may be impressed, but the priest-stack is not
intimidated by shouting or physical gestures. Instead,
that revered ring pile moves closer still.

"AND WHAT OF COMMUNICATIONS? WE HAD
PLANNED USING LOCAL HYPERMAIL TAPS TO CON-
TACT OUR CLAN/ALLIANCE. NOW THOSE SERVICES
ARE RUINED. HOW SHALL WE INFORM SUPERIORS
OF OUR DISCOVERIES/OPPORTUNITIES ON JIJO? OR
SEEK AID IN PURSUIT OF THESE EARTHLINGS?"

Subordinate ring piles scurry away from this confron-
tation between tall, august stacks, who now stand nearly
close enough to press their gorgeous, fatty toruses
against each other. Dense, compelling vapors clash and
swirl around them, driving to confusion any lesser
Jophur who happens to get caught in a backdraft.
Stretching higher, each great lord tries to overawe the

other.

From a privileged point of view, clockwise and

Heaven's fleacft  211

slightly behind, I/we perceive the captain-leader using
an arm-appendage to draw forth a hidden sidearm. Ner-
vous tremors surge down our fatty core.

MY RINGS, WILL HE SHOOT?

Suddenly, the taut tableau is interrupted. Word-glyphs
from the ship's chief tactics officer cut through the acri-
monious stench like an icy wind, reminding us of our
purpose.

"The Earthship comes within range! Soon it will pass
nearby, on its way to the transfer nexus. Interception/
opportunity will maximize in ninety duras."

Like two antagonistic volcanos deciding not to erupt
—for now—our great lords back off from the precipice.
Their stacks settle down and cease venting odious va-
pors.

Some things need not be said. If we succeed now, no
reward will be denied this crew or its leadership. No
forgiveness will be withheld.

Scans show that nearby space is filled with debris from
the great calamity. Innumerable ships can also be seen
peeling off the retirement habitat, seeking to escape
toward the local transfer point.

Warily, we search among these sensor contacts for
possible threats—for warships or other entities that
might interfere, the way Zang globules hindered us, last
time the Earthlings seemed within our grasp. Each ves-
sel receives scrutiny, but none seems to be in range this
time, or of a class strong enough to obstruct us.

Nor do the wolflings try to hide among these refu-
gees, using them as decoys. Unlike at Jijo, the trick
would not/cannot work, for we have kept them in sight
ever since the disintegrator beams shut off. Clearly they
know it, too, for their sole aim appears to be speed. To
outrace us. To find sanctuary in the knotty worldlines of
the transfer point.

But to get there, they must pass us. Logically, there
seems to be little going in their favor.

And yet—(points out our/My second ring of cogni-
tion)—for three years the wolflings and their clients

212   David Brin

have proved slippery. Ever ready to spring devil-tricks
befitting Tymbrimi, they have thwarted efforts by all the
grand military alliances. Now we face rumors that the
sluggish forces of moderation have begun to rouse, here
and there, across the Five Galaxies. If that happens—if
the Earthers manage delay after delay—there is no tell-
ing what the pargi and other cautious fence-sitters might
bring about!

Yes, My rings. Our wax overflows with disquieting
worries. And yet, won't all that simply make our glory
greater, when we Jophur succeed where others failed!

From Polkjby, an ultimatum goes forth, similar to one
the Terrans spurned before, when we sought them with
beams and bombs under Jijo's ocean waters.

Surrender and give over your treasures. In return,
our mighty alliance will safeguard Earth. The dolphin
crew will be interned, of course. But only for a thou-
sand years of frozen sleep. Then, at expiration time,
they will be released into a new, reshaped Civilization of
Five Galaxies.

Again, our only answer comes as insolent silence.

We prepare weaponry.

"The Earthship's dynamics are inferior-degraded," ex-
plains a tactical crew stack. "It still carries excess mass—
hull-contamination acquired from multiple exposures to
the sooty red giant star."

Polkjhy, too, passed through that polluting fog. But
Earthlings can only afford lesser starship models, while
our fine vessel is of a superior order, field-tuned to shed
unwelcome atoms.

{Indeed?)
(Then how were the Zang able to board us?}

HUSH, MY RINGS!

I send coercive electric bursts down tendrils of con-
trol, reminding our second cognition ring to mind its
own business.

Heaven's Heacli  213

Degraded or not, the preyship darts nimbly and appears
well piloted. Our first warning shot misses by too wide a
mark, and is not taken seriously.

Meanwhile, tactician stacks have been debating as to
why the Earthship exists at all.

One faction insists the onslaught we saw—by planet-
scale disintegrator rays, converging on a tiny ship—must
have been a ruse! A garish light show, meant to make it
seem the Earthlings were doomed, and persuade other
assailants to back off while it accelerated away! Indeed,
this astounding suggestion is now the majority opinion
among Polkjhy s tacticians—although it makes our mis-
sile attack seem foolish in retrospect.

(Behind us, the great habitat still shudders from those
impacts, and other wounds that were self-inflicted.)

This explanation seems evident from the fact that the
dolphin-crewed ship endures. Yet, a minority suggests
caution. We may have witnessed something real. Some-
thing true. An event worthy of alarm.

Our second warning shot lashes forth and is more
accurate. It passes but half a ship length from the
quarry's nose.

"THERE IS A WORRISOME DIFFERENCE."

Thus announces a stack whose duty it is to monitor
enemy conditions.

"THE TARGET RF.SONATES STRANGELY. ITS HYPERVELOCITY PROFILE IS
NOT THE SAME AS IT WAS BEFORE, NEAR THE RED GIANT STAR. AND
THERE ARE UNUSUAL REFLECTIONS OFF THE HULL."

At our captain-leader's behest, deep scans are made,
confirming that the preyship is the same model and
type. Engine emanations are identical. Psi detectors sift
for faint leakage through its shields, and sniff a telltale
Earthling spoor.

Then, at high magnification, we/I view the hull at
last—

My rings, how it shines!

No longer sooty and black as space, it gleams now
with a slick perfection that one only sees on vessels
newly minted from their yards.

More perfect, for when starlight reflects off the curved

214  David Brin

surface, each warped image seems brighter than the

original!

What can this mean?

Our senior priest-stack fumes.

"AFTER ALL WE HAVE BEEN THROUGH, AND ALL
THAT WE HAVE SEEN, ONLY A COMPOSITE FOOL
WOULD NOT HAVE EXPECTED FURTHER TRICKS/EX-
PLOITS/MIRACLES.

"ONLY A MISBEGOTTEN/MISJOINED STACK

WOULD NOT HAVE CALLED FOR HELP."

Our captain-leader shivers, settling cautiously onto
the command dais. Streams of worried smoke trickle
from its wavering topknot.

Finally, gathering rigidity among its constituent rings,
the august commander-stack orders a targeted strike, at
one-tenth potency, meant to disable the Earthship's

power of flight.

Humming a finely tuned battle song, Polkjhy lashes
out, transmitting rays of formidable force, aimed toward
severing three of the quarry's probability flanges. Fierce
energies cross the narrowing gap between our vessels to
accurately strike home—

DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS, MY RINGS. JUST DO AS I

SAY.

Move gently, innocuously toward the door.
That's it. Tread quietly, without undue sound. Flash

no color-shadows. Vent no anxious steam.

Now, while the rest of the crew is distracted by

drama/tragedy, let us make silent departure, like the

humble traeki you/we/I once were.

Responding to our passkey scent, the armored hatch-
way rolls aside, opening a way out of the control cham-
ber. With rearward-facing eyebuds, we/I watch crowds
of our fellow Jophur mill in a fog of fear/distress toxins.

The worst fumes rise from a puddle of burning wax
and grease—the flaming remains of our former captain-
leader.

The priest stacks had very little choice, of course.

When our weapon-beam failed . . . when its energies

Heaven's Reach  215

vanished, absorbed somehow by the Earthship's
glistening new skin ... a change in administration-
command was certain.

As inevitable as the spreading of space metric in an
expanding universe.

Of course the chase is not over. Our position is favor-
able. The Earthship cannot evade us and we are capable
of maintaining contact wherever it goes. Meanwhile,
Polkjhy has a capacious onboard branch of the Galactic
Library. In its wise memory, we shall plumb and doubt-
less find this trick they used—and the drawback that
will help us neutralize it.

Alas, My rings, that will do little good for this mongrel
stack of ill-matched parts.

While Polkjhy proceeds on nimble autopilot—
shadowing the Earthship as we both plunge toward the
transfer point—the realignment of executive power
commences among crew-stacks who proved poor judg-
ment by remaining excessively loyal to our former com-
mander. Demotion and reassignment will suffice for
some. Replacement of the Master Torus will do for oth-
ers.

But as for poor Ewasx—you/we were the inspired
invention of the old captain-leader. At best, our rings
will be salvaged as replacements for soldiers wounded
in combat against the Zang. At worst, they will be
mulched.

Now am I grateful for the feral skills you learned as a
sooner/savage/traeki. Your movements are admirably
stealthy. My rings. Clearly, you know better than a
Jophur how to hide.

As the hatch rolls smoothly back to place, let us
quickly move in search of some quiet, sheltered place
where we may contemplate the wax . . . pondering
the dilemma of survival.

r

/Wins Journal

YOU'LL GET USED TO THIS SORT OF THING AFTER

a while."

Those words, spoken by Gillian Baskin, still
seem to echo down my hollow spines as I write
down a few hasty impressions of our final mo-
ments near the Fractal World.

I had better hurry. Already I can feel the pressure on
my hoonish nerves increase as the Streaker swoops and
plunges along the threadlike "domain boundaries" that
curl inside a transfer point. Soon, this awful kind of mo-
tion sickness will make it futile to work. So let me
quickly try to sort among the terrible things I have lately

experienced.

Strangest of all was Dr. Baskin's voice, filled with such
a deep resignation that she seemed more Jijoan than
star god. Like one of our High Sages reading from the
Sacred Scrolls—some passage foretelling inevitable trib-
ulation. Somehow she made the impossible sound
frighteningly plausible.

"You'll get used to this sort of thing. ..."
While the transfer fields close in around me—as nau-
sea sends chills and frickles up and down my shivering
skin—I can only hope that never happens.

She said it less than a midura ago, while gazing back at

our handiwork.

An accomplishment none of us sought.
A disaster that'came about simply because we were

there.

Heaven's Reach  217

In fact, those milling about the Plotting Room watched
two views of the Fractal World, depicted on giant
screens—both of them totally different, and both offi-
cially "true."

Speaking as a Jijo savage—one who got his impres-
sions of spaceflight by reading Earthling books from the
pre-Contact Twenty-Second Century—I found things
rather confusing. For instance, many of those texts as-
sumed Faster-Than-Light travel was impossible. Or else,
in space-romance yarns, authors simply took FTL for
granted. Either way, you could deal with events in a
simple way. They happened when they happened. Ev-
ery cause was followed by its effects, and that was that.

But the screen to my left showed time going back-
ward!

My autoscribe explained it to me, and I hope I get this
right. It seems that each microsecond, as Streaker flick-
ered back into normal space from C Level, photons
would strike the ship's aft-facing telescope, providing an
image of the huge "criswell structure" that got smaller
and dimmer as we fled. The pictures grew older, too, as
we outraced successive waves of light. By the contorted
logic of Einstein, we were going back in time.

I stared, fascinated, as the massive habitat seemed to
get healthier before my eyes. Damaged zones reknitted.
The awful wound grew back together. And glittering
sparks told of myriad converging refugee ships, appar-
ently coming home.

The spectacle provoked each of my friends differ-
ently.

Huck laughed aloud. Ur-ronn snuffled sadly, and Pin-
cer-Tip kept repeating "gosh-osh-osh!"

I could not fault any of them for their reactions. The
sequence was at once both poignantly lamentable and
hilariously absurd.

Over to the right, Sara and Gillian watched a different
set of images, caught by hyperwave each time we flick-
ered into C Level. Here my impression was of queasy
simultaneousness. This screen seemed to tell what was
happening right now, back at the Fractal World. Time

218  David Brin

apparently moved forward, depicting the aftermath of
our violent escape.

The effects flowing from each cause.

Of course things are really much more complicated.
That picture kept wavering, for instance, like a draft ver-
sion of some story whose author still wasn't sure yet
what to commit to paper.

Sara explained it to me this way—

"Photons haul slow truths, Alvin, while speedy
hyperwaves carry probabilities."

So this image represented just the most likely scenario
unfolding behind us. However slim, there remained a
chance it wasn't true. Things might not be happening
this way.

By God, Ifni, and the Egg, I still pray for that slim
chance.

What we saw, through rippling static, was a harsh tale
of rapid deterioration.

More than a single great laceration now maimed the
great sphere. Its frail skin peeled and curled away from
several newly slashed wounds. These fresh cracks
spread, branching rapidly as we watched, each one
spilling raw sunlight the color of urrish blood.

Hundreds of exterior spikes had already broken
loose, tumbling end over end as more towering frag-
ments toppled toward space with each passing moment.
I could only guess how much worse things were inside
the great shell. By now, had a million Jijo-sized win-
dows shattered, exposing forests, steppes, and oceans
to raw vacuum?

The hyperwave scene updated in fits and starts,
sometimes appearing to backtrack or revise a former
glimpse. From one moment to the next, some feature of
devastation that had been here suddenly shifted over
there. No single detail seemed fixed or firmly deter-
mined. But the trend remained the same.

I felt claws dig into my back as little Huphu and the
tytlal, Mudfoot, clambered onto opposite shoulders,
rubbing against me, beckoning a song to ward off the
sour mood. Partly from numb shock, I responded with
my family's version of the Dirge for Unremarked Passing

Heaven's Reach  219

—an umble so ancient that it probably predates hoonish
Uplift, going back to before our brains could grasp the
full potential of despair.

Roused by that low resonance, Dr. Baskin turned and
glanced at my vibrating throat sac. I am told that starfar-
ing humans do not like hoons very much, but Sara
Koolhan whispered in her ear and Gillian nodded ap-
provingly.

Clearly, she understood.

A few duras later, after I finished, the little spinning
Niss hologram popped into place, hovering in midair
nearby.

"Kaa reports that we are about ten minutes away
from t-point insertion."

Dr. Baskin nodded.

"Are there any changes in our entourage?"

Her digital aide seemed to give a casual, unconcerned
twist.

"We are followed by a crowd of diverse vessels," the
machine voice replied. "Some are robotic, a majority
house oxygen-breathing refugees, bearing safe-passage
emblems of the Retired Order of Life.

"Of course, all of them are keeping a wary distance
from theJophur battleship."

The Niss paused for a moment or two, before con-
tinuing.

"Are you absolutely sure you want us to set course for
Tanith?"

The tall woman shrugged.

"I'm still open to other suggestions. It seems we've
tried everything else, and that includes hiding in the
most obscure corner of the universe ... no offense,
Alvin."

"None taken," I replied, since her depiction of Jijo
was doubtless true. "What is Tanith?"

The Niss Machine answered.

"It is a planet, where there exists a sector headquar-
ters of the Library Institute. The one nearest Earth. To
this site Captain Creideiki would have taken our discov-
eries in the first place, if we had not fallen into a cas-
cade of violence and treachery. Lacking other options,

220  David Bfin

Dr. Baskin believes we must now fall back on that origi-
nal plan."

"But didn't you already try surrendering to the Insti-
tutes? At that place called Wakka—"

"Oakka. Indeed, two years ago we evaded pursuit by
merciless battle fleets in order to make that attempt. But
the madness sweeping our civilization preceded us there
too. Sworn monks of the monastic, bureaucratic broth-
erhoods abjured their oaths of neutrality, choosing in-
stead to revert to older loyalties. Motivated in part by
ancient grudges—or else the huge bounties offered for
Streaker's capture by various fanatical alliances—they
attempted to seize the Eartbsbipfor their blood and clan

relations."

"So the Institutes couldn't be trusted then. What's dif-
ferent this time?"

Dr. Baskin pointed to a smaller display screen.

"That is what's different, Alvin."

It showed the Jophur battleship—the central fact of
our lives now. The huge oblate warship clung to us like
a bad smell, following closely ever since their earlier
assault failed to disable Streaker. Even with Kaa at the
helm, the dolphin crew thought it infeasible to lose
them. You'd have better luck shaking off your shadow

on a sunny day.

"Our orders are clear. Under no circumstances can we

let one faction snatch our data for themselves."

"So instead we shall go charging straight into one of

the busiest ports of Galaxy Two?"
The Niss sounded doubtful, if not outright snide. But

Dr. Baskin showed no sign of reacting to its tone.

"Isn't that our best chance? To head for a crowded
place, with lots of traffic and possibly ships big enough
to balance that imposing cruiser out there? Besides,
there is a possibility that Oakka was an exception. An
aberration. Maybe officials at Tanith will remember their

oaths."

The Niss expressed doubt with an impolite sound.

"There is a slim chance of that. Or possibly sheer sur-
prise might prompt action by the cautious majority of

Heaven's Reach  221

Galactic clans, who have so far kept static, frozen by
indecision."

"That's been our dream all along. And it could hap-
pen, if enough synthians and pargi and their allies have
ships in the area. Why wouldn't they intercede, in sup-
port of tradition and the law?"

"Your optimism is among your greatest charms. Dr.
Baskin—to imagine that the moderates can be swayed
to make any sort of decision quickly, when commitment
may expose them to mortal danger. By now it is quite
clear to everyone that a Time of Changes is at hand.
They are pondering issues of racial survival. Justice for
wolflings will not take high priority.

"Far more likely, your abrupt appearance will pro-
voke free-for-all combat above Tanith, making Kithrup
seem like a mere skirmish. I assume you realize the ar-
madas who are currently besieging Terra lie just two
jumps away from Tanith? In less than a standard day
they would likely converge— "

"Abating the siege of Earth? That sounds worthwhile."

The Niss hologram tightened its clustered, spinning
lines.

"We are dancing around the main problem, Dr. Bas-
kin. Our destination is moot. The Jophur will not allow
us to reach Tanith. Of that you can be sure."

Sara Koolhan spoke up for the first time.

"Can they stop us? They tried once, and failed."

"Alas, Sage Koolhan, our apparent invulnerability
cannot last. The Jophur were taken by surprise, but by
now they are surely scanning their onboard database,
delving for the flaw in our wondrous armor."

They referred to the gleaming mantle now blanketing
Streaker's hull. As an ignorant Jijoan, I couldn't tell what
made the coating so special, though I vividly recall the
anxious time when swarms of machine entities sealed it
around us—dark figures struggling enigmatically over
our fate, without bothering to seek consent from a ship-
load of wolflings and sooners.

The final disputants were two sets of giant repair ro-
bots, those at the stern trying to harvest carbon from
Streaker's hull for raw materials, and the other team

222   David Brill

busy transforming the star soot into a layer that shim-
mered like the glassy Spectral Flow.

Lightning seemed to pass between the groups. Meme-
directive impulses, the Niss identified those flickering
bursts, advising us not to watch, lest our brains become
somehow infected. In a matter of duras, the contest
ended without any machines being physically harmed.
But one group must have abruptly had its "mind

changed."

Abruptly united in purpose, both sets of robots fell to

work, completing Streaker's, transformation just in time,
before the first disintegrator ray struck.

"Who says there has to be a flaw?" Dr. Baskin asked.
"We seem to be unharmable, at least by long-range

beams."

She sounded confident, but I remember how shocked

Gillian, Sara, Tsh't, and the others had seemed, to sur-
vive an instant after the attack began. Only the crippled
engineer, Emerson d'Anite, grunted and nodded, as if he
had expected something like this all along.

"There are no perfect defenses, " countered the Niss.
"Every variety of weapon bos been logged and archived
by the Great Library. If a technique seems surprising or
miraculous, it could be because it was abandoned long
ago for very good reasons. Once the Jophur find those
reasons, our new shield will surely turn from an advan-
tage into a liability."

The humans and dolphins clearly disliked this logic. I
can't say I cared for it myself. But how could anyone
refute it? Even we sooners know one of the basic
truisms of life in the Five Galaxies—

If something isn't in the Library, it is almost certainly

impossible.

Still, I'll never forget that time, just after the big con-
struction robots finished their task and jetted away, leav-
ing this battered ship shining in space, as uttergloss as

any jewel.

Streaker turne'd to flee through the great hole in the
Fractal World, and suddenly great spears of destructive
light bathed her from several directions at once! Alarms

Heaven's Aeacli  223

blared and each ray of focused energy seemed to shove
us outward with titanic force.

But we did not burn. Instead, a strange noise sur-
rounded us, like the groaning of some deep-sea levia-
than. Huck pulled in all her eyes. Pincer withdrew all
five legs, and Ur-ronn coiled her long neck, letting out a
low urrish howl.

All the instruments went crazy . . . and yet we did
not burn!

Soon most of the crew agreed with the initial assess-
ment of Hannes Suessi, who decreed that the disintegra-
tor beams must be faked.

A showy demonstration, they must be meant to
frighten off our enemies and let us escape. No other
answer seemed to explain our survival!

That is, until the Jophur pounced on us a short time
later, and their searing rays also vanished with the same
mysterious groan.

Then we knew.

Someone had done us a favor . . . and we didn't
even know who to thank. Or whether the blessing
cloaked more misfortune, still to come.

A voice called over the intercom.

"Transfer point insertion approaching in . . . thirty
ssseconds."

Those in the Plotting Room turned to watch the for-
ward viewer, looking ahead toward a tangled web of
darkness—first in a series that would carry us far be-
yond Galaxy Four to distant realms my friends and I had
barely heard of in legend and tales about gods. But my
hoonish digestion was already anticipating the coming
nausea. I remember thinking how much better it would
suit me to be aboard my father's dross ship, pulling hal-
yards and umbling with the happy crew, with Jijo's
warm wind in my face and salt spray singing on the
sails.

Back at the hyperwave display, I found another per-
son less interested in where we were going than the
place we were leaving behind. Emerson, the crippled
engineer, who wore a rewq over his eyes and greeted

224  David Brin

me with a lopsided human smile. I answered by flap-
ping my throat sac.

Blurry and wavering, the image of the Fractal World
glimmered like an egg the size of a solar system, on the
verge of spilling forth something young, hot, and fierce.
Red sunlight shot through holes and crevices, while
cruel sparks told of explosions vast enough to rock the
entire structure, sending ripples crisscrossing the tor-
mented sphere.

Emerson sighed, and surprised me by uttering a sim-
ple Anglic phrase, expressing an incredible thought.

"Well . . . easy come . . . easy go."

Mudfoot chittered on my shoulder as Streaker's en-
gines cranked up to handle the stress of transfer. But our
attention stayed riveted on the unlucky Fractal World.

The globe sundered all at once, along every fault line,
dissolving into myriad giant curved shards, some of
them tumbling toward black space, while others glided
inward to a gaudy reunion.

Unleashed after half a billion years of tame servitude,
the little star flared exuberantly, as if celebrating each
new raft of infalling debris—its own robbed substance,
now returning home again.

Free again, it blared fireworks at heaven.

My throat sac filled, and I began umbling a thren-
ody ... a hoonish death requiem for those lost at sea,
whose heart-spines will never be recovered.

The chilling words of Gillian Baskin haunted me.

"You'll get used to this after a while."

I shook my head, human style.

Get used to this?

Ifni, what have the Earthers already been through, to
make this seem like just another day's work?

To think, I once gazed longingly at the stars, and han-
kered for adventure!

For the very first time, I understood one of the chief
lessons preached by Jijo's oldest scrolls.

In this universe, the trickiest challenge of all is sur-
vival.

m THREE

THE GREAT HARROWER

TO OUR CUSTOMERS ACROSS
THE FIVE GALAXIES—

• Ink, Saent Betting Syndicate has

• temporarily suspended accepting wagers
] concerning the Siege of Earth. Although

•^ we still predict imminent collapse by the
! affiliated forces defending the wolning
\ homeworld/ conditions have once again
I become too fluid for our dynamical scrying
g engines to project reasonable odds.
',       lor those already participating in a

I betting pool/ the odds remain fixed at:

•                       fit'

' twenty-to-one tor the planets conquest

} within one solar orbit (three-quarters of a

• lanith year// fourteen-to-one for surrender
I within one-quarter orbit/ five-to-two in
\ favor oi a regrettable accident which may
. render the ecosystem unstable and lead to
I effective organic extinction for the wot fling
I races! seven-to-two in favor of humans
, and their clients being forcibly adopted
\ into indenture by one of the great clans

• currently besieging the planet/ such as the
! Soro/ Tandu/ Klennath/ or Jouourouou.

Despite these deceptively steady odds/ several fluctuating
lectors actually contribute to a high level or uncertainty.

t) Betrayals and realignments continue among the mighty clans
and alliances now pressing the siege. I heir combined forces would
have easily overwhelmed the human/ lymbrimi/ and I hennanin
defenders by now/ il they could only agree how to distribute the
resulting spoils. But instead/ violent and unpredictable outbreaks
of fighting among the besiegers (sometimes incited by clever lerran
maneuvers) have slowed the approach to J^artA and made odds-
scrying more difficult than normal.

2.) folitlcal turmoil in the Five (galaxies has continued to flux
with unaccustomed speed, lor instance/ a long-delayed assembly
of the (coalition of temperate Kaces has finally convened/ with a
remarkably abbreviated agenda—how to deal with the unbridled
ambition shown lately by more fanatical (c'alactic alliances. Hav-
ing dispensed with preliminary formalities/ the I^eague may actu-
ally file official warnings with the V^ar Institute within a Tanith
year! Y\ssembly of their coordinated battle fleet may commence
just a year after that.

In addition to the l^eague/ several other loose confedera-
tions of moderate clans have begun organising. It such haste Is
maintained (and not disrupted yet again by loro diplomacy) it
would demonstrate unprecedented agility by the nonfealous por-
tion of oxy-society.

Naturally/ this will come about too late to save £»art/i/ out
it may lead to rescue of some residual human populations/ after
the fact.

3) No one has reported sighting the infamous dolphin-crewed
starship lor half a Tanith year. If/ against all odds/ the fugitives
were somehow to safely convey their treasures to an ideal neutral
sanctuary—or else prove the relics to be harmless——this crisis

might abate before igniting universal warfare throughout oxygen-
breathing civilisation. Ihis would/ of course/ end our present
policy of accepting bets only on a cash-in-advance basis.

4/ (commercial star traffic/ already disrupted by the so-called

Jtreaker (crisis/ has lately suffered from agitated conditions on
all interspacial levels. /\t least thirty of the most important
transfer points have experienced thread strains. Wrote the Insti-
tutes attribute this to abnormal weather in hyperspace/ some
perceive it as yet another portent of a coming transition.

5) the continued upswell of socioreligious fanaticism——including
sudden resurgence of interest in the (cult of Ifni—has had a
deleterious effect on the business of bookies and oddsmakers all
across the Five (c'alaxies. Because of added expenses (defending
our own settlements  from attack by  fleets of fealous
predeterminists/ we have been forced to increase the house cut on
all wagers.

L,ven the Jaent Dotting .Syndicate cannot continue business
as usual in the lace of a prophesied lime of (changes. . . .

Ha rry

UH-OH, HE THOUGHT. THIS IS GONNA BE A
rough one.

Harry nulled the guidance computer in order to
protect its circuits during transition. Window cov-
ers snapped into place and he buckled himself in
for the shift to another region of E Space. One that had
been declared "off-limits" for a very long time.

Well, it serves me right for volunteering. Wer'Q'quinn
calls this a "special assignment." But the farther I go,
the more it seems like a suicide mission.

At first nothing seemed to be happening. His official
instruments were useless or untrustworthy, so Harry
watched his own little makeshift verimeter. It consisted
of an origami swan that shuddered while perched on a
tiny needle made of pure metal that had been skimmed
directly from the surface of a neutron star. Or so claimed
the vendor who sold it to him in the Kazzkark bazaar.
Nervously, he watched the scrap of folded paper twitch
and stretch. His mind could only imagine what might be

230  David Brin

going on outside, with objectivity melting all around his
little survey ship.

Harry's jittery hands scratched the fur of his neck and
chest. The swan quivered, as if trying to remember how
to fly. ...

There came a sudden dropping sensation. The con-
tents of his stomach lurched. Several sharp bumps fol-
lowed, then violent rocking motions, like a boat swept
by a storm-tossed sea. He gripped the armrests. Straps
dug fiercely into his lap and shoulders.

A peculiar tremor jolted the deck under his bare feet
—the distinct hum of a reality anchor automatically de-
ploying. An unnerving sound, since it only happened
when normal safety measures were strained near their
limits. Sometimes an anchor was the last thing prevent-
ing random causality winds from flipping your vessel
against shoals of unreined probability ... or turning
your body into something it would rather not be.

Well . . . sometimes it worked.

If only there was a way to use TV cameras here, and
see what's going on.

Alas, for reasons still not fathomed by Galactic sa-
vants, living beings entering E Space could only make
sense of events firsthand, and then at their own consid-
erable risk.

Fortunately, just as Harry feared his last meal was
about to join the dishes and cutlery on the floor, the
jerky motions began damping away. In a matter of sec-
onds things settled to a gentle swaying.

He glanced again at the improvised verimeter. The
paper swan looked steady . . . though both wings
seemed to have acquired a new set of complex folds
that he did not remember being there before.

Harry cautiously unbuckled himself and stood up.
Shuffling ahead with hands spread wide for balance, he
went to the forward quadrant and cautiously lifted one
of the louvers.

He gasped, jumping back in fright.

The scout platform hung suspended—apparently
without support—high over a vast landscape!

Swallowing hard, he took a second look.

Heaven's leach  231

His point of view swung gently left, then right, like
the perspective of a hanged man, taking in a vast, blurry
domain of unfathomable distances and tremendous
heights. Gigantic spires, sheer and symmetrical, could
be dimly made out beyond an enveloping haze, rising
past him from a flat plain far below.

Harry watched breathlessly until he felt sure the sur-
face was drawing no closer. There was no sense of fall-
ing. Something seemed to be holding him at this
altitude.

Time to find out what it was. He worked his way
around the observation deck, and at the rearmost pane
he saw what prevented a fatal plummet.

The station hung at one end of a narrow, glowing
thread, extruded from a hull orifice he'd never seen be-
fore. But a familiar blue-striped pattern suggested it
must in fact be the reality anchor, manifesting itself this
time in a particularly handy way.

At the other end, high overhead, the anchor seemed
to be hooked into the lip of a flat plane stretching away
horizontally to the right. To his left, an even greater ex-
panse of open sky spread beyond the half-plane. He
had an impression of yet more linear boundaries, far
higher still.

At least the station hadn't changed much in physical
appearance during passage. Metaphorical stilt legs still
hung beneath the oblong globe, waving slowly in
space. Something seemed to be wrong with vision,
though. Harry rubbed his eyes but the problem wasn't
there. Somehow, all features beyond the windows ap-
peared blurred. He couldn't recognize the mountainous
columns, for instance, though the grotesque things felt
somehow familiar, filling his mind with musty impres-
sions of childhood.

This place was unlike anything he'd experienced
since personality profile machines on Tanith had se-
lected him to be the first neo-chimpanzee trained as a
Navigation Institute Observer. He knew better than to
ask any of the onboard programs for help figuring it out.

"The region of E Space where you 'II he heading is
seldom visited for good reasons, "Wer'Q'quinn had said

232  hvid Brill

before Harry set off this time. "Many of the traits that
patrons instill in their clients, through Uplift—to help
them become stable, rational, goal-oriented starfarers—
turn into liabilities in a realm where all notions of pre-
dictability vanish."

Recalling this, Harry shook his head.

"Well, I can't say I wasn't warned."

He turned his head to the left and commanded—"Pi-
lot mode."

With a faint "pop" the familiar rotating P materialized

nearby.

"At your service, Harvey."

"That's Harry," he corrected for the umpteenth time,
with a sigh. "I'm getting no blind spot agoraphobia, so
you might as well open the shutters the rest of the way."

The ship complied, and at once Harry winced at a
juxtaposition of odd colors, even though they were
muted by the strange haze.

"Thanks. Now please run a scan to see if this meta-
phorical space will allow us to fly."
"Checking."

There followed a long silence as Harry crossed his
ringers. Flight made movement so much easier . . . es-
pecially when you were hanging by a rope over miles
and miles of apparently empty space. He imagined he
could hear the machine click away, nudging drive units
imperceptibly to see which would work here, and
which were useless or even dangerous. Finally, the ro-
tating P spun to a conclusion.

"Some sort of/light appears to be possible, but 1 can-
not pin it down. None of the allaphorical techniques in
my file will do the trick. You will have to think of some-
thing original."
Harry shrugged. That made up a large part of why he

was here.

"Have you located our watch zone?"

"/ sense a narrow tube of normal space not far away
from us, in figurative units. Subjectively, you should ob-
serve a glowing Avenue 'below' . . . somewhere in the
fourth quadrant."

Heaven's Reach  233

Harry went to the window indicated and looked
down among the blurry, giant shapes.

"Ye-e-es, I think I see it." He could barely discern a
faint, shining line. "We better try to get closer."

"Assuming you find a way."

"Aye," he agreed. "There's the rub."

Harry anxiously ran his fingers through his chin fur
and scalp, wishing it hadn't been so long since he had
had a good grooming. Back on Horst, where he and his
distracted parents were the only chimps on a whole
planet, it had always seemed simply a matter of per-
sonal hygiene to keep .the insidious dust out of your
pelt. Only during school days on Earth did Harry learn
what a sybaritic art form it could be, to have one or
more others stroke, comb, brush, and tease your hair,
tugging the roots just right, till the follicles almost
screamed with pleasure. Looking back on those days,
the warm physical contact of mutual grooming was the
one thing he missed most about his own kind.

Too bad his partners also talked so much—from ban-
ter and gossip to inquiries about every personal foible—
the sorts of things Harry could never be comfortable
discussing. His awkward lack of openness struck Earth
chims as aloof, even condescending, while Harry found
them overly prying. Invariably, he remained an outsider,
never achieving full entry or intimacy in the college
grooming circles.

Harry knew he was procrastinating, but he felt uncer-
tain where to start.

"So you are concerned about rumors of unusual de-
tours in hyperspace and disturbed transfer points,"
Wer'Q'quinn had replied, after Harry returned from his
last mission. "These phenomena are well outside your
jurisdiction. But now it seems that a confluence of fac-
tors makes it necessary to confide in you."

"Let me guess," Harry had asked. "The disturbances
are so bad, they can be observed even in E Space."

"Your hunch is astute," Wer'Q'quinn agreed, snap-
ping a GalTwo approval-punctuation with his beak. "/
can see your recruitment was not a forlorn gamble, but
rather evidence of my own deep insight, proving my

234  David Brifl

value to the Institute and my worthiness of rapid promo-
tion.

"Your next patrol begins in one-point-three standard
days."

After allowing for briefings, that left just enough time
for a bath and a good sleep in his barracks cubby. He
had hoped for a longer rest. There was a foruni mas-
seuse in the bazaar whose instinctive understanding of
other species' musculoskeletal systems made the agile
creature expert at loosening the kinks in Harry's
spine. . . . Alas.

While nervously combing his chin, a frayed fingernail
yanked some gnarly hair, making Harry twinge. He held
the strand up for a close look.

It's a good thing chimp hair doesn't keep growing
longer, like on the faces of human males who don't dep-
ilate. Back on Horst, he had seen Probsher shamen
whose patriarchal beards lengthened over the years till
they stretched nearly all the way . . .

Harry blinked, realizing what his subconscious was
driving at. He turned quickly and pressed against the
rearmost window, peering at the blue cable—which
dangled the station over an immeasurable drop. Stretch-
ing upward, it seemed almost to disappear, aiming
toward one edge of that far-off horizontal plane.

"Pilot," he said. "I want to see if we can play out the
pseudolength of our reality anchor. Can we unreel any
more?"

"It is already at maximum extension," came the re-
ply.

Harry cursed. It had seemed a good idea. . . .

"Wait a minute," he muttered. "Don't be too literal.
Try it another way. All right, so maybe we can't feed the
anchor out any more. But tickle the damn thing anyway,
will you? Maybe we can change its length some other
way. By stretching it, maybe. Or causing it to grow."

He knew he was being vague. Flexible thought some-
times meant working your way around an idea's blurry
outlines.

"/ will try, and let you know, " the computer replied.

There followed a series of faint humming sounds,

Heaven's Reocli  235

then a sudden jar as the platform dropped, weightless
again just long enough to make fear erupt in his chest. It
jerked short abruptly, sending Harry staggering against
his command couch, feeling his stomach keep falling.

"H-h-h-" He tried again. "W-Well?"

"The rules of topology here seem to allow a wide
range of flexible conformal mappings. Practically
speaking, this means the cable can stretch, adjusting to
any length, at almost any speed desired. Congratula-
tions, Commander Harms. You seem to have found a
way to maneuver in the subjective vertical."

Harry ignored the suspicion of sarcasm, which might
be imagined. At least this trap had proved easier to es-
cape than the banana peel mesa.

Still, I'll only feel safe after learning the metaphorical
rules that apply here. There were reasons why patrol
craft seldom entered this region. Many that tried never
returned.

"Start lowering us then," he commanded. "Gently."

The flat half-plane overhead receded as the "ground"
approached at a steady clip, reminding him of some-
thing—either the inexorable nature of destiny ... or
else an oncoming train.

While at Kazzkark, there had been time to enquire
about the Siege of Earth.

He shouldn't be interested. Having dedicated his life
to the monastic Navigation Institute, Harry was sup-
posed to forsake all prior loyalties of kinship or patron
line. But few sophonts could ever transfer natural sym-
pathies completely. Institute workers often discreetly
sought news of "home."

When Harry found himself with an extra hour be-
tween briefings, he ventured to the bazaar, where a
Le'4-2vo gossip merchant accepted his generous fee and
showed him to an osmium-lined room containing a
masked Library tap.

It didn't take long to find the topic—which had risen
three more significance levels since the last time he
checked—under the heading: "Major News—Quasi Cur-

236  David Brin

rent Events." The latest word from Galaxy Two was
dire.

Terran forces and their few allies had been forced to
retreat from the Canaan colonies, which were now pro-
visionally ruled by a Soro admiral.

The beautiful dolphin-settled world of Calafia had
been invaded. A third of that water-covered globe was
taken over by a mixed squadron led by one faction of
the Brothers of the Night, while a different clique from
that same race of fanatical warriors fought bitterly to
"liberate" the rest.

Earth itself was enveloped and frail terragens forces
would have crumbled by now, but for help from the
Tymbrimi and Thennanin . . . and the way enemies
kept fragmenting and fighting among themselves. Even
so, the end seemed near.

In a footnote, Harry saw that the tiny Earthling lease-
hold on Horst had been occupied ... by the horrible
Tandu.

Shivers ran down his spine. There was mention of an
evacuation by the local staff, so perhaps Marko and Fe-
licity had time to flee with the other anthropologists. But
somehow Harry doubted it. His parents were obsessive.
It would be just like them to stay, assuming that the
invaders would never bother a pair of scientists doing
nonmilitary work.

Even if all the technicians and Terraformers left,
where would that leave the natives? Human tribes that
had turned their "probationary" mental status into li-
cense to escape the rigors of modern society, experi-
menting instead with countless diverse social forms—
many of them imitating one totem species or another.
Some groups purposely modeled themselves on the ma-
triarchal hive societies of bees, while others mimicked
wolf packs, or the lion's pride, or marriage patterns
found only in strange, pre-Contact novels. Most of the
little Probsher bands had little interest in technology or
Galactopolitics.

They would be helpless meat to predatory warriors
like the Tandu.

Fleeing the gossip merchant's shelter, Harry had tried

Heaven's Reach  237

to wipe the news from his mind. Soon victorious eatees
would be scrapping over the remains of fallen Earth-
clan. With neutral governance dissolving all over the
Five Galaxies, it should be simple to coerce the Uplift
Institute, getting humans, chims, and dolphins declared
open for adoption. All three races would be parceled
out like spoils of war, each to a new "patron," for ge-
netic-social guidance across the next hundred thousand
years.

That is, if we don't "accidentally" die of f during the
confusion. It had happened before, nearly every time a
wolfling race appeared, claiming to have raised itself to
sapience without help from any other. The amazing
thing was that Earthclan had lasted this long.

Well, at least gorillas are safe. The Thennanin aren 't
bad masters . . . assuming you must have a master.

I wonder who will get us chims, as part of the bar-
gain?

Harry's teeth bared in a grimace.

They may find us more trouble than we're worth.

During his next briefing with Wer'Q'quinn, he had
blurted a direct question. "All these hyperspatial anoma-
lies and disturbances . . . are they happenin' on ac-
count of the war over Earth?"

Instead of rebuking Harry for showing interest in his
old clan, the Survey official waved a suckered tendril
obligingly.

"Young colleague, it is important to remember that
one of the great mentational dangers of sapient life is
egotism—the tendency to see all events in the context
of one's own self or species. It is natural that you per-
ceive the whole universe as revolving around the trou-
bles of your former clan, little and insignificant as it is.

"Now I admit recent events may appear to support
that supposition. The announcement of possible Pro-
genitor relics—discovered in a secret locale by the infa-
mous dolphin ship—precipitated open warfare among
the most warlike oxygen-breathing clans. Trade patterns
unravel as some alliances seize control over local trans-

238  David Brin

fer points. However, let me assure you that the energy
fluxes released by the battles so far have been much too
small to affect underlying cosmic links."

"But the coincidence in timing!"

"You mistake cause for effect. The angst and fury that
now swirl around wolflings had been building for cen-
turies before humans contacted our culture. Ever since
the Fututhoon Episode, a nervous peace has been main-
tained mostly by fear, while belligerent parties armed
and prepared for the next phase. Alas for your unlucky
homefolk, it is an inauspicious time for innocents to

stumble onto the star lanes."

Harry blinked for several seconds, then nodded.

"You're talkin' about a Time of Changes."

"Indeed. We in the Institutes have known for almost a
million years that a new era of great danger and disrup-
tion was coming. The signs include increased volatility
in relations between the oxygen and hydrogen life or-
ders . . . and there were outbreaks of spasmodic ex-
ponential reproduction within the Machine Order—
violations requiring savage measures of suppression.
Even among clans of our own Civilization of Five Galax-
ies, we have seen a rise of religious fervor."

Harry recalled the proselytes swarming the main ave-
nues of Kazzkark, preaching diverse obscure interpreta-
tions of ancient prophecy.

"Bunch of superstitious nonsense," he had muttered.

To his surprise Wer'Q'quinn agreed with an emphatic

snapping of his beak.

"That which is loudest is not always representative,"
his boss explained. "Most species and clans would
rather live and let live, developing their own paths to
wisdom and allowing destiny to take its own time arriv-
ing. Who cares whether the Progenitors are going to
return in physical form, or as spiritual embodiments, or
by remanifesting themselves into the genome of some
innocent presapient race? While fanatical alliances clash
bitterly over dogma, a majority of oxygen breathers just
wish to keep making steady progress toward their own
species-enlightenment. Eventually all answers will be
found when each race joins its patrons and ancestors in

Heaven's Reacli  239

retirement . . . and then transcendence . . . follow-
ing the great ingathering Embrace of Tides."

There it was again—Harry thought at the time. The
basic assumption underlying nearly all Galactic religious
faiths. That salvation was attainable by species, not indi-
vidual organic beings.

Except/or that Skiano missionary—the one with the
parrot on its shoulder. It was pushing a different point
of view. A real heresy!

"So, young colleague," Wer'Q'quinn had finished.
"Try to picture how disturbing it was—to fanatics and
moderates alike—when your hapless dolphin cousins
broadcast images that seemed to show Progenitor
spacecraft floating through one of the flattest parts of
Galactic spacetime! The implications of that one scene
appeared to threaten a core belief-thread shared by
nearly all oxygen breathers. . . ."

At that point Harry was riveted and attentive. Only
then, as luck had it, an aide barged in to report that yet
another t-point was unraveling in the Gorgol Sector of
Galaxy Five. Suddenly Wer'Q'quinn had no time for ab-
stract discussions with junior underlings. Amid the ensu-
ing flurry of activity, Harry was sent to the Survey
Department to finish his briefing. There was never a
chance to ask the old snake about his intriguing remark.

What core belief? What about the Streaker's discovery
has everybody so upset?

At last the platform settled down to "earth."

The surface was relatively soft. His vessel's spindly
legs took up the load with barely a jounce.

Well, so far so good. The ground didn 't swallow me
up. A herd of parasitic memes hasn't converged yet, try-
ing to take over my mind, or to sell me products that
haven't been available for aeons.

Harry always hated when that happened.

He looked warily across a wide, flat expanse covered
with limp, fluffy cylinders. They looked like droopy,
slim-barreled cactuses, all jumbled loosely against each
other as far as the eye could see. He took over manual

240  Bavid Bfin

controls and used a stilt-leg to prod the nearest clump.
They squished underfoot easily, rebounding slowly after
he backed off.

"Can we retract our reality anchor now?" he asked the
pilot.

'Wo need. The anchor is restored to its accustomed
niche."

"Then what is that?" Harry asked, pointing to the blue
cable, still rising vertically toward the sky.

"The ropelike metaphor has become a semipermanent
structure. We can leave it in place, if you wish."

Harry peered up the stretched cord, rubbing his chin.

"Well, it might offer a way out of here if we have to
beat a hasty retreat. Just note this position and let's get
going."

The scout station set out, striding across the plain of
fuzzy tubes. Meanwhile, Harry kept moving from win-
dow to window, peering nervously, wondering how this
region's famed lethality would first manifest itself.

Rearing up on all sides, at least a dozen of the slen-
der, immensely tall towers loomed in the background.
Some of them seemed to have square cross sections
while others were rectangular or oval. He even thought
he perceived a rigid formality to their placement, as if
each stood positioned on a grid, some fixed distance
apart.

Harry soon realized the strange blurriness was not
due to any obstructing "haze" but to a flaw in vision
itself. Sight appeared to be a short-range sense in this
patch of E Space.

Great. All I need is partial blindness in a place where
reality literally can sneak up on you and bite.

It should be a short march to where he last saw the
Avenue. Awkwardly at first, Harry accelerated his station
across the plain of fluffy growths, all bent and twined
like tangled grass. These "plants" didn't wave in a
breeze, like the saw-weed of Horst. Still, they reminded
him somehow of that endless steppe where dusty skies
flared each dawn like a diffuse torch, painful to the
eyes. The sort of country his ancestors had sniffed at
disdainfully before returning to the trees, ages ago on

Heaven's Reach  241

Earth. Sensibly, they left scorching skies and cutting
grass to their idiot cousins—primates who lacked even
the good sense to escape the noonday sun, and later
went on to become humans.

According to the Great Library, Horst had been a
pleasant world once, with a rich, diverse ecosystem. But
millennia ago—before Earthlings developed their own
starships and stumbled on Galactic culture—something
terrible had happened to quite a few planets in Tanith
Sector. By the ancient Code of the Progenitors, natural
ecosystems were sacrosanct, but the Civilization of Five
Galaxies suffered lapses now and then. In the
Fututhoon Episode, hundreds of worlds were ravaged
by shortsighted colonization, leaving them barren wil-
dernesses.

Predictably, there followed a reactionary swing
toward manic zealotry. Different factions cast blame, de-
manding a return to the true path of the Progenitors.

But which true path? Several billion years would age
the best-kept records. Noise crept in over the aeons,
until little remained from the near mythical race that
started it all. Speculation substituted for fact, dogma for
evidence. Moderates struggled to soothe hostility among
fanatical alliances whose overreaction to the Fututhoon
chaos now promised a different kind of catastrophe.

Into this delicate situation Earthlings appeared, at first
offering both distraction and comic relief with their
wolfling antics. Ignorant, lacking social graces, humans
and their clients irked some great star clans just by ex-
isting. Moreover, having uplifted chimpanzees and dol-
phins before Contact, humans^ had to be classified as
"patrons," with the right to lease colonies, jumping
ahead of many older species.

"Let them prove themselves first on catastrophe plan-
ets," went the consensus. If Earthlings showed compe-
tence at reviving sick biospheres, they might win better
worlds later. So humans and their clients labored on
Atlast, Garth, and even poor Horst, earning grudging
respect as planet managers.

But there were costs.

A desert world can change you. Harry thought, recall-

242  David Brin

ing Horst and feeling abruptly sad for some reason. He
went down to the galley, fixed a meal, and brought it
back to the observation deck, eating slowly as the end-
less expanse of twisted, fuzzy tubes rolled by, still
pondering that eerie sense of familiarity.

His thoughts drifted back to Kazzkark, where a tall pros-
elyte accosted him with strange heresies. The weird Ski-
ano with a parrot on its shoulder, who spoke of Earth as
a sacred place—whose suffering offered salvation to the

universe.

"Don't you see the parallels? Just as Jesus and Ali and

Reverend Feng bad to be martyred in order for human
souls to be saved, so the sins of all oxygen-breathing life-
forms can only be washed clean by sacrificing some-
thing precious, innocent, and unique. That would be
your own homeworld, my dear chimpanzee brother!"

It seemed a dubious honor, and Harry had said so,
while eyeing possible escape routes through the crowd.
But the Skiano seemed relentless, pushing its vodor ap-
paratus, so each meaningful flash of its expressive eyes

sent a translation booming in Harry's face.

"For too long sapient beings have been transfixed by
the past—by the legend of the Progenitors!—a mythol-
ogy that offers deliverance to species, but nothing for the
individual! Each race measures its progress along the
ladder of Uplift—from client to patron, and then
through noble retirement into the tender Embrace of
Tides. But along the way, bow many trillions of lives are
sacrificed? Each one unique and precious. Each the
temporal manifestation of an immortal soul!"

Harry knew the creature's eye twinkle was the natural
manner of Skiano speech. But it lent eerie passion each

time the vodor pealed a ringing phrase.

"Think about your homeworld, oh, noble chimpanzee
brother! Humans are wolflings who reached sapience
without Uplift. Isn't that a form of virgin birth? Despite
bumble origins, did not Eartblings burst on the scene
amid blazing excitement and controversy, seeing things

Heaven's Reach  243

that had remained unseen? Saying things that hereto-
fore no one dared say?

"Do you Terrans suffer now for your uniqueness? For
the message that streams from that lovely blue world,
even as it faces imminent crucifixion? A message of
hope for all living things?"

Even as a crowd of onlookers gathered, the Skiano's
arms had raised skyward.

"Fear not for your loved ones, oh, child of Earth.

"True, they face fire and ruin in days to come. But
their sacrifice will bring a new dawn to all sapients—
yea, even those of other life orders! The false idols that
have been raised to honor mythical progenitors will be
smashed. The Embrace of Tides will be exposed as a
false lure. All hearts will turn at last to a true true faith,
where obedience is owed.

"Toward numinous Heaven—abode of the one eter-
nal and all-loving God."

In response, the bright-feathered parrot flapped its
wings and squawked "Amen!"

Many onlookers glowered upon hearing the Progeni-
tors called "mythical." Harry felt uncomfortable as the
visible focus of the proselyte's attention. If this kept up,
there could be martyrs, all right! Only the august reputa-
tion of Skianos in general seemed to hold some of the
crowd back.

In order to calm the situation, Harry wound up reluc-
tantly accepting a mission from the Skiano, agreeing to
be a message bearer ... in the unlikely event that his
next expedition brought him in contact with an angel of
the Lord.

It was about an hour later—subjective ship time—that a
blue M popped into place a little to his left.

"Monitor mode engaged. Captain Harms," the
slightly prissy voice announced. "I take pleasure to an-
nounce that the Avenue is coming into range. It can be
observed through the forward quadrant."

Harry stood up.

"Where? I don't . . ."

244   David Brin

Then he saw it, and exhaled a sigh. There, emerging
out of the strange haziness, lay a shining ribbon of
speckled light. The Avenue twisted across the fore-
ground like a giant serpent, emerging from the murk on
his left and vanishing in obscurity to his right. In a way,
it reminded Harry of the undulating "sea monster" he
had witnessed during his last survey trip, near the ba-
nana-peel mesa. Only that had been just a meme crea-
ture—little more than an extravagant idea, an embodied
notion—while this was something else entirely.

The Avenue did not conform to the allaphorical rules
of E Space.

Strictly speaking, it consisted of everything that was
not E Space.

Because of that,'cameras might perceive it. The tech
people at Navlnst had loaded his vessel with sensor
packages to place at intervals along the shining tube,
then retrieve later on his way back to base. Ideally, the
data might help Wer'Q'quinn's people foretell hyperspa-
tial changes during the current crisis.

He pressed a button and felt a small tremor as the first
package deployed.

Now, should he turn left, and start laying more instru-
ments in that direction? Or right? There seemed no rea-
son to choose one way over the other.

Well, he was still an officer of the law. Harry's other
job was to patrol E Space and watch for criminal activity.

"Computer, do you detect signs anybody's been
through this area lately?"

"I am scanning. Interlopers would have to travel
alongside the Avenue in order to reach an intersection
with Galaxy Four. Any large vessel piercing the tube, or
even passing nearby, would leave ripple signs, whatever
its allaphorical shape at the time."

The platform nosed closer to the shining tube of
brightness. Harry had glimpsed the Avenue many times
while on patrol, but never this close. Here it appeared
rather narrow, only about twice the height of the station
itself. The tube shone with millions of tiny sparks, set
amid a deep inner blackness.

The narrow, snakelike volume was filled with

Heaven's Reach  245

stars . . . and much more. Within that twisty cylinder
lay the entire universe Harry knew—planets, suns, all
five linked galaxies.

It was a topological oddity that might have looked, to
its long-extinct first discoverers, like a wonderful way to
get around relativity's laws. All one needed was an inter-
section near the planetary system one was in, and an-
other near one's destination. The technique of entering
and leaving E Space could be found in any Galactic
Library branch.

But E Space was a world of unpredictability, metapsy-
chological weirdness, and even representational absur-
dities. Keeping the Avenue in view until you came to
some point near your destination could entail a long
journey, or a very short one. Distances and relationships
kept changing.

Assuming a traveler found a safe exit point, and han-
dled transition well, he might emerge where he wanted
to go. That is, if it turned out he ever left home in the
first place! One reason most sophonts hated E Space
was the screwy way causality worked there. You could
cancel yourself out, if you weren't careful. Observers
like Harry found it irksome to return from a mission,
only to learn they no longer existed, and never really
had at all.

Harry didn't much approve of E Space—an attitude
Navlnst surely measured in his profile. Yet, they must
have had reasons to train him for this duty.

The platform began zigging and zagging alongside
the Avenue, occasionally stopping to bend lower on its
stilts, bringing instruments to bear like a dog sniffing at a
spoor. Nursing patience, Harry watched strange nebulae
drift past, within the nearby cylindrical continuum.

A bright yellow star appeared close to the nearby tube
edge, against a black, star-flecked background. It
looked almost close enough to touch as his vessel
moved slowly past. I guess there's a finite chance that's
Sol, with Earth/looting nearby, a faint speck in the cos-
mos. The odds are only about a billion to one against.

At last, the station stopped. The slanted letter seemed
to spin faster.

246  David Brin

"I note the near passage of three separate ship wakes.
The first came this way perhaps a year ago, and the
second not long after, following its trail."

"A pursuit?" This caught his interest. For the spoor to
have lasted so long testified how little traveled this re-
gion was . . . and perhaps how desperate the travelers

were, to pass this way.

'"What about the third vessel?"

"That one is more recent. A matter of just a few sub-
jective-duration days. And there is something else."

Harry nervously grabbed his thumbs. "Yes?"

"From the wake, it seems this latter vessel belongs to

the Machine Order of Life."

Harry frowned.
"A machine? In E Space? But how could it navigate?

Or even see where it . . ." He shook his head. "Which

way did it go?"

"To the figurative left . . . the way we are now fac-
ing. "

Harry paced on the floor. His orders from

Wer'Q'quinn were clear. He must lay the cameras where
they might peer from E Space back into more normal
continua, offering Navlnst techs a fresh perspective on
the flux of forces perturbing the Five Galaxies. And yet,
he was also sworn to check out suspicious activi-
ties. . . .

"Your orders, Captain Harms?"

"Follow them!" he blurted before the decision was

clear in his own mind.

"Sorry. I am not programmed ..."

Harry cursed. "Engage pilot mode!"

Almost before the cursive P popped into place, he

pointed.

"That way. Quickly! If we hurry we still might catch

them!"

The platform jerked, swinging to the right.

"Aye aye, Hoover. Off we go. Tallyho!"
Harry didn't even grimace this time. The program was
irritating, but never at the expense of function. Even

Heaven's Reach  247

Tymbrimi usually knew where to limit a joke, thank Ifni.
The station jogged onward in a quick eight-legged lope
across the savannah of fuzzy, cactuslike growths.

To his left the Avenue swept by, a glittering tube con-
taining everything that was real.

s.

ara

THINGS GOT PRETTY COMPLICATED RIGHT AF-
ter Streaker began navigating the snarled innards of
the transfer point.

From his liquid-filled chamber next door, Kaa
thrashed muscular flukes, churning a foamy froth
while protesting aloud.

"It'sss too damned crowded in here!"

Sara knew he wasn't complaining about Streaker's
cramped bridge, but the twisted labyrinth outside the
ship—a maze of stringlike interspatial boundaries, loop-
ing and spiraling through every possible dimension, like
the warped delirium of some mad carnival ride de-
signer.

The t-point nexus was rather crowded. During any
normal transfer, one might glimpse a few distant, glim-
mering dots amid the gnarled threads, and know that
other ships were plying the same complex junction link-
ing far-flung stars. But this time it felt like plunging
through a tangled jungle, with countless fireflies strung
out along every branch and vine.

Instrument panels flared amber warnings as Kaa re-
peatedly had to maneuver around large vessels moving
ponderously along the same slender path. Margins were
narrow, and the dolphin pilot skimmed by some giant
cruisers so closely that Sara caught brief, blurry glimpses
in a viewer set to zero magnification. Turbulent ship
wakes made Streaker buck like a skittish mount. Her
straining engines moaned, gripping the precious thread
for dear life.

Sara overheard Gillian's awed comment.

248  David Brin

"All these starcraft can't be running away from the
Fractal World!"

The Niss Machine answered, having managed to
regain some of its accustomed saucy tone.

"Obviously not, Dr. Baskin. Only about a million
other vessels are using trajectories similar to ours, flee-
ing the same catastrophe that drove us into panicky ex-
odus. That is but a small fraction of the population
currently thronging this dimensional matrix. All the rest
entered from other locales. Library records show that
this particular thread-nexus accepts inward funnelings
from at least a hundred points in normal space, scat-
tered across Galaxy Four."

Sara blinked at the thought of so many ships, most of
them far bigger than poor Streaker, all in an Egg-blessed
hurry to get wherever-whenever they were heading.

"I—I thought Galaxy Four was supposed to be de-
serted."

That was the image she had grown with. An entire
vast galactic wheel, nearly void of sapient life. Hadn't
her own ancestors come slinking this way in camou-
flaged sneakships, evading a fierce quarantine in order
to settle on forbidden Jijo?

"Deserted, yes. But only by two of the great Orders of
Life, Sage Koolhan. By machine intelligences and oxy-
gen-breathing starfarers. The migrational treaty did not
require evacuation by members of other orders. And yet,
from what we are witnessing right now, it would not be
far-fetched to suggest that a more general abandonment
has commenced."

Sara let out a soft grunt of comprehension.

"The inhabitants of the Fractal World—"

"Were officially members of the Retired Order, bask-
ing in the gentle tidal rub of their carefully tended pri-
vate sun, quietly refining their racial spirits in
preparation for the next step.

"A step that some of them now seem ready to at-
tempt. "

"What do you mean?" asked Gillian.

"It is best illustrated visually. Please observe."

One of the major screens came alight with a wavering

Heaven's Reach  249

image—greatly magnified—of several dozen ragged-
looking vessels flying in convoy formation, skating
along the shimmering verge of a transfer thread. As the
telescopic scene gained better focus, Sara noted that the
ships' rough outlines resulted from their jagged cover-
ings—a jumble of corrugation and protruding spikes.
The very opposite of streamlining.

So, the fractal geometry of the fallen criswell structure
carries on, even down to the small scale of their life-
boats, she realized. / wonder how far it continues. To
the flesh on their bodies? To their living cells?

The portrayal magnified, zooming toward the bow of
the lead vessel. There, Sara and her companions in the
Plotting Room saw a glyphic symbol that seemed to
shimmer in its own light—consisting of several nested,
concentric rings.

Even a Jijoan savage quickly recognized the sigil of
the Retired Order.

"Now watch what 1 have observed several times al-
ready. These refugees from the Fractal World are pre-
paring to declare a momentous decision."

Sara felt Emerson approach to stand close by. Quietly
unassuming, the tall wounded man took her left hand
while they both stood watching a fateful transition.

The foremost craggy-hulled ship appeared to shud-
der. Wavelets of energy coursed its length, starting from
the stern and ultimately converging toward the bright
symbol on its prow. For a few moments, the glare be-
came so intense that Sara had to shield her eyes.

The glow diminished just as rapidly. When Sara
looked again, the glyph had been transformed. Gone
were the circles. In their place lay a simple joining of
two short line segments, meeting at a broad angle, like a
fat triangle missing its connecting base.

"The sign of union," pronounced the Niss Machine,
its voice somewhat hushed. "Two destinies, meeting at
one hundred and four degrees."

Gillian Baskin nodded in appreciation.

"Ah," was all the older woman said.

Sara thought, I hate it when she does that. Now it
behooved her to ask for an explanation.

250  laviil Bnn

But events accelerated before she could inquire what
the mysterious change in emblems meant. As the cam-
era shifted, they witnessed several more refugee ships
undergoing identical transformations in rapid succes-
sion, joining the leader in assuming the two-legged sym-
bol. All these separated from their erstwhile companions
to form a distinct flotilla that began edging ahead, as if
now eager to seek a new destiny. At the next transfer
thread junction, they flared with ecstatic levels of proba-
bility discharge and leaped across the narrow gap,
bound for Ifni-knew-where.

The remaining refugees weren't finished changing
and dividing. Again, ripples of light shimmered along
the hulls of several huge ships, which began losing
some of their jagged outlines. Hulls that had been jum-
bles of overlapping spikes seemed to melt and flow,
then recoalesce into smoother, more uniform
shapes . . . the familiar symmetrical arrangement of
hyperdrive flanges used by normal vessels in the Civili-
zation of Five Galaxies.

Like before, each metamorphosis concluded in a daz-
zling burst at the foremost end. Only this time, when the
glare faded, Sara saw another symbol replacing the nest
of concentric rings—a rayed spiral glyph. The same one
Streaker carried on her bow.

"These others, apparently, do not consider their racial
spirits advanced enough yet for transcendence. They,
too, have chosen to surrender their retired status, hut
this time in order to rejoin the society of ambitious, frac-
tious, starfaring oxygen breathers.

"Perhaps they feel there is unfinished business they
must take care of before resuming the Embrace of
Tides."

Gillian nodded soberly.

"That unfinished business may be us."

She turned toward the bridge. "Kaa! Be sure to stay
away from any ship bearing a Galactic emblem!"

From the water-filled control room came a warbling
sigh in complex Trinary—the expressive, poetical lan-
guage of neo-dolphins that Sara had only just begun to
learn. Rhythmic squeals and pops seemed to voice re-

Heaven's Reach  251

signed irony, and several of those in the Plotting Room
chuckled in appreciation of the pilot's wit.
All Sara made out was a single elementary phrase—

* ... except the one biting our tail! *

Of course. There was already one ship—bearing the
rayed spiral crest—that wouldn't be shaken easily. Stick-
ing to the Earthling vessel like a shadow—far closer
than most navigators would call safe—the Jophur dread-
nought loomed in the rear-facing viewer. Without the
new, dense layers coating Streaker's, hull, Kaa might
have unleashed his full suite of tricks, evading the battle
cruiser in a mad dash among the twisting threads. But
that wasn't possible with Streaker weighed down this
way, maneuvering as sluggish as an ore freighter.

Well, without the coating, we would have fried the
first instant those disintegrator beams struck, Sara
thought. And we'd be easy prey for the Jophur. So maybe
it evens out.

Turning back to the main magnifier screen, she
watched the refugee flotilla break up once more. Those
that had reclaimed the spiral galaxy symbol began peel-
ing off, aimed toward heading back to the vigorous
goals and passions of a younger life phase.

"From this t-point nexus, there are several routes
leading eventually to the other four galaxies. The beings
piloting those vessels are no doubt planning to rendez-
vous with former clan mates and clients."

Gillian sniffed.

"Like Grandpa and Grandma coming home from
Happy Acres to move back in with the kids. I wonder
just how welcome they'll be."

The whirling hologram halted briefly, its expression
perplexed.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind." Gillian shook her head. "So we've
seen a retirement home shatter before our eyes, and its
residents divide in three directions. What about those?"
She pointed to the craggy ships remaining in the flotilla,

252  Bavid B[in

the ones who retained their original emblem of concen-
tric circles. "Where will they go?"

The Niss resumed spinning.

"Presumably to another criswell structure. Truly re-
tired species cannot long abide what they call the 'shal-
low realm.' They dislike space travel and crave instead
the feel of solar tides. So they prefer hunkering deep

within a gravity well, next to a tame star.

"In fact, I am picking up considerable short-range
traffic right now . . . intersbip communications . . .
inquiring if anyone in the area knows another fractal
community that has spare volume and insolated—"

"In other words, they want to find out which other
retirement homes have vacancies, to replace the digs

they just lost. I get it."

"Indeed. But it seems they are having little luck. A

majority of the vessels we glimpse now, streaking across
the nexus, are asking the same question!"

"What? The ones coming from other entry points?
They're also looking for a place to live? But I thought
there were tens of thousands of other retirement habi-
tats, each of them huge enough to—"

"Please bold awhile. Let me look into this."
Silence reigned while the Niss delved deeper, coiling
its mesh of spinning lines ever tighter as it listened
acutely. When it finally reported again, the synthetic
' voice was lower, sounding somewhat astonished.

"It seems. Dr. Baskin, that the catastrophe we ob-
served at the Fractal World was not an isolated inci-
dent."

Another long pause followed, as if the Niss felt it nec-
essary to check—and then double-check-—verifying

what it had just learned.

"Yes, "the machine resumed at last. "The bizarre and

tragic fact is confirmed. Criswell structures appear to be
collapsing all over Galaxy Four."

It was hard for Sara to imagine. The devastation she had
witnessed—a fantastically enormous edifice, an abode
to quadrillions, imploding before her eyes—that could

Heaven's Beach  253

not possibly be repeated elsewhere! And yet, that was
the news being relayed in sputtery flashes by refugee
ships blazing past each other along the Gordian twists
and swooping arcs of the transfer point nexus.

"But ... I thought all that fighting and destruction
happened because of us!"

"So I also believed. Sage Koolhan. But that may be
because my Tymbrimi makers filled my personality ma-
trix with some of their own exaggerated egotism and
sense of self-importance. In fact, however, there is an-
other possible interpretation of the events that took place
at the Fractal World. We may have been like ants, scur-
rying beneath a burning house, convincing ourselves
that it was happening because our queen laid the wrong
kind of egg."

Sara grasped what the Niss was driving at, and she
hated the idea. As awful as it felt to be persecuted by
mighty forces, there was one paranoiac consolation. It
verified your importance in the grand scheme of things,
especially if all-powerful beings would tear down their
own great works to get at you. But now the Niss implied
their suffering at the Fractal World was incidental—a
mere sideshow—spilling from events so vast, her kind
of entity might never understand the big picture.

"B-but . . . b-but in that case," asked the little, crab-
like qheuen, Pincer-Tip. "In that case, who did wreck
the Fractal World?"

Nobody answered. No one had an answer to offer—
though Sara had begun ruminating over a possibility.
One so disturbing that it came to her only in the form of
mathematics. A glimmering of equations and boundary
conditions that she kept prim and passionless ... or
else the implications might rock her far too deeply,
shaking her faith in the stability of the cosmos itself.

Tsh't, the dolphin lieutenant, intervened with a note
of pragmatism. "Gillian, Kaa reportsss we're nearing a
junction that might take us to Galaxy Two. Is Tanith still
your aim?"

The blond woman shrugged, looking tired.
"Unless anyone sees a flaw in my reasoning."

254   Divid Brin

A sardonic tone once more filled the voice of the Niss
Machine.

"There is no difficulty perceiving flaws. You would
send us charging toward violence and chaos, into the
one part of the universe where our enemies are most
numerous.

"No, Dr. Baskin. Do not ask about/laws.
"Ask instead whether any of us has a better idea."

Gillian shrugged.

"You say the Jophur could figure out how to defeat
our new armor at any moment. Before that happens, we
must find sanctuary somewhere. There is always a slim
hope that the Institutes—"

"Very well, then," Tsh't cut in. "Galaxy Two is our
goal. Tanith Sector. Tanith World. I will tell Kaa to pro-
ceed."

In theory, clients weren't supposed to interrupt their
patrons. Though Tsh't was only trying to be efficient.

At the same time Sara thought—

We're heading toward Earth. Soon we'll be so near
that Sol will be a visible star, just a few hundred parsecs
away, practically round the corner.

That may be as close as I ever get.

Gillian Baskin answered with a nod.

"Yes, let us proceed."

H

arry

BBOUT ONE SUBJECTIVE DAY AFTER SETTING
forth, pursuing the mysterious interlopers, Harry
learned that an obstacle lay dead ahead.

Hurrying across a weird province of E Space, he duti-
fully performed his main task, laying instrument pack-
ages for Wer'Q'quinn alongside a fat, twisty tube that
contained the entire sidereal universe. All the galaxies
he knew—including the complex hyperdimensional
junctions called transfer points—lay circumscribed

Heaven's Beach  255

within the Avenue. Whenever he paused to stare at it,
Harry got a unique, contorted perspective on constella-
tions, drifting nebulae, even whole spiral arms, shim-
mering with starlight and glaring emissions of excited
gas. It seemed strange, defying all intuitive reason, to
know the domain inside the tube was unimaginably
more vast than the constrained realm of metaphors sur-
rounding it.

By now he was accustomed to living in a universe
whose complications far exceeded his poor brain's abil-
ity to grasp.

While performing the job assigned to him by
Wer'Q'quinn, Harry kept his station moving at maximum
prudent speed, following the spoor left by previous visi-
tors to this exotic domain.

Something about their trail made him suspicious.

Of course what I should be doing is lying low till
Wer'Q'quinn's time limit expires, then collect the cam-
eras and scoot out of here before this zone ofmetareal-
ity transmutes again, melting around my ship and
taking me with it!

So dangerous and friable was the local zone of eerie
shapes and twisted logic that even meme creatures—the
natural life order of E Space—looked sparse and skit-
tish, as if incarnated ideas found the region just as un-
pleasant as he did. Harry glimpsed only a few simple
notion-beasts grazing across the prairie of fuzzy, cactus-
like trunks. Most of the mobile concepts seemed no
more complex than the declarative statement—I am.

As if the universe cared.

His agile vessel made good time following the trail
left by prior interlopers. Objects made of real matter left
detectable signs in E Space. Tiny bits of debris con-
stantly sloughed or evaporated off any physical object
that dared to invade this realm of reified abstractions.
Such vestiges might be wisps of atmosphere, vented
from a life-support system, or clusters of hull metal just
six or seven atoms wide.

The spoor grew steadily warmer.

/ wonder why they came through here, he thought.
The oldest trace was about a year old ... if his Subjec-

256  David Brio

tive Duration Meter could be trusted, estimating the rate
at which protons decayed here, converting their mass
into microscopic declarative statements. From dispersal
profiles, he could tell that the small craft in front—the
earliest to pass by—was no larger than his mobile sta-
tion.

They must have been desperate to come this way . . .
or else terribly lost.

The second spoor wasn't much younger, coming from
a bigger vessel, though still less massive than a corvette.
It had nosed along in evident pursuit, avidly chasing
after the first.

By sampling drifting molecules, Harry verified that
both vessels came from his own life order. Galactic
spacecraft, carrying oxygen-breathing life-forms—ac-
tive, vigorous, ambitious, and potentially quite violent.

The third one had him confused for a while. It had
come this way more recently, perhaps just days ago. A
veritable cloud of atoms still swirled in its wake. Sam-
pling probes waved from Harry's station, like the
chem-sense antennae of some insect, revealing metal-
loceramic profiles like those associated with mech life.

As an acolyte of the Institutes, Harry was always on
the lookout for suspicious behavior by machine entities.
Despite precautions programmed into mechs for billions
of years, they were still prone to occasional spasms of
uncontrolled reproduction, grabbing and utilizing any
raw materials in sight, making copies of themselves at
exponentially increasing rates.

Of course this was a problem endemic to all orders,
since opportunistic proliferation was a universal trait of
anything called "life." Indeed, oxygen breathers had
perpetrated their own ecological holocausts in the Five
Galaxies, sometimes overpopulating and using up plan-
ets much faster than they could restore themselves.
Hence laws of migration that regularly set aside broad
galactic zones for fallow recovery. But machine repro-
duction could be especially rapid and voracious, often
beginning in dark^ corners where no one was looking.
Once, a wave of autonomous replicators had built up
enough momentum to seize and use up every small

Heaven's Beacli   257

planetoid in Galaxy Three within the narrow span of ten
million years, converting each gram into spindly autom-
atons . . . which then began disassembling planets.
The calamity continued until a coalition of other life or-
ders intervened, bringing it to a halt.

Nor were machines Harry's sole concern. At times like
this, when oxygen-breathing civilization was distracted
by internal struggles, it was important to keep watch lest
the rival culture of hydrogen breathers take advantage.

Still, the traces Harry picked up seemed more strange
than dangerous. The lavish amount of metallic debris
suggested that this particular mech could be damaged.
And there were other anomalies. His sensors sniffed
amino acids and other organic detritus. Perhaps small
amounts of oxy-life were accompanying the machine-
vessel. As cargo perhaps? Sometimes mechs used bio-
logical components, which were more resistant than
prim logic circuits to damage by cosmic rays.

At the stroke of a midura, he had to halt the pursuit in
order to lay another of Wer'Q'quinn's packages, aligning
it carefully so the cameras peered straight into the Ave-
nue, collecting data for Navlnst technicians. Harry
hoped it would prove valuable.

Of course his boss had plenty of measurements al-
ready, from probes that laced each transfer point, as
well as hyperspatial levels A, B, and C. Moreover, trav-
elers routinely reported conditions they encountered
during their voyages. It seemed obscure and unconven-
tional to send Harry all this way gathering information
from such a quirky source. But who was he to judge?

I'm near the bottom of the ol' totem pole. I can just do
my job as well as possible, and not try to second-guess
my chief.

In pre-mission briefings, Harry had learned that strain
gauges were showing increased tension along nearly
every navigable route in the Five Galaxies. Ruptures and
detours had grown routine as commerce began suffer-
ing noticeably. Yet, when Wer'Q'quinn made inquiries
to high officials at Navigation Institute headquarters, the
response consisted of little more than bland, reassuring
nostrums.

258  DiylH Brin

•    •    •
These events are not unexpected.

Provisions have been made (long ago) for dealing
with the phenomena.

Agents at your level should not concern themselves
with causes, or long-term effects.

Perform your assigned tasks. Protect shipping. Safe-
guard the public. Continue reporting data. Above all,
discourage panic. Hearten civil confidence.

Maintain your equipment at high levels of readiness.

Cancel all leaves.

It wasn't the sort of memorandum Harry found exactly
inspiring. Even Wer'Q'quinn seemed disturbed—though
it wasn't easy to read the moods of a land-walking
squid.

The situation prompted Harry to wonder again about
his current mission.

Perhaps Wer'Q'quinn didn't clear my trip with bis
bosses. He may have sent me to get a look at things from
a perspective that no one atHQ could co-opt, anticipate,
or meddle with.

Harry appreciated his supervisor's confidence . . .
while at the same time worrying about what it implied.

Could everything be falling apart? he pondered.
Maybe the Skiano proselyte is right. If this is the end of
the world, what can you do but look to the state of your
own soul?

Just a midura before taking off on this mission, with
some mixed feelings and trepidation, he had accepted
an invitation from the Skiano to visit its small congrega-
tion of converts. Entering a small warehouse bay in one
of the cheaper quarters of Kazzkark, he found a motley
assortment of creatures following the strange new sect.

There had been a pair of portly synthians—creatures
traditionally friendly to Terran customs and concepts—
along with several little wazoon, a goggle-eyed pring,
three por'n'aths, a striped ruguggi, and . . .

Harry recalled rocking back in surprise, dismayed to
see a cluster of terrifying Brothers of the Night! With

Heaven's Reach  259

muscular, streamlined arms and sharklike faces, Broth-
ers were famed for their intense though fickle religious
impulses, sampling different creeds and pursuing them
fanatically—until the next one came along. Still, it
shocked Harry to see them in such a gregarious setting,
worshiping alongside beings who had no relationship at
all with their race or clan.

The variegated faithful had gathered before a symbol
that Harry found at once both quaint and un-
nerving ... a holo portrait of Earth, homeworld to his
neo-chimpanzee line, depicted with cruciform rays of
sacred illumination emanating outward. As the ho-
logram turned, the planet seemed to swell . . . then
burst apart, donating its own substance to the brilliant
rays, enhancing the gift of enlightenment with an act of
ultimate self-sacrifice.

Then, moments later, the world recoalesced in a feat
of miraculous resurrection, beginning the cycle once
more.

"We are taught that the aim of life is its own perfec-
tion, " preached the Skiano, speaking first in a flashing
dialect of Galactic Two, with glitters from its lower pair
of eyes, then almost simultaneously via audible Gal-
Seven through a vodor held in one hand.

"This wisdom is true, beyond any doubt. It crosses all
boundaries of order or class. Once sapiency is achieved,
life must be about more than mere self-gene-ego contin-
uation. Long ago, the Progenitors taught that our high-
est purpose is to seek a sense of purpose. For existence to
have meaning, we need a goal. A target at which to aim
the projectile of our lives.

"But what in the universe is perfectible? Surely not
matter, which decays, eventually reducing even the
greatest artifacts and monuments to a dim glow of beat
radiation. Any individual organism will age and even-
tually die. Some memories may be downloaded or re-
corded, but true improvement grinds to a bait.

"Even the cosmos we perceive with our senses appears
doomed to entropy and chaos.

"Only species seem to get better with time. First blind
evolution prepares the way on myriad nursery worlds,

260  David Brin

sifting and testing countless animal types until precious
presapient forms emerge. These then enter a blessed cy-
cle of adoption and Uplift, receiving, guidance from oth-
ers who came before, accelerating their refinement over

time.

"Up to this point, the way taught by the Progenitors

was good and wise. It meant that nursery worlds would
be preserved and sanctified. It ensured that potential
would be preserved, and wisdom passed on through an

endless cycle of nurturing.

"And when an elder species has taught all it can,
reaching high levels of insight and acumen? Then its
own turn comes to resume self-improvement, retiring
from the spacefaring life, seeking racial perfection
within the loving Embrace of Tides.

"Down that route, into the snug clasp of gravity, the
Progenitors themselves are said to have gone, waiting to
welcome each new gene line that achieves ultimate

transcendence."

The Skiano pressed its sucker-tipped hands together,

leaning toward the congregation.

"But is that the sole route to perfection? Such a far-
sighted, species-centered view of salvation seems cold
and remote, especially nowadays, when there may be
very little time left. Too little for younger races to refine
themselves in the old-fashioned way.

"Besides, where does this leave the individual? True,
there is real satisfaction from knowing your life has
been well spent helping the next generation be a little
better .than yours, and thus moving your heirs a bit
closer to fulfillment. But is there no reward for the good,
the honorable, the devoted and kind in this life?

"Is there no continuity or transcendence offered to

the self?

"Indeed, my friends and compeers, I am here to tell

you that there is a reward! It comes to us from the most
unlikely of places. A strange little world, where wolflings
emerged to sapiency whole and virginal, after a long
hard struggle of self-Uplift with only whale songs to ease
their lonely silence.

Heaven's leach  261

"That . . . and a comforting promise told to them by
the one, true God.

"A dreadful-beautiful promise. One that the little
world called Earth will soon fulfill, as it suffers martyr-
dom for all our sins. Yea, for every solitary individual
sapient being.

"A promise of salvation and everlasting life."

With the last instrument packages deployed, Harry had
time to kill before they must be retrieved, so he set out
again after the interlopers.

All three had stuck close to the Avenue ... a wise
precaution, since conventional starcraft were scarcely
built to navigate in E Space. This way there was always
a chance of diving back into the real universe if things
went suddenly wrong here in the empire of memes.

Of course "diving" into the Avenue held dangers of its
own. For instance, you might emerge in one of the Five
Galaxies all right, with every atom in the right position
compared to its neighbors . . . only separated by me-
ters instead of angstroms, giving your body the volume
of a star and the density of a rarefied vacuum.

Even if your ship and crew held physical cohesion,
you could wind up in a portion of space far from any
beacon or t-point, lost and virtually stranded.

By comparison, Harry's vessel was a hardy beast, flex-
ible and far more assured for this quirky kind of travel.
Designed specifically for E Space—and piloted by a
trained living observer—it could find much safer points
of entry and egress than the Avenue.

Of the vessels he was following, the machine entity
worried him most, provoking something almost like
pity.

It's really vulnerable here. The poor mech must be
feeling its way along, almost blind.

Harry accelerated the station's bowlegged gait, curi-
ous to see what would drive such an entity to invade
E Space, following the spoor of two oxy-life vessels.
Soon, he began detecting traces of digital cognizance, a
sure giveaway that high-level computers were operat-

262   David Brin

ing, continuously and unshielded, somewhere beyond

the haze.

It's like the thing's broadcasting to all the carnivorous

memes in the neighborhood. Yoo boo! Beasties! Come
and eat me!

Harry peered through the murk to make out a fantasti-
cally sheer chjfahea.d—grayish off-white—covered with
symmetrical reddish splotches. The abrupt barrier
reared vertically, vanishing into the mist some number
of meters—or miles—overhead, and the shining, tube-
like Avenue seemed headed straight for it!

The red-orange blemishes were arrayed in strict geo-
metrical rows, like endless ranks of fighting ships. Harry
eyed them dubiously, till the pilot called them two-
dimensional discolorations. Nothing more.

The station marched on, stilt-legs swinging across the
fuzzy steppe, and Harry soon realized there was a hole,
just wide enough to admit the Avenue, with some room
to spare on either side to admit the scout platform or a

small starship.

"7 believe somebody has used energy weapons here,"

the pilot mode murmured speculatively.

Harry saw the cavelike opening had been widened by
some tearing force. Cracks ran away from the broken
entrance. Crumbled fragments of wall lay among the

fuzzy cylinders.

"Fools! Their ship was too bulky to fit. So instead of
trying to find a metaphor that'd get them through, they

just blasted their way!"

Harry shook his head. It was dangerous to try altering
E Space by force. Far better to get your way by follow-
ing its strange rules.

"This apparently happened a year ago, when the
larger vessel tried following the smaller. Do you wish me
to engage observer mode to find out what types of weap-
ons were used?"

Harry shook his head. "No time. Clearly we're dealing

with idiots ... or fanatics. Either way it means trou-
ble."

Heaven's Reach  263

Harry looked into the blackness surrounding the
Avenue as it passed within. No doubt this was another
transition boundary. Once he moved inside, the meta-
phorical rules must change again.

Wer'Q'quinn would not like it. There was no absolute
guarantee Harry could backtrack once he entered. The
instrument packages were supposed to be his first prior-
ity.

After a long pause—spent largely scratching himself,
neo-chim style—he grunted and decided.

"We're going in," Harry ordered. "Prepare for symbol
shift!" He took his command seat and buckled in. "Close
the blinds and ..."

The cursive P whirled faster.

"Warning! Something is coming!"

Harry sat up and looked around. The sheer cliff took
up half his field of view. On the other side, the glowing
tube of the Avenue stretched back the way he came,
across an open plain of fuzzy tubes as far as the haze
would let him see.

Yanking on both thumbs, he recalled the first rule of
survival in E Space. When in doubt about a stranger, be
quiet and find out what it is, before it finds out about
you.

"Identification? Can you tell where it's coming from?"
The pilot program hesitated for only a moment. "The

object is unknown. It is approaching from within the

transition zone."

From the dark cave in front of him! That ruled out
ducking in there to hide. Harry whirled, looking desper-
ately for an idea.

"We need to get out of sight," he muttered. "But
where?"

"I cannot answer, unless we fly. Have you worked out
a way yet, Harvey?"

"No I haven't, damn you!"

"The bogey is getting closer."

Harry brought his fists down on the armrests. It was
time to try something, anything.

"Go to the wall!"

The station responded with an agile gallop. Thrusting

264  David Brio

his arms and legs into the manual control sleeves, Harry
shouted.

"I'm taking over!"

As the platform reached the sheer cliff, he made two
stilt-legs reach out, slapping their broad feet against the
smooth surface.

Harry held his breath. . . .

Then, as naturally as if it had been designed for it, the
station reared up and began climbing the wall.

/Wins Journal

MUST HURRY THROUGH THIS JOURNAL ENTRY.
no time for polishing. No asking the autoscribe to fix
my grammar or suggest fancy words. We've already
boarded one of Streaker's salvaged Thennanin boats,
and our deadline to cast off comes in less than a
midura. 'I've got to get this down fast, so a duplicate can
remain behind.

I want Gillian Baskin to keep a copy, you see, be-
cause we don't have any idea if this little trip of ours is
going to work. We're being sent away in hopes the boat
will make it to safety while Streaker enters a kind of
peril she's never seen before. But things could turn out
the other way around. If we've learned anything during
our adventures, it's that you can't take stuff for granted.

Anyway, Dr. Baskin gave me a promise. If she makes
it, and we don't, she'll see about getting my journal pub-
lished on Earth, or somewhere. That way even if I'm
dead at least I'll be a real author. People will read what I
wrote, centuries from now, and maybe on lots of
worlds.

I think that's so uttergloss, it almost makes up for this
separation, though saying good-bye to the friends we
made aboard ship is almost as hard as it was leaving my
family behind on Jijo.

Well, one of the crew is going with us, to fly the little
ship. Dr. Baskin is giving us her own best pilot, to make
sure we get safely to our goal.

Heaven's Reach  265

"It doesn't look as if we'll need a crackerjack space
surfer where we're going," she told us. "But you kids
must have Kaa, if you're to stand a chance."

Huck complained of course, waving all her eyestalks
and protesting with that special whining tone that only
an adolescent g'Kek can fine-tune to perfectidn.

"We're being exiled," she wailed. "Just when
Streaker's going someplace really interesting!"

"It's not exile," Gillian answered. "You're taking on a
dangerous and important mission. One that you Jijoans
are well qualified for. A mission that might make every-
thing we've gone through worthwhile."

Of course they both have it right. I have no doubt
we're being sent away in part because we're young and
Gillian feels guilty about keeping us aboard where
there's danger every dura, sometimes from a dozen di-
rections at once. Clearly she'd like to see the four of us
—especially Huck—taken somewhere safe as soon as
possible.

On the other hand, I don't think she'd part with Kaa if
it weren't for important reasons that'd help her accom-
plish her mission. I believe she really does want us to
make our way in secret through the Five Galaxies, and
somehow make contact with the Terragens Council.

"We couldn't do it before," Dr. Baskin explained,
"with just humans and dolphins aboard. Even sneaking
into some obscure port, we'd have been noticed the
second any of us spoke up, to buy supplies or ask direc-
tions. Earthlings are too well known—too infamous—
for us to go anywhere incognito these days.

"But who will notice a young urs? Or a little red
qheuen? Or a hoon, walking around one of those back-
space harbors? You'll be typical shabby starfarers, selling
a few infobits you've picked up along the way, buying
fourth-class passages and making your way to Tanith
Sector on personal business.

"Of course, Huck will have to stay secluded or dis-
guised—you may have to ship her in an animal con-
tainer till you reach a safe place. The Tymbrimi would
protect her. Or maybe the Thennanin—providing she'd
accept indenture and their pompous advice about a ra-

266  David Brin

ctal self-improvement campaign. Anyway, too much is
riding on her to take any chances."

Gillian's reminder silenced Huck's initial outrage over
being "shipped" from place to place. Of all us voyagers,
my friend has the biggest reason to stay alive. She's the
only living g'Kek outside of Jijo, and since the Jophur
might annihilate all the g'Keks back home, it seems that
motherhood, not adventuring, will be her calling now. A
change she finds sobering.

"What about Kaa?" asked Ur-ronn, waving her sleek,
long head, speaking with a strong urrish lisp. "It will ve
hard to disguise a vig dolphin. Shall we carry hin in our

luggage?"

Ignoring urrish sarcasm, Dr. Baskin shook her head.

"Kaa won't be accompanying you all the way to
Tanith. He'd be too conspicuous. Besides, I made him a
promise, and it's time to keep it."

I was about to inquire about that ... to ask what
promise she meant . , . when Lieutenant Tsh't entered
the Plotting Room to say that she'd finished loading the
boat with supplies for our journey.

My pet noor, Huphu, rode my shoulder. But her sapi-
ent relative, the secretive tytlal named Mudfoot, licked
himself on a nearby conference table, resembling that
Earth creature, an otter, but with white bristles on his
neck and an expression of disdainful boredom.

"Well?" Gillian asked the creature, though he'd re-
fused to speak since we left Jijo. "Do you want to go see
the Tymbrimi, and report to them about matters on Jijo?
Or will you come with us, beyond anything our order of
life normally gets to see?"

When she put it that way, I think Gillian expected one
answer from the curious tytlal. But it didn't surprise me
that she got the other.

A tytlal will bite off its own tail for a joke.

I guess I ought to update how we got to this point—
hurrying to pack a small boat and send it off toward a
place where Streaker had expected to be going.

NeaviB's leich  267

The reason is that Gillian seems to have gotten a bet-
ter offer.
Or at least one she can't refuse.

How did we get to this parting of the ways?

Where I last left off, Streaker was swooping along the
complex innards of a transfer point, just a couple of
dozen arrowflights ahead of a Jophur battleship that
clung to us the way a prairie-hopper holds on to its last
pup. It seemed there'd only be one way to shake our
enemy, and that was to head straight for one of the huge
headquarters worlds of the Great Institutes, where
there'd be lots of traffic and other warships around. If
everything worked just right, an Institute armistice might
be issued in the nick of time, and protect us before a
free-for-all firestorm blasted Streaker to kingdom come.

All right, it was a flaky plan, for sure, but the best one
anybody thought of. And it beat letting the Jophur cap-
ture Streaker's secrets to use against all other clans in
the Five Galaxies.

So there we were, darting along a t-point thread,
dodging refugee traffic from hundreds of broken fractal
worlds that were falling apart all over Galaxy Four. . . .

Don't ask me how or why that happened, because it's
way beyond me. But at least one of us Jijoans had a clue
to what was going on. Sage Sara seemed to grasp the
meaning when a number of those giant spaceships
changed their shape right before our eyes, as well as the
symbols on their bows.

As I understand it, some of the refugees were looking
for new retirement homes, to resume their quiet lives of
contemplation. (Though it seems vacancies were hard
to find.)

Others decided to abandon that comfortable exis-
tence and head back to rejoin their old oxy-life cousins
during the present time of crisis. Dr. Baskin thought
we'd slip in among this mob, flooding through the
crowded transfer point on their way to populated zones
of the Five Galaxies.

There was a third option, being chosen by a smaller

268   David Brill

minority—those who thought themselves ready to climb
the next rung on the ladder of sapiency, rising out of the
Retired Order to a much higher state. But we didn't
think that group could possibly concern us.

Boy, were we wrong!

So there we were, diving into the heart of the t-point
—a looping, knotlike structure Kaa called a transgalac-
tic nexus—that would send us out of old Galaxy Four
altogether . . . when it happened.

Alarms blared. We swerved around another loop-de-
loop, and there it was.

At first, I saw just a floating cloud of light, shapeless,
without a hint of structure. But as we drew near, this
changed. I got an impression of a tremendous creature
with countless writhing arms! These appendages were
reaching down to the converging transfer threads and
plucking starships off like berries from a vine\

"Uh ... is that normal?" Huck asked . . . unneces-
sarily, since we could see the looks on the faces of our
Earthling friends. They'd never seen anything like it be-
fore.

Pincer-Tip stammered in awe.

"Is it a go-go-go-god?"

No one answered, not even the sarcastic Niss Ma-
chine. We were heading right for the giant thing, and
there wasn't any possible route to jump away from it in
time. All we could do was stare, and count the passing
duras, plunging toward the brilliance till our turn came.

Light flooded the sky. A tremendous arm of light
came down upon us ... and suddenly things began
moving v-e-r-y s-1-o-w-l-y.

Queasy sensations flowed outward from my gut while
my skin felt a strange kind of spreading numbness. As
Streaker was lifted bodily off the transfer thread, her
roaring engines muted to an idle whisper. All view
screens filled with whiteness, a glow that did not seem
to carry any heat. Paralyzed with fear, I wondered if we
were about to be consumed by some kind of hungry
being, or a dispassionate natural phenomenon. Not that
it made the slightest difference which.

The illumination was so perfect in its hue, and re-

Heaven's Reach  269

splendent texture, that I felt suddenly sure it could be
nothing other than pure and distilled death.

How long the transition lasted, I have no idea. But
eventually the brilliant haze diminished and all the vis-
ceral sensations ebbed. Streaker's engines remained
damped, but time resumed its normal pace. At last we
could see clearly again.

Sara was holding Emerson tightly, while the little
chimp, Prity, hugged them both. Ur-ronn was huddled
next to Huck and Pincer, while Huphu and Mudfoot
clung with eight sets of claws to my tingling shoulders.

We all looked around, amazed to be able to do so.

The screens flickered back on, showing that we were
still inside the tangled, twisted guts of the t-point . . .
only we weren't in contact with a thread anymore!
There seemed to be a fair-sized bubble of true space
surrounding Streaker.

And not only Streaker. On all sides of us, arrayed in
long neat rows, were ranks of other starships! Most of
them much larger. All apparently waiting in still silence
for something to happen.

Belatedly, the Niss hologram finally popped back into
existence among us. Its mesh of fine lines looked tense,
- anxious.

"I see just one common feature among all these ves-
sels, "it said. "Every one of them bears the Sign of Unity.
The symbol consisting of two line segments, joining at
one hundred and four degrees. The Emblem of Tran-
scendence."

Now, looking at the white glow, we could tell that it
was somehow sorting through the vessels that it
plucked up from the travel threads. Some—a majority—
were conveyed around its shimmering globe and set
back on their way. These vanished swiftly, as if eager to
make good their escape to other galaxies.

But every hundredth or so vessel was pulled aside.
The white glow seemed to examine each of these
closely, then brought most of them over to join our pha-
lanx of selected . . .

Selected what? Prisoners? Samples? Candidates? Hors
d'oeuvres?

270   David Brill

To our relief, that last notion was disproved when we
saw a nearby starship abruptly pulse with soft fire, un-
dergoing a reversal of its earlier transformation. In mo-
ments, the two-legged symbol had changed back into a
nest of concentric circles. At once that vessel began slip-
ping out of formation, wobbling as it jetted toward the
flow of departing refugees.

"Chickening out," diagnosed Huck, as always charita-
ble in her evaluation of others. The same thing hap-
pened several more, times, as we watched. But the white
glow kept adding new members to our ranks.

Emerson d'Anite began fiddling with the long-range
display, and soon grunted, pointing to his discovery—
that our bubble of local spacetime wasn't the only one!
There were at least a dozen other assembly areas, and
perhaps a lot more. Some of them contained spiky,
fractal-shaped spacecraft, like those nearby. Others
seemed filled with blobby yellow shapes, vaguely
spherical, that sometimes merged or separated like balls
of grease.

"Zang, " identified Emerson, clearly proud to be able
to name the lumpy objects aloud, as if that single word
helped clarify our confusion.

"Um . . . ," Sage Sara asked. "Does anyone have
any idea what we're doing here? Have I missed some-
thing? Have we just been mistaken as members of the
transcendent order of life?"

Lieutenant Tsh't tossed her great, bottle-nosed head.

"That-t would be q-quite a promotion," she com-
mented, sardonically.

"Indeed," added the Niss. "Most oxygen-breathing
species strive/or many hundreds of thousands of years
—engaging in commerce, Uplift, warcraft, and starfar-
ing—before at last they feel the call, seeking a tame star
near which to wallow in the Embrace of Tides. Having
joined the Retired Order, a species then may pass an-
other million years until they feel ready for the next
step."

Ur-ronn made'a suggestion.

"Should we consult the Livrary Vranch you have
avoard this shif?"

Heaven's Reicli  271

The whirling Niss shivered.

"The Galactic Library does not contain much infor-
mation about the Retired Order, since our elders often
say that such matters are none of our business.

"As for what happens beyond retirement . . . well,
now we are talking about realms of religion. Most of the
great cults of the Five Galaxies have to do with this issue
—what it means for a race to transcend. Many believe
the Progenitors were first to pass this way, bidding all
others to follow when they can. But-—"

"But that doesn't answer Sara's question," finished
Gillian Baskin. "Why have we been plucked out to join
this assembly? I wonder if—"

She stopped, noticing that the mute former engineer,
Emerson d'Anite, was gesturing for attention again. He
kept tapping his own nose, then alternately pointing
forward, toward the window separating the Plotting
Room from Streaker's bridge. For a few moments, ev-
eryone seemed perplexed. Then Tsh't made a squeal of
realization.

"The nose of the sh-ship! Remember how a faction of
Old Ones and machines reworked our hull, giving us
our strange new armor? What if they also changed the
WOM watcher on our bow? None of us has had a good
look since it happened. Maybe the symbol is not a rayed
ssssspiral anymore! Maybe it'ssss . . ."

She didn't finish. We all got her drift. Perhaps Streaker
now wore an emblem identifying its inhabitants as
something we're definitely not.

Others seemed to find this plausible ... though no
one could imagine why our benefactors would want to
do such a thing. Or what the consequences might be,
when we're found out.

Toward the front of the crowd, I watched Gillian Bas-
kin's face and realized she wasn't buying that theory.
The woman obviously had another idea in mind. Per-
haps a different explanation of why we were here.

I was probably the only one close enough to overhear
the one word she spoke then, under her breath, in a
tone I took to be resigned sadness.

272   David Bfin

I'm writing the word down now, even though I have
no idea what it means.
Here was all she said.
"Herbie . . ."

So, that's how we wound up parting company.

It looks as if Streaker may have found sanctuary after
all ... of a sort. At least the Jophur battleship is no
longer in sight, though who knows if it might show up
again. Anyway, Dr. Baskin has decided not to fight this
turn of destiny's wheel, but instead to ride it for a while

and see where it may lead.

But we Wuphonites won't be going along. We're to
climb aboard an old Thennanin star boat—which still
has the rayed spiral symbol on its prow—and have Kaa
pilot us to safety in Galaxy Two. It'll be hard, especially
having to latch on to a rapid transfer thread from stand-
still in this weird space bubble. And that will be just the
beginning of our difficulties as we try to find a backwa-
ter port where no one would much notice us slipping
into the Civilization of Five Galaxies.

Once there, if Ifni's dice roll right, we'll endeavor to
act as Gillian's messengers, deliver her vital information,
and then maybe see about finding something to do with

the rest of our lives.

Like Huck, I have mixed feelings about all this. But

what else can we do, except try?

Tsh't has finished loading all our supplies in the hold.
Kaa is in the dolphin-shaped pilot's saddle, thrashing his
flukes and eager to be off. We've all received hugs and
good-luck wishes from those we're leaving behind.

"Make Jijo proud," Sage Sara told us. I wish she was
coming along, so we'd have her wisdom, and so our
group would have a representative from all Six Races of
the Slope. But if anyone from our little hidden world
ought to go see what transcendent creatures are like,
and have a chance of understanding, it's her. Things are

the way they are, I guess.

Tyug, the traeki alchemist, is venting sweet steam.
The aroma soothes our fears and qualms at parting. I

Heaven's (leach  273

guess if a traeki can be serene about entering a universe
filled with Jophur, I should be open-minded about
meeting long-lost cousin hoons—distant relatives
who've spent all their lives with the power and comforts
of star gods, but who've never read Conrad, Ellison, or
Twain. Poor things.

"We need to name this thing," Pincer-Tip insists,
banging the metal floor of the boat with his claw.
Ur-ronn nods her sleek urrish head.
"Of course, there can ve only one that fits."
I agree with a low umble. So we turn to Huck, whose
eyestalks shrug, conveying some of the unaccustomed
burden of responsibility she now carries.

"Let it be Wuphon's Dream," she assents, making it
unanimous.

Gillian Baskin waits by the hatch for me to hand over
the copy disk from my autoscribe. So I must now finish
dictating this entry—as unpolished and abrupt as it is.

If this is where my story ends, dear reader, it means
Streaker somehow made it, and we didn't. I have no
complaints or regrets. Just remember us, if it pleases you
to do so.

Thanks, Dr. Baskin. Thanks for the adventure and ev-
erything.

Good luck.

And good-bye.

H

any

SOMETHING WAS TERRIBLY FAMILIAR ABOUT
this region of E Space, ever since he first stared
across the prairie of twisted, fuzzy growths toward
narrow spires that climbed to meet a vast, over-
hanging plane. The back of Harry's neck kept
tickling unpleasantly—the way a neo-chimpanzee expe-
riences deja vu.

Now he regarded the same scene from another vertig-

274   Oaviil Brifl

inous angle, as his scout vessel clung to a gigantic sheer
cliff amid a blurry haze. Innumerable reddish blotchy
patterns repeated symmetrically across the smooth verti-
cal surface, like footprints left by an army of splayfooted
monsters.

"Well," he commented, his voice scratchy with sur-
prise. "I never did this before. Who'd've thought the
rules here would let a big machine climb straight up,
like a spider on a w—"

Harry stopped. Realization left him mute as his jaw
opened and closed.

It can't be!

He stared at the cliffs repetitious markings, then the
distant spires, nearly lost in shrouding mist. A mental
shift of scale made it all clear.

I . . . would've sussed it earlier, but for the blurry
vision in this crazy place.

He felt cosmically stupid. Harry moaned aloud.

"By Cheetah's beard an' Tarzan's hernia . . . it's a
room. A room in somebody's goddam house!"

Awareness lent focus to his tardy perception.

The prairie of fuzzy growths?

Carpet!

The tall, narrow spires?

Furniture legs. And that huge flat plane I fell from
before must be a table.

The blotchy pattern on this "cliff was probably wall-
paper, or some tasteless counterpart. From this close, he
had no clue if the motif was Earthling or alien.

This zone ofE Space has so few visitors, it was proba-
bly in a raw, unmanifested state when I dropped in. The
whole megillah may have coalesced around some image
from my own subconscious mind!

He had been thinking about the station format,
equipped with long legs from his last mission, compar-
ing it to a spider. Perhaps that thought helped precipi-
tate this eerily personal subcosmos.

Unless I'm actually dreaming it all, and my body's
really lying in crumpled delirium somewhere, smashed
under tons of debris where the station fell, an instant
after I arrived.

Heaven's React)  275

Either way, it showed just why most sophonts thought
this part of E Space especially dangerous.

Perhaps this was how insects saw things inside a
house—everything a blur. Harry wondered if there were
pictures on the walls, a bowl of fruit on the table, and a
humongous kitten purring on some sofa, just across the
way.

Maybe it was better not to know, or force E Space to
reify too much.

Just one thing spoiled the impression of a quaint, gi-
gantic drawing room—the Avenue—a slender, sinuous
tube of radiance that emerged from the misty distance,
wound its way across the floor, then pierced the wall
below Harry's vantage point. A place called Reality,
dominated by matter and rigid physical laws.

"I sense vibrations approaching," the station an-
nounced. "From the point of connection-rupture."

In other words, from the mouse hole where the Ave-
nue plunged toward another zone of E Space. Three
interlopers had taken that route before, leaving distinct
traces. A small vessel squeezed through first, about a
year ago . . . followed by a pursuer who carelessly
blasted a wider path. Both left spoor signs of oxy-life. A
third, more recent craft, shed mixed clues before enter-
ing the narrow route.

Now something was coming the other way.

Harry checked the station's weaponry console and
found several panels lit up ... meaning they were
able to function here, though in what fashion remained
to be seen.

"Let's see if we can try that other trick again," he mur-
mured.

Taking manual control, he sealed the station's reality
anchor to the adjacent wall with an audible "thunk."
Then, nervously, he detached each clinging foot from
the wall, until his vessel dangled high above the ground.
"Lower away!" he said, causing the cord to stretch, halt-
ing just two ship lengths above where carpet met wall.
The Avenue lay just a little to his left.

Whatever's coming out . . . it can't be much bigger
than this station. And most starships that visit E Space

276  David Brin

aren't well designed/or it. I've got advantages, includ-
ing surprise.

It seemed logical. Harry almost had himself con-
vinced.

But logic was a fickle friend, even back in his home
universe. In E Space, it was just one of many games you
could play with symbols and ideas.

One of many ways to fool yourself.

"Here it comes!" announced pilot mode, as something
began nosing out of the dark tunnel.

It looked pathetic—absurdly long and barely narrow
enough to fit through the tunnel. The intruder com-
prised a chain of hinged segments carried on stiff, ar-
ticulated legs. It scuttled out of the dark passageway
rapidly, then swerved aside, crouching along the wall as
tremors ran from section to section. Watching from
above, Harry's impression was of something wounded
and frightened, cowering as it tried to catch its breath.

He did not have to engage observer mode to know at
once, this entity was a machine. Its rigid formality of
movement was a dead giveaway. More significant was
the fact that it did not changevery easily. Upon entering
a new region of E Space, any other kind of life-form
would already have flexed and throbbed through some
sort of transition, adjusting its self-conception, its gestalt,
to suit the new environment.

In this realm, believing often made things so.

Yet, by their very natures, machines were supreme
manifestations of applied physical law. Consistency was
a source of their power, back in Reality. But here it had
crippling effects. Faced with an imperative need to ad-
just its form, a machine could only do so by carefully
evaluating the new circumstances, coming up with a
design, then implementing each change according to a
plan.

Zooming in with a handheld telescope, Harry saw the
mech's body swarm with smaller motile objects—repair
and maintenance drones—laboring frantically to alter its
shape and function by cutting, moving, and reattaching

Heaven's Aeach  277

hunks of real matter. In the process, bits and pieces kept
falling off, crumbling or dissolving into big strands of
carpet. Harry's atom sensor showed a veritable cloud of
particles billowing outward . . . debris that would start
attracting scavenging memes before long.

Clearly, this thing had once been a spacefaring de-
vice, a dweller in deep vacuum and darkness. It was
amazing the machine could adapt to this environment at
all.

A sensor flashed anomaly readings. Some of the pol-
lution consisted of oxygen, nitrogen, and complex or-
ganic compounds—telltale signs of quite another order
of life.

Wait a minute.

Harry had already been suspicious. Now he felt sure.

This was the third entity he had been tracking.

"Must've bumped into something it disagreed with,"
he surmised. "Something scary enough to make it run
away."

Pilot mode soon confirmed this.

"I am detecting more bogeys, approaching the rup-
ture boundary from the other side, folloiving this one at
a rapid pace."

Harry narrowed down the source of the abnormal gas
emissions to a sealed swelling near the middle of the
caterpillar-shaped machine. A habitat. A container for
atmosphere and other life-support needs. Some glassy
shimmers might be windows, though the interior was
too dim to see anything.

Clearly the machine knew time was short. Recon-
figuration work accelerated, but little drones broke
down from the frantic pace, overheating and tumbling
to the carpet, which began waving toward the commo-
tion, showing unnerving signs of animate hunger. At-
oms were rare in E Space, and did not last long. Many
simple meme creatures found bits of matter useful as
trace nutrients, lending a bit of reality to living abstrac-
tions.

"Thirty auras until arrival of the newcomers, " con-
firmed pilot mode.

Though its work was unfinished, the caterpillar-

278  OH'ld Drift

machine decided there was no more time to spare, and
began hurrying away next to the glowing Avenue.

I wonder why it doesn't try a dive back into normal
space by jumping into the Avenue. Sure, it might emerge
almost anywhere, and need centuries to find its way to
a decent hyperspatial shunt, but don't machines have
plenty of time?

He could think of several possibilities.

Perhaps it's too badly damaged to survive reentry.

Or maybe its organic cargo can't afford to spend cen-
turies drifting through space.

The awkward machine suffered dire problems. Metal-
hinged legs began freezing in place, or snapping and
falling off. Harry pictured a wounded animal, struggling
on with its last strength.

He turned to watch for the pursuers. A burst of light
heralded their emergence, shining from the tunnel. Car-
pet strands quailed in response. Then the first creature
appeared.

Harry's impression was of an armored earthworm,
with a glistening head consisting of shiny plates. A beast
of dark holes and airless depths. But this quickly
changed. In a speedy metamorphosis, the entity ad-
justed to this different realm. Eyelike organs sprouted
above, while pseudopods erupted below, until it stood
gracefully atop myriad delicate tendrils, like a millipede.

Or megapede, Harry decided.

Only one kind of creature could adjust so quickly in
E Space. One that was native to it. A sophisticated
meme-carnivore. An idea—perhaps the very idea—of
. predation.

As the first one transmuted to fit the ad hoc rules of a
gigantic parlor room, several more crowded from be-
hind, members of a hunting pack, eager for a final dash
after their helpless prey.

It's none of my business, Harry thought, pulling anx-
iously on both thumbs. My first duty is to collect
Wer'Q'quinn's instruments. My second is to track and
deter interlopers . . . but the memes will take care of
this one by themselves.

But Harry's indecision was stoked by a sudden mem-

Memn's fleacli   279

ory of the last time he had listened to the Skiano mis-
sionary preach its strange creed from a makeshift pulpit,
beneath a slowly turning hologram of crucified Earth.
With both light and sound, the evangelist sermonized
that each sapient individual should look to the deliver-
ance of his or her own soul.

"Although our sect has burst only recently upon the
boulevards and byways of the Five Galaxies, we are
already seen as a threat by the old faiths. They try to
limit our message through regulations and legal harass-
ment, using unscrupulous means to undermine our em-
issaries. Above all, they claim that we teach selfishness.

"If the Abdicators, Awaiters, Transcenders, and other
traditions agree on one thing, it is that salvation must be
achieved by species and clans, perfecting themselves to
follow our blessed Progenitors into the Embrace of
Tides. Each generation should work selflessly to help
their heirs move farther, step by step. How terrible,
then, if individuals, in their trillions and quadrillions,
start thinking of themselves! What if redemption could
be achieved by each thinking being, through faith in a
God who is above and beyond all known levels of uni-
versal reality?

"What if the Embrace of Tides might be bypassed, by
achieving a heavenly afterlife, described in the sacred
works of Terra? Would everyone then cease trying for
racial progress? Abandoning posterity in favor of spiri-
tual rewards now?"

The Skiano's lower set of eyes had flashed. "There is
an answer. The answer of Buddo, Moshe, Jesu, and
other great prophets who taught during Earth's era of
glorious loneliness. Their answer—our answer—is that
salvation's greatest tool has always been compassion."

Even days later, Harry's thoughts still roiled around
the incredible, many-sided incongruity of the Skiano's
message.

Chewing his lip, he turned to address the floating P
symbol.

"How many hunters are there?"

"The memoids number five," answered pilot mode.
"Two are now fully transformed and have resumed pur-

280  David Brin

suing the mech interloper. Two are still shifting. One
remains inside the tunnel, awaiting its turn."

He saw a pair of meme-carnivores accelerating across
the pseudocarpet, each propelled by a million rippling
tendrils, rapidly overtaking the decrepit machine. Two
more finished transforming while Harry paced, wishing
he had never attended the Skiano's revival meeting.

In fact, he could not be sure what motivated his deci-
sion to act. Compassion might have been part of it. But
Harry preferred blaming it on something else.

Curiosity.

777 never find out what the clumsy-fool machine is
carrying, if it gets gobbled up by a bunch of ravenous

opinions.

The fifth memoid emerged and began its metamor-
phosis.

Harry let out a cry of resolution and punched a but-
ton, releasing the reality anchor, causing the station to
plummet straight down with all eight legs deployed like
claws.

His first opponent fell easiest.

A memoid is defenseless during transition, while
reformatting its conceptual framework for a new envi-
ronment. "Paraphrasing itself into another idiom," as
Wer'Q'quinn had explained during Harry's training.
During that time, its self-assured cohesion wavered,
making it vulnerable to external points of view.

This one reacted quickly when the plummeting sta-
tion pierced its spine in several places, injecting some
critical notions.

INTERRUPTION

HESITATION

DOUBT

In E Space, an idea can hold together without a brain
to think it. But only if the proposition is strong enough
to believe in itself. To such a self-sustaining concept,
uncertainty was worse than a toxin, especially if inserted

Heaven's Reach  281

at the right place and time. Unable to cope, this com-
plex meme faltered and quickly dissolved, allowing its
component propositions to be gobbled up by the sur-
rounding carpet. That left Harry free to amble quickly
after its peers.

Be like a spider, he thought, preparing the weapon
console for action. His advantages were now stealth and
speed . . . plus the fact that this entire subdomain of
E Space must have coalesced a while ago around some
seed-image from his own mind—probably a childhood
memory of somebody's Brobdingnagian parlor.

Approaching the next two memes rapidly from be-
hind, he chose to snare them with an entanglement ray.
It seemed ideal for attack in E Space, shooting finely
woven arrays of syllogisms—logical arguments col-
lected from digests of the Great Galactic Library going
back over a billion years.

Well, here goes nothing.

Harry aimed and fired.

The weapon was contingent, meaning that its appear-
ance and form varied depending on local conditions. In
other zones of E Space, he had seen it lash out beams of
caustic light, or discharge glowing disproofs like fiery
cannonballs. Here, streams of distilled argument seemed
to spiral out from the station like webs of sticky silk,
flying over and beyond the next pair of memic carni-
vores.

One of them stumbled instantly, snarling its abundant
legs in viscous cords of ancient persuasion, tangling its
torso amid strands of quarrelsome reasoning, rolling to a
jumbled ball, then rapidly dissipating into vapor.

Its partner was luckier. While cornered by surround-
ing webs, the predator managed to stop just in time.
Wherever a line of caustic contention did make contact,
burning its flanks, rebuttals flowed from the wound like
fervent antibodies.

The creature turned its metaphorical gaze, and pro-
ceeded to spit poison. Gobbets flew toward the station
—presumably cogent explanations meant to convince
Harry's vessel not to exist anymore. He might have tried
shooting them down, or swatting them, or even endur-

282   Oavid Brin

ing the assault. But Harry had already chosen another
tactic. Taking advantage of his knowledge about the lo-
cal zone, he made the station flex all eight legs, then
leap, soaring above the acrid missiles and beyond, over
the pair of trapped allaphors.

For several long seconds he flew, watching a sea of
carpet pass below ... so high that he began worrying
about the descent, especially when his path seemed
headed dangerously close to the glowing Avenue.

I'm not ready for reentry here/The odds of surviving
a random collision were not good.

Fortunately, by making the station writhe to one side,
he managed to just miss the shining tube. But landing
came unbalanced and hard. Harry flew against the near-
est bulkhead, taking a painful blow to his right shoul-
der. Worse, the cabin filled with sounds of something
shattering. An alarm blared. Red lights flashed.

Wincing, he scrambled back to the control panel,
where he learned that two legs had snapped in the fall
and a third was badly twisted. His trusty vehicle limped
badly as it stood to meet new challenges.

Still, Harry felt aflame with adrenaline, baring his
teeth and loosing a savage, chimpanzee snarl. .

Three down. Two to go, he thought, hopefully.

Unfortunately, the next fight wouldn't be as easy.

One of the remaining predators could be seen just
ahead, already pouncing on its hapless prey, tearing
metal pieces off the giant machine, dismembering it
with happy abandon. The other memoid turned to face
Harry. Alert and fully prepared, its form had fully ad-
justed to this realm, and now resembled just the sort of
feral insectoid you'd most hate to find crawling under
the furniture—something many-clawed and stingered.
He got an impression of savage joy, as if the adversary
facing him was the essence of combativeness.

Dribbles of foamy disputation frothed at the me-
moid's mouth, then flew toward Harry.

Leaping out of the way was impossible this time, so
he tried to dodge' left, then right. But despite desperate
zigzagging, one of the blobs struck his forward window
pane, spreading to coat it with a glimmering slime.

Heaven's Reach  283

Harry averted his gaze, but not before waves of ap-
prehension flooded.

What the hell am I doing here? I could be safe in bed.
If I stayed on Earth, I might've had the company of lov-
ers, friends, instead of coming all this way to die. . . .

Regret caused bitter pangs, even though he knew the
source was an alien assault. Fortunately, the emotion
was diffuse, generalized. The memoid didn't know what
kind of creature he was, so its thought-poisons weren't
specific. Not yet. Alas, predators at this level of sophisti-
cation had remarkable sensitivity, adapting quickly to
their victims' weaknesses.

Harry didn't plan on giving it the chance. He triggered
another entanglement ray, and once more his station
flung webs of gooey argument. This time, however, his
target agilely evaded the trap—perhaps by assuming
some unique and unrelated axioms. The few strands
that touched just slid off, unable to impeach exotic pos-
tulates. Only briefly inconvenienced, the memoid flexed
its back and charged—flowing toward Harry so fast he
could never hope to retreat.

Its maw gaped, but instead of teeth there gleamed
rows of pointy, spiraled screws, turning rapidly as the
creature rushed to attack. The sight was fearsome and
unnerving.

It's gonna board me!

Harry reached for the weapons console, stabbing a
button labeled DISTRACTION FLARES. They had saved his hide
on other missions, creating dazzling displays of confus-
ing data, like floating clouds of chaff, enabling his es-
cape from even bigger monsters.

Only this time the effect was disappointing. Clouds of
mist erupted before the charging predator, but it barely
slowed.

When in doubt, get physical, he thought, activating
the minigun. Vibrations rattled as high-velocity bullets
launched toward the attacker, who reared back, bel-
lowing and clawing at the air. But hope soon crashed as
Harry realized the impacts weren't doing harm. Rather,
the creature seemed to snatch and grab at the projec-
tiles, incorporating the material into its information-

284   Bavid Bfin

based matrix! The rotating screws changed color, from a
simulated pastel blue to a dark, metallic gray.

Harry shut the gun down, cursing. He had just im-
proved the enemy's chances of getting at him.

The station barely shuddered when the memoid
struck, clambering on top for a close embrace. A com-
plex rarefied idea had little weight or momentum. But
ideas could wear at you, and this one did so pointedly,
chomping with those spinning drill bits, tearing through
the vessel's hull.

Harry tried other buttons and levers, but nothing
worked. Each weapon was dead, or else reformatted in
some way the adaptable memoid shrugged off.

In E Space, an object made solely of atoms could not
stand for long against living ideas.

Several dimples appeared in the walls . . . which
then burst inward as whirling conical blades drilled
through. Moments later, the screws began changing
shape, taking form as little creatures. Mites, Hairy
thought, knowing that even little insects and spiders had
parasites. The predator had figured out an excellent
trick, using the logic of this subrealm against Harry.

He stabbed a final button, meant for desperate situa-
tions like this one.

Instantly, the control room filled with holographic im-
ages, a crowd of milling beings, mimicking various
kinds of oxy-, hydro-, and machine life. A few slithered.
Others walked, or rolled, or stomped, resembling some
pangalactic, cross-temporal, omnireality cocktail party.

A dozen or so mitelike invaders spread out, seeking
the station's conceptual core—Harry himself. The nasty
little things flashed horrid pincers, while sniffing
through a crowd of imitation sophonts. One of them
chose an ersatz Zang to attack, hurling itself at a floating
yellow blob that shivered when struck. At once, the ho-
logram collapsed inward around the mite, enveloping it
in a crushing layer of antimemes. The resulting implo-
sion finished with a burst of light, followed by a thin
trail of dust falling to the deck.

They contain some real matter, Harry realized. These
things are freaking dangerous!

Heaven's Reach  285

If one bit him, it might not just assail his mind. It
could also chew away at his real body.

Two more times, invaders got suckered into attacking
wrong targets, and were destroyed. But Harry could tell
they were growing more cautious. Gradually, the mites
learned to ignore hydro- and machine forms, and began
zeroing in toward his type of oxy-based organism.

I've got to act first. But how? What can I do to fight my
way out of this mess?

If he ever made it back to base, he'd have suggestions
for the crews who maintained the weapons systems. But
for now, Harry saw just one hope ... to shake the
parent memoid off, breaking its control over the mites.
That would also leave holes in the station's hull. But one
problem at a time;

He didn't dare take up manual controls which would
give him away. So instead he called up pilot mode.

"Yes, Herman?" the floating P answered.

"Don't hover close to me!" Harry whispered through
gritted teeth. "Keep your damn distance and listen up. I
want you to send the station jiggling and swerving
about . . . random action ... try to shake the Ifni-
cursed alien off our hull!"

"That would violate safety parameters."

"Override!" Harry growled, "Emergency protocols.
Do it now!"

The scout platform began moving. Though hampered
by two broken legs, it was not much burdened by the
big memoid, whose total real mass was probably only a
few hundred grams, even after eating Harry's bullets.
The limp even helped a bit, getting a swaying motion
started as the station began shifting left, right, forward,
and then spinning around, commencing a drunkard's
walk across the carpeted landscape.

Despite its low inertial mass, the big memoid clearly
did not like this. After all, movement was a form of in-
formation. Harry heard faint mewling sounds as it
scrambled for a better grip, holding on to keep contact
with its mites.

Unfortunately, the zigzagging also affected Harry,
pushing him to and fro. The holograms automatically

286  David Brin

emulated his movements, but he knew this would give
him away soon.

Through one window, he caught a blurry glimpse of
the metallic machine entity, the big interloper he had
followed earlier, who had no business coming to a
realm where thinking made things so.

It had already been dismembered, carved into several
'chunks by the last predator, which was now working its
way toward the habitat bulge—

A rolling motion yanked Harry from that dolorous
scene, throwing him against another window. The one
still coated with tincture-of-regret.

Ob, I regret, all right.

I regret not coming here armed with some real memic
weapons! True wolfling brain poisons. Sick-sweet ideas
that hypnotized millions, fixating them on just one view
of reality, making flexible minds as rigid as stone.

Harry felt sure of it. Even these local predators—lithe
and supple in abstraction space—would turn concep-
tually brittle if exposed to the seductive reasonings of
Plato or Marx or Ayn Rand . . . Freud or Aquinas . . .
Goebbels or Hub—

The station braked with a shuddering jar, splitting
Harry's thought and sending him slamming against a
storage cabinet. He turned frantically in time to see sev-
eral of the mites also come flying—propelled by their
real-mass components. Two of them collided with ho-
lograms and were instantly destroyed.

But two others survived to smack the wall near Harry.
As he gathered his balance, he could sense their regard
swiveling his way.

Uh-oh.

They had him cornered, with his back against the
lockers. As the station resumed its wild movements, the
mites approached from two sides across the bucking
deck, snapping jaws and waving scorpionlike tails.

Harry tried clearing his mind. Supposedly, if you prac-
ticed mental discipline, you could make your intellect
impervious to toxic notions.

Unfortunately, beings who were that disciplined
made lousy E Space observers. He had been recruited

Heaven's Reach  287

for his credulous imagination—a trait these parasites
would use to demolish him.

"Uh . . . could I maybe interest you guys in enter-
taining an idea or two?" He spoke quickly, breathlessly.
"How about—this sentence is a lie!"

Their reaction, a snapping of pincers, seemed
amused.

"Well then . . . how do you know you exist?"

Total contempt.

Shucks, it worked in some old tellie shows.

Of course, sophisticated memes would dismiss such
cliches like flint-tipped arrows bouncing off armor. But
what about a concept they might not have met before?

"Uh, has anyone ever told you about something
called compassion? Some think it's the surest route to
salv—"

The mites prepared to spring.

The station swerved again as the autopilot threw an-
other gyration.

Suddenly, a radiant glow Hooded the window oppo-
site Harry, filling the control room with torrents of star-
light.

Harry sighed.

"Well I'll be a monk—"

Before he could complete the phrase, several things
happened at Once.

Both parasites leaped.

The big meme predator clinging to the outer hull
screeched dismay.

His wildly gyrating station collided with the Avenue, a
glancing blow, with the big memoid pressed between,
giving it a taste of the Reality Continuum.

Tormented ululations filled Harry's brain as the
predator burst asunder, spilling its complex conceptual
framework in explosive agony.

Deprived of its parent, one of the mites shattered just
before reaching his throat. But the other held cohesion
long enough to strike him from behind.

It was Harry's turn to scream. He howled as some-
thing fluxed into his body. Pain yanked away all rational
thought, piercing his buttocks and spine, then coursing

288  David Brin

along his outer flesh like searing fire. Meanwhile, deep
within, qualms and uncertainties began attacking every
belief, every assumption he had ever held dear.

Suns and galaxies loomed around Harry as the station
leaned into the Avenue, pushing against the membrane
separation, threatening to trigger a reentry transition.
Machinery wailed, joining his bellow of despair.
All the memes and holograms had vanished. Air
leaked out of the station through a dozen small holes.
But he hardly noticed. Teetering between one realm of
living ideas and another of harsh, universal rules, Harry
fought to hold on to something. His essence. His sense

of inner being.
Himself.

,wasx

•THIS IS NOT THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE HIDING

I places.
|   Then why did we/I choose it, my rings?

I   Out of all the twisty crannies that make up the
I great battleship, why did we take shelter in this
chamber of glass-sealed walls and bubbling incubation

cells?

Because it is "home"? The place where we began?

Our second torus of cognition refutes this with a re-
minder that most of our component rings had their ori-
gins elsewhere—in pungent mulch pits filled with
delicious rotting vegetation, at a crude settlement called

Far Wet Sanctuary, on lonely Jijo.

It is true. Only three present members of our shared
stack started here, aboard the Polkjby, in this sterile
nursery, where infant rings are nurtured to perfection
with computer-controlled drips of synthetic nutrients.
But they are three of our most important parts, yes?

• Our muscular torus-of-movement, with agile
legs.

Heaven's (leach  289

• Our donut-of-smells, making us recognizable
to the Jophur crew.

• And, of course, your Master Ring, most

precious of all. The essential (Me) ingredient,
needed to transform modestly diffuse traeki
into gloriously focused Jophur.

Is that not reason for nostalgia? Enough to call this
darkened chamber home? (Though it appears to have
suffered damage recently, and been repaired with hasty
patching.)

Yes, go ahead. You may stroke the wax of memory.
Recall the way things used to be on Jijo, before the
change. Recollect how we/I learned to understand alien
forms of parenthood, from close association with five
other races.

During our prior incarnation, as the beloved traeki
sage, Asx, we/I used to hold qheuen grubs and g'Kek
larvae in our gentle tentacles, as well as hoon and hu-
man babies, rocking them, or spilling sweet aromatic
mist-lullabies, crafted to bring happy dreams.

These recollections are preserved, not melted by our
violent transformation into Ewasx. And yet, I am con-
fused.

What point are you trying to make, my rings?
That we should be jealous?

That no ring stack—traeki or Jophur—can ever know
a parent's love?

We are piled up from parts. Assembled. Made, like
some machine. Perhaps that is why other races hate/
envy us so.

What? you say there is no such hatred on Jijo? Ah, but
consider the price you colonists paid for likability! To
live in brute ignorance. Worse yet, afflicted to remain
placid traeki, almost inert with lack of ambition. Won't
you admit, at last, that life was never this vivid when
you comprised poor compliant Asx?

You will? You •will? you'll concede that much?

Well, then. Perhaps we are making progress.

WHAT? WHAT'S THAT?

290  David Brin

You would have Me, the Master Torus, confess some-
thing in return?
You wish me to admit that we have lately also seen

some drawbacks—some disadvantages—to the mono-
maniacal way Jophur behave.

No, you needn't stroke recent wax, or replay those
horrid events we observed before fleeing the control
room. Foul-tempered, aggrieved and violent, the actions
of our leaders were hardly inspiring. They don't exhibit

great progress toward enlightenment.

But what choice is there? We of Polkjby must pursue
the dolphin-crewed ship! Its secrets may shed light on a
time of changes, now convulsing the Five Galaxies. If
Earthlings truly did find Progenitor Relics in a shallow
globular cluster, what might that say about the way Ga-
lactic Civilization has been run for a billion years? Could
it imply that our entire religious-and-genetic hierarchy is

upside down?

WHAT IS THAT YOU SAY?
Our second ring of cognition asks—so what?

• so what if ancient beliefs about the
Progenitors prove wrong!

• so what if we were lied to about the Embrace

of Tides!

• so what if some other clan manages to seize

Streaker, and read its information first! Why
should any sensible sapient get into a grease-
lather over matters so obscure and trivial?

I ... hesitate to answer.

The question seems so jarringly incomprehensi-
ble . . . like asking why we breathe oxygen, or metab-
olize food, or procreate, or express loyalty to kindred
and posterity! It disturbs Me gravely that you/we could

even raise such doubts!

PERHAPS I/WE SHOULD NOT HAVE FLED THE

CONTROL ROOM, AFTER ALL.

Heaven's Reach  291

(Seeking sanctuary in this dim/familiar hiding place.)

Indeed, our shared core roils with mad, provocative
thoughts, questioning central Jophur beliefs. Moreover,
since becoming a fugitive, I no longer seem to have the
Masterful force of will that once let me squelch such
' ponderings.

PERHAPS IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER TO LET
THE FOLLOWERS OF THE HIGH PRIEST DISASSEMBLE
US/ME FOR SPARE PARTS.

That might have been My greatest service to Polkjby,
and to the great Jophur clan as a whole.

The chief advantage of this refuge is that ship sensors
will be unable to detect our body traces, masked by row
after row of transparent growth cabinets, filled with ju-
venile rings of all types. Of course, there are robot
nurses here, tending the young. These slave-drones
would report me, but only if someone on the bridge
asks. Unless or until a specific enquiry is made, I/we can
probably remain safe here, emitting authority pher-
omones, giving the machines orders, pretending to be in
charge of the caretaking facility.

There is another danger. At random intervals, various
Jophur ring piles come to the door demanding spare
parts.

Mostly, these are soldiers. Tall, formidable warrior
stacks, bearing wounds and horrid stains from their
ongoing struggle to expel Zang invaders from the battle-
ship. That infestation currently blights a third of
Polkjhy's decks and zones. Some recent progress has
been made against it, but our fighters show the cost,
seeking replacements for rings damaged in close com-
bat with the hydrogen breathers.

Fortunately, none of their caste seems inclined to
question our/My presence here . . . and we mostly
stay out of sight.

Yes, my rings. It is only a matter of time till we/I are
caught. Soon we will face disassembly. I wonder if they
will bother salvaging any of our toruses or waxy mem-
ory beads for use elsewhere.

292   David Blin

Probably not.

During long, idle moments, we/I linger before vision-
odor displays, captivated by events that have enveloped

Polkjhy since our captain-leader was killed.

Do you recall, my rings, how our great ship swooped
through the twisted bowels of the transfer point, follow-
ing the Earthship so closely, and with such skill, that

they could never get away?

From the Research Department, crew-stacks reported
progress understanding the Streaker's strange protective
layer—the coating that prevented our rays from stop-
ping the dolphins earlier. That veneer seemed to offer
invincibility, but according to our onboard Library we
learn the technique was abandoned by most Galactics
long ago! The tactic is quite easily defeated, once an
opponent knows how. Only surprise made it effective

back at the Fractal World.

The librarians promised a recommended countermea-

sure, shortly.

Meanwhile, the transfer nexus grew crowded with

refugee ships, not only from the dissolved retirement
community behind us, but from hundreds of others!
Each emigrant vessel decided among three choices—to
remain in Galaxy Four and seek room in some other
cloistered shelter, or else to change life orders. To go
back to the starfaring Civilization of Five Galaxies , . .
or possibly forge deeper into the Embrace of Tides. It
was enthralling, and a great honor, to watch so many
exalted Old Ones make this fateful judgment, though it
did not affect our tenacious pursuit of the Earthlings.
That was when we encountered the narrower.

A thing of legend.

A rare phenomenon of destiny.

A cloud of light that sorted through the agitated,

thronging vessels. Choosing some. Sending others along
their assigned ways.

DO YOU RECALL OUR SURPRISE, MY RINGS, WHEN
THE HARROWER PLUCKED UP THE EARTHL1NG SHIP,

Heaven's Reacli  293

AND GENTLY PLACED IT AMONG THOSE AIMED FOR
TRANSCENDENCE?

Stunned amazement filled Polkjhy's halls and chambers.
Who could have imagined this would happen? Dolphins
are the youngest licensed sapient race in the Civilization
of Five Galaxies. Whether by trickery or merit, this was
the last thing any sane entity would expect!

At that point, our new captain-leader gave in to the
inevitable. Commands were given. Polkjhy must give up
the chase!

Instead, we would aim for Galaxy One, toward a
Jophur base, to be cleansed of infesting Zang, and to
report all we had learned. Even without the Earthship in
our grasp, we would be able to tell its fate, and that data
should be valuable.

Moreover, there is Jijo, an excellent consolation prize!
When we reveal its location to the home clan, that little
sooner world will make an ideal outpost for genetic ex-
perimentation/exploitation. A source of wealth for the
race. Final destruction of the g'Kek, alone, would make
our travails worthwhile.

Perhaps the clan would be so joyful over those
achievements that allowance would be made for this
crude, hybrid stack—for this Ewasx—if we/I manage to
avoid capture-disassembly till then.

Thus the crew rejoiced, despite apparent failure of
our central mission. Although the Streaker had escaped,
it seemed to be no fault of our own. We had accom-
plished more than any other ship in known space. Now
we could go home.

Only then the truly unexpected happened.

Do you recall, my rings? Or is the wax-of-surprise still
too fresh and runny for true-memory to congeal?

We faced our own turn before the Harrower, expect-
ing to be conveyed routinely, like so many others, on a
swift path toward Galaxy One.

Strange light filled the ship, and we/I felt scrutinized.

294 David inn

Some of our/My rings—former parts of Asx—compared
it to communing with Jijo's wonder stone, the Holy Egg.

Then, to our/My/everyone's amazement, Polkjhy was
lifted off the transfer thread and placed amid a row of
the elect! The chosen! Those whose emblems marked
them for great honor and enlightenment, far down amid
the Embrace of Tides.

Thus we learned the wondrous glory of our new hon-
ored state . . . and the pain yet to be endured.

What no one could explain, from our senior priest-
stack on down to the lowest warrior, was why?

Why were we chosen for this honor?

One we never sought.

One that brings no gladness to any Jophur stack
aboard this noble ship.

I/we stand corrected.

ONE STACK EXPERIENCES GLADNESS.

Some of the cognition rings left over from Asx rejoice
at the news!

They think this means Polkjhy may never report on
Jijo. The weird, miscegenist society of sooner races
might yet be left in peace, if this battleship never makes
it home.

Is that what you hope/believe, my rings?

I would discipline you now, with jolts of loving pain,
to drive such disloyalty out of our common core, ex-
cept—

Except that now the Harrower appears to have fin-
ished its task! The armadas it collected in pockets of
coiled space have begun moving at last ... in rows,
columns, regiments ... all pouring along special
transfer threads that glow hot with friction.

Vibrations and sudden swerves shake Polkjhy so
powerfully that swaying motions penetrate even our
mighty stabilizing fields.

And now, as if none of that were enough, the sequence
of upsetting surprises continues.

Heaven's Reich  295
•    •    •

Robots continue tending the incubators, wherein juve-
nile rings of many shapes, attributes, and colors thrive
on distilled nutrients, growing into components to make
new Jophur stacks.

Soldiers keep coming for repairs, seeking to replace
damaged walker-rings, sword-manipulators, chem-synth
toruses, and even mortally wounded Master Rings.
Clearly, the battle against the Zang rages on with deadly
fury.

Meanwhile, on monitors, I/we watch Polkjhy emerge
in some far star system, part of an orderly swarm of
transcendence candidates—ranging from conventional-
looking starships and spiky fractal shapes all the way to
quivering blobs that appear horridly Zangish before our
appalled gaze!

For several jaduras, this bizarre armada uses B-Level
hyperspatial jumps 1.0 cross a gap of several paktaars,
skirting around a vast glowing nebula in order to reach
the next transfer point. Finally, the convoy dives into
this nexus and another thread-ride commences, swoop-
ing along multidimensional flaw boundaries where
space itself condensed long ago from the raw essence of
an expanding universe.

While all this activity continues, we/I remain in a dim
corner of the nursery chamber, hiding from our/My own
crewmates . . . until the unexpected once again forces
its way into our shock-numbed consciousness.

We stare at a new interloper.

A recent arrival, standing before our disbelieving
senses. '

The strangest being that I/we/I have ever seen.

It came just moments ago, arriving via an unconven-
tional route—by supply tube—conveyed to the nursery
in a slender car designed for transporting raw materials
and samples, not sapient beings!

Crawling out before we could react, it unfolded long
limbs, revealing a shape with proportions like a Homo

T

296  David Bfin

sapiens. Indeed, the head protruding atop looked com-
pletely human. And familiar.

I/we stared, did we not, my rings? Several of our cog-
nition-memory toruses exclaimed, releasing recognition
vapors and causing words to vent from our shared ora-
tion peak.

"Lark! Is ... it ... really . . . you?"
Indeed, the face cracked open with that unique hu-
man-style smile. When it/he spoke, the voice was as we
knew him from olden days, on Jijo.

"Greetings, reverend Asx ... or shall I say Ewasx?"
While several of our components wrangled over an
appropriate reply, others stared at the transformed body
below the neckline. Lark's bipedal stance was similar,
striding on stiff, articulated bones. Only now translucent
film enveloped his flesh, ballooning outward like pro-
foundly baggy garments, billowing and throbbing with a
sick, semiliquid rhythm that sent quivers of nausea
down our/My central core. An especially large bulge
distended from his back, like a tumor, or a great burden
he showed no sign of resenting.

Our chem-synth rings detected several awful stinks,
such as methane, cyanogen, and hydrogen sulfide gas.

Sure stench-signs of Zang!
Surprise made our reply somewhat disjointed, to say

the least.

"I/we . . . cannot say what . . . name . . . would

best apply to this stack ... at this time. Voting com-
mences/continues on that point. . . . And yet ... it
can be said in truth that certain parts of us/Me/I/we
recognize certain . . . parts ... of you/You. ..."

Our shared voice trailed off. Neither Anglic nor GalSix
seemed well suited to convey appropriate/accurate
levels  of astonishment.  Emotional  pheromones
vented . . . and to our surprise, the "Lark/Zang" entity

answered in kind!

Molecular messages puffed from his new outer skin,

triggering instant comprehension by our/My pore recep-

Neiven's Reach  297

MUTUAL RECOGNITION

AMICABLE INTENT

WILLINGNESS TO FIND RESOLUTION

Seeking the source of these scent messages, our/My
sensors now locate a toroidal-shaped bulge, situated
near Lark's chest.

Purple colored.

A traeki ring, incorporated in the group entity across
from us!

At once, we/I recognize one of the small rings Asx
secretly created, without knowledge of the Ewasx Mas-
ter, to help Lark and his human companion escape
bondage several jaduras ago.

Stroking memory wax from that time, I/we now real-
ize/recall—there had been a second cryptic ring.

"I left the other one here," Lark explains, as if reading
My/our thoughts. "It was wounded. Ling hid it in this
nursery, to get care and feeding. That's one reason I
came back. My new associates want to find the little red
ring. They want to know its purpose."

He does not have to explain his "associates." A
Jophur instinctively knows—as most unitary beings do
not—that it is possible to blend and mix and match dis-
parate components to make a new composite being. In
this case, the chimera is an amalgam of human, traeki,
and Zang ... a terrifying union, but somehow credi-
ble.

"You . . . wish to have our/My help recovering the
red ring?" I ask.

Lark nods.

"Its powers may bring peace to this vast vessel. . . ."

He pauses for a moment, as if communing with him-
self, then goes on.

"But there is something else. The price I demanded
for cooperating in this mission.
"We're going to rescue Ling."

H

arry

[OICES ENCROACHED ON HIS LATEST NIGHT-
mare, pushing past a delirium of jibbering voices

and scraping agonies.

"I think he's coming around, " someone said.
Harry thrashed, shaking his head from left to

right.

For what seemed an eternity, his mind had felt

stripped, laid bare to E Space, fertile ground for coloni-
zation by parasitic memes—intricate, self-sustaining
symbolic entities unlike anything conceived on Earth,
invading to expropriate his incoherent dreams. Even
now, as something like consciousness began to dawn,
eerie shapes still thronged and cackled, more bizarre

than anything born in an organic mind.

Somehow—perhaps by force of will, or else plain ob-
stinacy—he pushed most of them aside, clawing his way

toward wakefulness.

"Are you sure we oughta let him get up?" asked an-
other, higher-pitched voice. "Look at those teeth he's

got. He could be dangerous!"

The first speaker seemed calmer, though with a touch

of uncertainty.

"Come on. You've seen chimps before. They're our

friends. We couldn't be luckier, after everything we've

been through."

"You call this a chimp?" the other rejoined. "I never

spent as much time around 'em as you have, or read as
many books, but I bet no chimp ever looked like this!"
That comment, more than anything, spurred Harry to
fight harder against the clinging drowsiness.

Heaven's Reach  299

What's wrong with the way I look? I'll match my face
against a hairless ape's, any day!

Of course the voices were human. He recognized the
twangy overtones, despite a strange accent.

How did humans get into E Space?

Painful brightness stabbed, the first time he tried
cracking his eyelids. A groan escaped Harry's lips as he
raised a heavy forearm over his eyes.

"J__"

His throat felt parched. Almost too scratchy to speak.
"I could use . . . some water."

Their reaction surprised him. The higher voice
squawked.

"It talks! You see? It can't be a chimp. Clobber it!"
Harry's eyes flew open, this time to a world of glare
and blurry shadows. Struggling upward, he sensed a
pair of nearby figures backing away quickly. Young hu-
mans, he perceived—male and female—filthy and di-
sheveled.

"Hey!" he croaked. "What d'you mean I can't be a—"
Harry stopped suddenly, unable to move further or
speak. He could only stare at the arm in front of him.
His own arm . . . covered with sparse fur.
Glossy white fur.

His hair was the color of frost on a windowsill during
winter mornings on Horst.

Harry's chest pounded. Worse, a sharp pain stabbed
his spine, just above the buttocks, like a numbed hand
or foot coming back to life.

"watch out," the young female cried. "It's gettin' up!"

Fighting panic, Harry scrambled to his feet, clutching
at his body, checking it for wounds, for missing parts.
To his great relief, all the important bits seemed still
attached. But his eyes roved wildly, out of control, seek-
ing to find out what else was wrong.

White fur . . . white fur . . . I . . . I can live with
that . . . assuming  it's  the  only  thing  that's
changed. . . .

One of the humans reentered his fear-limned field of
vision. The male, wearing tattered rags, with several
weeks' stubble on his chin. Mixed up by anxiety and

300 iivid Bdn

confusion, Harry could only snarl reflexively and back

away.

"Hey there," the youth said in soothing tones. "Take it

easy, mister. You asked for water. I've got some, in this

here canteen."
There was an object in his hand. It looked like a dirty

gourd or pumpkin, stoppered with a cylinder of wood.
What is this, Harry thought. Some sortajoke? Or more

E Space mind garbage?

Still retreating across the deck of his battered scout

station, he glimpsed through a window that the scenery
outside had changed. The vast plain of fuzzy carpet was
now yellow, instead of beige, and the mist had grown
thicker, obscuring everything except a nearby mound of
metal rubble, smoldering as it slowly dissolved into the
surrounding greedy strands. He wanted to ask what had
happened, how long he had been out, where these hu-
mans had come from, and how they had gotten inside
his ship. Perhaps he owed them his life. But caught in a
flux of near hysteria, it was all he could do right now to

keep from screeching at them.

White fur . . . but that's not all. Something else is

wrong! Those mites did more to me than that, I know it!

Now both humans were in clear view. The female—
not much more than a girl—had a nasty scar down one
side of her face. She gripped a crowbar, brandishing it
like a weapon. The boy held her back, though he too
was clearly dismayed and confused by Harry's appear-
ance.

"We're not gonna hurt you," he said. "You saved us

from the monsters. We came over and patched your hull
for you. Look, my name is Dwer and this is Rety. We're
humans . . . Earthlings. Can you tell us who—and

what—you are?"

Harry wanted to scream. To ask if they were blind!

Shouldn't patrons know their own clients? Even with

white fur, a ct\imp was still—

He felt a sudden tickle behind him. Of course the
bulkhead was back there and he could back up no far-
ther. But the sensation came just an instant too soon, in

Heaven's Reacli  301

too strange a fashion, as if the wall was brushing an
extension of his spine.
My spine.

That was where—the last thing he recalled—a little
predatory memoid had attacked and chewed its way
into his flesh, filling his mind-body with waves of tur-
moil and disorientation.

"I mean . . . you look like you might be some sort of
a relative," the youth went on, babbling nervously. "And
you spoke Anglic just now, so maybe ..."

Harry wasn't listening.. Nervously, with a rising sense
of dread, he groped around behind himself with his left
hand, brushing the bulkhead, then moving downward.

Something started rising up to meet the hand. He
sensed it clearly. Something that was part of himself.

A snakelike tendril, covered with hair, planted itself
assuredly into his palm. It felt as natural as scratching his
own ass, or pulling on his thumb.

Oh, he thought, with some relief. It's just my damned
tail.

His mouth went round.

Breath froze in his throat . . . then whistled out with
a long, mournful sigh.

The two humans edged away nervously as the sigh
underwent a metamorphosis, transmuting like some ea-
ger meme with a mind all its own, turning into coarse,
hysterical laughter.

The effect, when he finally got around to examining his
reflection calmly, wasn't half as bad as he had feared. In
fact, the white fur seemed rather—well—charismatic.

As for his new appendage, Harry was already re-
signed to it.

Surely it must have uses, he thought. Though I'm not
looking forward to the tailoring bills.

Things could have been much worse, of course. The
memoid parasite that invaded his body had been dying,
moments after its parent exploded from brief contact
with Material Reality. With a final gasp, it must have
latched on to some random thought in Harry's mind,

302   David Brin

using that to force a quick shift in self-image. In E Space,
the way you pictured yourself could sometimes have
dramatic effects on who and what you became.

One thing was certain—he could never go to Earth
looking like this. To be called a "monkey" would be the

last insufferable humiliation.

When I joined the Navigation Institute, I figured it

meant I'd probably live the rest of my life apart from my
kind. Now I belong to Wer'Q'quinn more than ever.

At his command, the station was now striding along-
side the great, shining Avenue, limping at maximum
safe speed, retracing its earlier path to pick up the in-
strument packages and finish this assignment before

anything else went wrong.

One good thing about Wer'Q'quinn. The old squid
will hardly notice any difference in my looks. All he
cares about is getting the job done.

That left him with one more problem.

The young humans.

Apparently, Rety- and Dwer had been the "organic
cargo" carried by the hapless machine entity. Their little
habitat was about to be attacked and torn open by a
ravenous meme-raptor when Harry arrived. From their
point of view, he was like the proverbial cavalry. A
knight from some storybook, galloping to the rescue just

in the nick of time.

They later returned the favor, after the final memoid
fled the scene, bloated on stolen atoms. After talking the
dying mech into using its last resources to build an air-
lock bridge, they boarded Harry's station, saving him
from asphyxiation while he sprawled on the deck,

stunned and unconscious.

The mech then expired, contributing its mass as tem-
porary fertilizer to this matter-parched desert.

"We never could figure out where we were, or why it
took us here," Dwer explained, while wolfing down a
triple helping of Harry's rations. "The machine never
spoke, though it seemed to understand when I talked in

GalTwo."

Harry watched the boy, fascinated by Dwer's mixture

of the savage and gentleman. He never denied being a

Beam's lleicb 303

sooner—descended from criminal colonists who had
abandoned technology over two centuries ago. Yet, he
could read half a dozen Galactic languages, and clearly
grasped some implications of his situation.

"When the mech took us aboard, near the red giant
star, we thought we'd had it. The scrolls say machines
that live in deep space can be dangerous, and some-
times enemies to our kind of life. But this one made a
shelter for us, improved our air, and fixed the recycler. It
even asked us where we wanted to go!"

"I thought you said it never spoke," Harry pointed
out.

Rety, the teenager with the scarred cheek, shook her
head.

"One of its drones came aboard with a piece of metal
that had words scratched on. I dunno why it used that
way to talk, since we had a little tutor unit that could've
spoken to it. But at least the robot seemed to understand
when we answered."

"And what did you say?"

Both humans replied at the same time.

Dwer: "I asked it to take us home."

Rety: "I told it to bring us to the most important guys
around!"

They looked at each other, a smoldering argument
continuing in their eyes.

Harry pondered for a long moment, before finally
nodding with understanding.

"Those sound like incompatible commands. To you
or me, it would call for making a choice between two
options, or negotiating a compromise. But I doubt that's
what a machine would do. My best guess is that it tried
to combine and optimize both imperatives at the same
time. Of course its definition of terms might be quite
different from what you had in mind at the time."

The young humans looked confused, so he shook his
head.

"All I can tell for sure is that you were definitely not
heading back toward your sooner colony when I found
your trail."

304  David Brin

Rety nodded with satisfaction. "Ha!"
"Nor were you aimed at Earth, or a base of the Great

Institutes, or any of the mighty powers of the Five Gal-
axies."

"Then where—"

"In fact, the mech was taking you—at lethal risk to

itself—into dimensions and domains so obscure they
are hardly named. It seemed to be following the cold

trail of two—"

A warning chime interrupted Harry. The signal that

another of Wer'Q'quinn's little camera packages lay just

ahead.

"Excuse me awhile, will you?" he asked the humans,

who seemed to understand that he had a job to do. In
fact, even Rety now treated him with respect that
seemed a little exaggerated, coming from a member of

Harry's patron race.

He got busy, using the station's manipulators to re-
cover the final probe, then spraying it with a special
solvent to make sure no memic microbes clung to the
casing, before stowing it away. Nearby, the Avenue
gleamed with starlight. The realm of material beings and
reliable physical laws lay just a few meters away, but
Harry had no intention of diving through. His chosen
route home was more roundabout, but also probably

much safer.
While finishing the task, he glanced back at Dwer and

Rety, the two castaways he had saved , . . and who in
turn had rescued him. They were fellow descendants of
Earthclan, and humans were officially Uplift-masters to
the neo-chimp race. But legally he owed them nothing.
In fact, as an official of one of the Great Institutes, it was
his duty to arrest any sooners he came across.

And yet, what good would that accomplish? He
doubted they knew enough astrodynamics to be able to
tell anyone where their hidden colony world lay, so
nothing could be gained by interrogating them. From
what they had said so far, their settlement was highly
unusual, a peaceful blending of half a dozen species
that were mostly at each other's throats back in civiliza-
tion. It might be newsworthy, in normal times. But right

Heaven's Reach  305

now, with all five galaxies in a state of uproar and navi-
gation lanes falling apart, they seemed likely to fall be-
tween the cracks of bureaucracy, at Kazzkark Base.

Anyway, Harry was surprised to learn how pleasur-
able it was to hear voices speaking native wolfling dia-
lects. Though a loner most of his life, he felt strangely
buoyed to have humans around, who were very nearly
his own kind.

The camera slipped into its casing with a satisfying
clank. Checking his clipboard, Harry felt a glow of satis-
faction. The last one. 1 know some other scouts were
betting against my ever returning, let alone achieving
success. I can't wait to rub their noses—and beaks and
snouts and other proboscides—in it!

With a heavy limp, his battered station turned away
from the Avenue at last, heading toward a cluster of
slender towers that he now knew to be legs of several
huge, metaphorical chairs and a giant table. His best
route home.

I wonder how long this zone will stay coalesced
around my viewpoint seed. Will it melt back into chaos
when I'm gone? Or is that a symptom of what
Wer'Q'quinn keeps warning me against—an inflated
notion of my own self-importance?

In fact, Harry knew he wasn't the first material out-
sider to pass through this zone in recent times. Before
he came, and before the hapless mech, two other space-
craft had passed through—one chasing another.

Could all of this—he looked around at the vast furni-
ture and other chachkis of an emblematic parlor—have
already taken shape before I arrived? I sure don't con-
sciously recall ever being in a room like it before, even
as a child. Maybe one of those vessels that preceded me
provided the seed image.

It bothered him that he still had no idea why the
mech had brought Dwer and Rety here.

Combining two request-commands. Taking the hu-
mans "home," and bringing them to "the most impor-
tant guys around."

He shook his head, unable to make sense of it.

One thing, though. I know the Skiano missionary is

306  David Irin

gonna plotz when he sees the three of us Earthlings—
two actual living humans and a transformed, chimp—
striding along the boulevards of Kazzkark. It oughta

make a sensation!
A table leg loomed just ahead, the one Harry hoped

to ascend back toward his chosen portal, assuming it
remained where gut instinct told him it must. . . . And
if the station was still capable of climbing. And if ...
Pilot mode popped into space nearby, a cursive P

rotating in midair.

"Yes?" Harry nodded.
"I am afraid I must report movement, detected to the

symbolic left of our present beading. Large memoid enti-
ties, approaching our position rapidly!"

Harry groaned. He did not want another encounter

with the local order of life.

"Can we speed up any?"

"At some modest increased risk, yes. By twenty per-
cent. "

"Then please do so."

The station began moving faster . . . and the limp
seemed to grow more jarring with each passing step.
Harry glanced at Rety and Dwer, who as usual were
bickering in a manner that reminded him of some mar-
ried couples he had known—inseparable, and never in
accord. He decided not to tell them quite yet. Let 'em
think the danger's over, for a while longer at least.

Stationing himself near a portside window, Harry

peered through the murk.

We only need a few more minutes. Come on, you

memoid bastards. Leave us alone just that long!

Harry's back itched, and he started reaching around
with a hand to scratch it ... but stopped when the job
was handled more conveniently by his new appendage.
His tail, lithely curling up to rub and massage the very
spot. At once, it felt both natural and surprising, each
time it moved to his conscious or unconscious will.

He caught the two young humans staring at him.

Dwer at least had the decency to blush.

Eat yer hearts out, Harry thought, and used the tail to

Heaven's Reach  307

smooth his pelt of sleek, ivory fur. Poor humans. Stuck
with those bare skins . . . and bare butts.

Then he had no more time for whimsy.

Out there amid the haze, he spied movement. Several
dark gray entities. Huge ones, far larger than the
megapedes he had fought before. Through the mist,
these looked sleek and rounded, nosing along the vast
carpet like a herd of great elephants.

Then Harry realized. That was the wrong metaphor.
As they drew nearer, he recognized their rapid, darting
motions, their earlike projections and twitching noses.

Mice . . . goddamn giant mice! Ifni, that's all I
need.

He felt a shiver of dismay as he realized—they had
spotted the station.

To the pilot mode, he gave an urgent, spoken com-
mand. "Increase speed! We've got to climb the leg be-
fore they reach us!"

Amber and red lights erupted across the control board
as the jarring pace accelerated. A great woodlike pillar
loomed before them, but Harry also sensed the memes
scurrying faster in pursuit. Self-sustaining conceptual
forms far more sophisticated and carnivorous than any
he had seen. It was going to be tight. Very tight indeed.

God. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

I

MM

CANDIDATES OF
TRANSCENDENCE

OUR UNIVERSE of [inked siarlanes

——we Five Oalaxies—consists of countless
hierarchies. Some species are ancient/
experienced in the ways of wisdom and
power. Others have just begun treading
the paths of self-awareness. /\nd there
are innumerable levels in between.

inL.JL, are not conditions in which
nature would produce fairness. There
would be no justice for the weak/ unless
some code moderated the raw impulses of
pure might.

VyJTH this aim/ we inherit from the
Oreat Progenitors many traditions and
regulations/ formalizing the relationships
between patrons and their clients/ or
between colonists and the nonsapient
creatures that inhabit lire-worlds.
Sometimes these rules seem so complex and
arbitrary that it taxes our patience. We
lose sight of what it is all about. Kecently/
a savant 01 the lerran starfaring clan——(a

oni'n/—suggested tnat tne matter be viewed quite simply/ in
ns ot respect lor the iood chain.

NOTHb.K barthling sage-—(a human}—-put it even more
ply/ expressing what he called the AAeta Oolden Rule.

[\L/\1 your inieriors as you would have your superiors treat

from the Journal
o( Oillian Basldn

| WISH TOM COULD HAVE BEEN HERE. HE WOULD
| love this.

The mystery.

The terrifying splendor.

Standing alone in my dim office, I look out through
a narrow pane at the shimmering expanse of raw yiem
surrounding Streaker—the basic stuff of our continuum,
the elementary ingredient from which all the varied lay-
ers of hyperspace condensed, underpinning what we
call the "vacuum."

The sight is spine-tingling. Indescribably beautiful.
And yet my thoughts keep racing. They cannot settle
down to appreciate the view.

My heart's sole wish is that Tom were sharing it with
me right now. I can almost feel his arm around my
waist, and the warm breath of his voice, urging me to
look past all the gritty details, the worries, the persisting
dangers and heartaches that plague us.

'Wo one said it would be safe or easy, going into
space. Or, for that matter, rising from primal muck to

312  David Brin

face the heavens. We may be clever apes, my love—rash
wolflings to the end. Yet, something in us bears a call.
"We must nish forth to see."

Of course, he would be right to say all that. I've been
privileged to witness so many marvels. And yet, I an-
swer his ghost voice the way a busy mother might chide
a husband so wrapped up in philosophy that he ne-
glects life's messy chores.

Oh, Tom. Even when surrounded by a million won-
ders, someone has to worry about the details,

Here aboard this frail dugout canoe, that someone

is me.

Days pass, and Streaker is still immersed in this remark-
able fleet. A vast armada of moving receptacles—I hesi-
tate to call the spiky, planet-sized things "ships"—
sweeps along, sometimes blazing through A- or B-Level
hyperspace, or else turning to plunge down the throat
of yet another transfer point ... an immense crowd of
jostling behemoths, racing along cosmic thread paths
that correspond to no chart or reference in our archives.

Should I be surprised by that? How many times have I
heard other sapient beings—from Soro and Pila to Syn-
thians and Kanten—preach awe toward the majestic
breadth and acumen of the Galactic Library, whose
records encompass countless worlds and more than a
billion years, ever since it was first established by the
legendary Progenitors, so long ago.

We younger races feel the Library must be all-know-
ing. Only rarely does someone mention its great limita-
tion.

The Library serves only the Civilization of Five Galax-
ies. The ancient culture of oxygen-breathing starfarers
that we Earthlings joined three centuries ago.

To poor little. Earthclan, that seemed more than
enough! So complex and overpowering is that society—
with its mysterious traditions, competing alliances, and

leaven's leach  313

revered Institutes—that one can hardly begin to contem-
plate what else lies beyond.

But more does lie beyond. At least seven other orders
of life, thriving in parallel to our own. Orders that have
wildly different needs and ambitions, as well as their
own distinct kinds of wisdom.

Even the ever-curious Tymbrimi advised us to avoid
contact with these ultimate strangers, explaining that it's
just too confusing, unprofitable, and dangerous to be
worth the trouble.

To which I can only say—from recent experience—
amen.

Of course, it's common knowledge that the oldest oxy-
gen-breathing races eventually die or "move on." As
with individuals, no species lasts forever. The cycle of
Uplift, which stands at the core of Galactic society, is all
about replenishment and renewal. Pass on the gift of
sapiency, as it was passed to you.

Being new to this game, ignorant and desperately
poor, with our own chimp and dolphin clients to care
for, we humans focused on the opening moves, study-
ing the rules so we might act as responsible patrons, and
perhaps avoid the fate that usually befalls wolflings.

Beginnings are important.

Yet, each alliance and clan also speaks reverently of
those who came before them. Those who, like vener-
ated great-grandparents, finished their nurturing tasks,
then turned their attention to other things, maturing to
new heights and new horizons.

After we fled treachery at Oakka World, I decided not
to trust the corrupted Institutes anymore and to seek
advice instead from some of those learned, detached
elders we had heard about. Beings who had abandoned
starfaring for a more contemplative life in the Retired
Order, cloistered near the fringes of a dim red star.

Events at the Fractal World soon taught us a lesson.
Aloofness does not mean impartiality. The so-called Re-
tired Order is, in fact, only a vestibule for oxy-races that
can no longer bear the rigors of flat spacetime. Though

314   David Brill

they huddle like hermits in a gravity well, trying to per-
fect their racial souls, that doesn't necessarily make
them tolerant or wise. After our travails with the Old
Ones, I was willing to head back into the Five Galaxies,
and risk contact with oxy-civilization once more.

Only now we find ourselves, against all logic or rea-
son, adopted willy-nilly into the Transcendent Order!

At least that is what the symbol on our prow seems to
mean. Somebody, or something, planted a single wide
chevron there—perhaps as a very bad joke.

An emblem signifying high spiritual attainments, plus
readiness to abandon all temporal concerns.

In effect, it says—Hey! Look at us. We're all set for

godbood!
Sheesh, what a situation. I feel like a street kid with a

stolen tuxedo and fake ID, who somehow managed to
bluff her way into the Nobel Prize ceremony, and now
finds herself sitting next to the podium, scheduled to

give a speech!

All this street kid wants right now is a chance to slink
away •without being noticed, before the grown-ups
catch on and really give us hell.

Getting away won't be easy. A kind of momentum field
rings this huge flotilla, carrying us along helplessly amid
the horde of giant transports. Moreover, our navigation
systems are haywire. We've no idea where we are, let

alone where to go.

At one point, during an especially smooth transit
through B Space, Akeakemai reported that the sur-
rounding field seemed weak. I had him nudge Streaker
to the edge of the swarm, hoping to slip out during one
of the cyclical jumps back to normal space. But as we
prepared to break free, Olelo thrashed her flukes with a
whistle warning. We were being scanned by hostile

beams, cast from an enemy ship!

Soon we spied the Jophur dreadnought, working its

way through the throng of giant arks.

Once, the battlewagon had seemed omnipotent. Now
it looked small compared to the surrounding behe-

^            Heaven's leacn  315

moths. Stains marred its once shiny hull in places where
the skin seemed to throb, like infected blisters. Still, the
crew of egotistic sap-rings had great power and determi-
nation to pursue Streaker. They would pounce when-
ever we left the convoy's safety.

We fell back amid the titans, biding our time.

Perhaps whatever ills afflict the Jophur will eventually
overcome them.

The universe may produce another miracle.

Who knows?

Perhaps we will transcend.

The Niss Machine plumbed our stolen Library unit, re-
searching data about the strange layer covering
Streaker's hull, both shielding her and weighing her
down. It began as a thick coat of star soot, amassed in
the atmosphere of a smoldering carbon sun. Later, some
mysterious faction transformed the blanket—benefi-
cently, or with some arcane goal in mind—creating a
shimmering jacket that saved our lives.

"It is a form of armor, "the Niss explained. "Offering
tremendous protection against directed energy weapons
—as we learned dramatically at the Fractal World.
Trawling for records, I found that the method was used
extensively on warships until approximately two hun-
dred million years ago, when a fatal flaw was discov-
ered, rendering it obsolete."

"What flaw?" I asked. Naturally, something so conve-
nient must have an Achilles' heel.

The Niss explained. "Much of the soot pouring out
from Izmunuti consists of molecules you Earthlings call
fullerenes—or buckeyballs—open mesh spheres and
tubes consisting of sixty or more carbon atoms. These
have industrial uses, especially if gathered into sheets or
interlocking chains. That's why robot harvesters visited
Izmunuti, acquiring material in their futile effort to re-
pair the Fractal World."

"We already knew the stuff was strong," I answered.
"Since Suessi had such trouble removing it. But that's a
far cry from resisting Class-Eight disintegrator beams!"

316  David Brin

The Niss explained that it took special reprocessing to
convert that raw deposit into another form. One with
just the right guest atoms held captive inside buckeyball
enclosures. "Atoms of strange matter, "the disembodied

voice said.

I confess I did not understand at first. It seems that

certain elements can be made from ingredients other
than the normal run of protons, electrons, and neutrons,
utilizing unusual varieties of quarks. Such atoms must
be kept caged, or they tend to vanish from normal
space, hopping off to D Level, or another subcontinuum

where they feel more at home.

It felt weird to picture Streaker sheathed in such stuff.
Then again, I guess it would be weirder to be dead.
I well remember expecting to be vaporized when
those fierce beams struck. But our surprising new armor
absorbed all that energy, shunting every erg to another
reality plane, dissipating it harmlessly.
"Sounds like a neat trick," I commented.
"Indeed, Dr. Baskin," the Niss answered, with a sar-
donic edge. "But a few hundred aeons ago, someone
discovered how to render this fine defense useless by
reversing, the flow. By turning this wondrous material
into a huge antenna, absorbing energy from hyperspace
—in effect cooking the crew and everything else inside."

So, that was why no one in the Five Galaxies had
been stupid or desperate enough to use this kind of
armor for a long time. It worked at first, because the
Jophur were taken by surprise. But they have their own
Branch Library aboard the Polkjhy, every bit as good as
ours. By now they must surely have caught on, and

prepared for our next encounter.

Somehow, we've got to get rid of this stuff!

I assigned Hannes Suessi to puzzle over that problem.
Meanwhile, my plate is full of other troubles.
For one thing, the glavers howl, night and day.
Before leaving aboard Kaa's little boat, Alvin Hauph-
Wayuo instructed us in the care and feeding of those
devolved descendants of mighty starfarers. There wasn't

Heaven's Reach  317

much to it. Feed them simulated grubs and clean their
pen every few days. The glavers seemed stolid and easy
to please. But no sooner did Kaa depart, taking Alvin
and his friends to safety, than the filthy little creatures
started moaning and carrying on.

I asked our only remaining Jijo native what it could
mean, but the behavior mystifies Sara. So I can only
guess it has^omething to do with the changing compo-
sition of the huge migration fleet surrounding us.

As we move across vast reaches of space and hyper-
space, more globulelike vessels keep joining the throng,
jostling side by side with jagged-edged arks of the for-
mer Retired Order. Zang . . . plus other varieties of
hydrogen breathers . . . now make up roughly two-
thirds of the armada, though their vessels are generally
much smaller than the monumental oxy-craft.

Our glavers must be sensing the Zang presence some-
how. It makes them agitated—though whether from fear
or anticipation is hard to tell.

They aren't the only ones feeling edgy. After leaving
so many crewmates behind on Jijo, Streaker seems
haunted and void ... a bit like a wraith ship. Mystery
surrounds us, and dangerous uncertainty lies ahead.

Yet, I can say without reservation that the dolphins
left aboard this battered ship are performing their tasks
admirably, with' complete professionalism and dedica-
tion. After three years of winnowing, we are down to
the last of Creideiki's selected crew. Those who seem
immune to reversion or mental intimidation. Tested in a
crucible of relentless hardship, they are pearls of Uplift
—treasures of their kind. Every one would get unlimited
breeding privileges, if we made it home.

Which doubles the irony, of course.

Not one of the fins believes we'll ever see Earth again.

As for Sara, she spends much of her time with the silent
little chimp, Prity, using a small computer to draw
hyperdimensional charts and complex spacetime matri-
ces.
When I asked the Niss Machine to explain what they

318 David Bnn

were doing, that sarcastic entity dismissed their project,
calling it—"Superstitious nonsense!"

In other words, Sara still hopes to complete the work
of her teacher, combining ancient Eaithling mathemati-
cal physics with the computational models of Galactic
science, trying to make sense out of the strange, fright-
ening disruptions we have -seen. Convulsions that ap-
pear to be unsettling a large fraction of the universe.

"I'm still missing some element or clue," she told me
this morning, expressing both frustration and the kind
of heady exhilaration that comes with intense labor in a

field you love.

"I wonder if it may have something to do with the

Embrace of Tides."
The Niss seems all too ready to dismiss Sara's efforts,

because they have no correlation in the Great Library.
But I've been impressed with her gumption and bril-
liance, even if she does seem to be bucking long odds.
All I can say is more power to her.

Always hovering near Sara—with a distant, longing
expression in his eyes—poor Emerson watches her ten-
tative models How across the holo display. Sometimes
he squints, as if trying to remember something that's just
on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps he yearns to help Sara.
Or to warn of something. Or else simply to express his

feelings toward her.

Their growing affection is lovely to behold—though I
cannot entirely deflect pangs of jealousy. I was never
able to return Emerson's infatuation, before his accident.
Yet he remains dear to me. It is only human to have
mixed feelings as his attention turns elsewhere. The
stark truth is that Sara now has the only virile male hu-
man within several megaparsecs. How could that not
make me feel more lonely than ever?

Yes, Tom. I sense you are still out there somewhere,
with Creideiki, prowling dark corners of the cosmos. I
can trace a faint echo of your essence, no doubt mak-
ing, and getting-into, astonishing varieties of trouble.
Stirring things up even more than they already were.
Assuming it isn't wishful thinking—or some grand

Hmen's deleft  319

self-deception on my part—don't you also feel my
thoughts right now, reaching out to you?

Can't you, or won't you, follow them?

I feel so lost . . . wherever "here" is.

Tom, please come and take me borne.

Ah, well. I'll edit out the self-pity later. At least I have
Herbie for company.

Good old Herb—the mummy standing in a corner of
my office, looking back at me right now with vacant
eyes. Humanoid but ineffably alien. Older than many
stars. An enigma that Tom bought with more than one
life. A treasure of incalculable value, whose image
launched a thousand Galactic clans and mighty alliances
into mortal panic, shattering their own laws, chasing
poor Streaker across the many-layered cosmos, trying to
seize our cargo before anyone else could wrap their
hands-claws-feelers-jaws around it.

My orders sound clear enough. Deliver Herbie—and
our other treasures—to the "proper authorities."

Once, I thought that meant the Great Library, or the
Migration Institute.

Sorely disappointed and betrayed by those "neutral"
establishments, we then gambled on the Old Ones—
and nearly lost everything.

Now?

Proper authorities.

I have no idea who in the universe that would be.

Till this moment, I've put off reporting my most dis-
turbing news. But there's no point in delaying any
longer.

Yesterday, I had to put a dear friend under arrest.

Tsh't, my second-in-command, so competent and reli-
able. The rock I relied on for so long.

It breaks my heart to dial up the brig monitor and see
her circling round and round, swimming without har-
ness in a sealed pool, locked behind a coded door plate.

But what else could I do?

320  David Brin

There was no other choice, once I uncovered her se-
cret double dealings.
How did this happen? How could I have been blind

to the warning signs? Like when those two Danik pris-
oners "committed suicide" a couple of months ago. I
should have investigated more closely. Put out feelers.
But I left the inquest to her, so involved was I with other

matters.

Finally, I could no longer ignore the evidence. Espe-
cially now that she helped another, far more dangerous

prisoner to esc—

I had to interrupt making that last journal entry, several
hours ago. (Not that I was enjoying the subject.)
Something intervened, yanking me away.
An important change in our state of affairs.
The Niss Machine broke in to say the momentum field
was collapsing.

The entire huge armada was slowing at last, dropping
from A Level down to B, and then C. Flickers into nor-
mal space were growing longer with each jump. Soon,
long-range sensors showed we were decelerating
toward a brittle blue pinpoint—apparently our final des-
tination.

Olelo's spectral scan revealed a white dwarf star, ex-
tremely compact, with a diameter less than a hundredth
that of Earth's home sun, consisting mainly of ash from
fusion fires that entered their last stage of burning aeons
ago. In fact, it is a very massive and old dwarf, whose
lingering furnace glow comes from gravitational com-
pression that may last another twenty billion years.

We began picking up nearby anomalies—spindly
dark objects rev61ving quite close to that dense relic
star. Massive structures, big enough to make out as
black shadows that sparkled or flashed, occulting the

Heaven's Reach  321

radiant disk whenever they passed through line of sight.
Which they did frequently. There were a lot of them,
jammed so close that each circuit took less than a min-
ute!

Soon we verified they were orbiting artifacts, jostling
deep inside the sheer gravity well.

Of course the concept was familiar, reminding me of
the Fractal World, crowding and shrouding its small red
sun—a contemplative sanctuary for retirees. Indeed, this
place bears a family resemblance to that vast habitat.
Only here the distance scales are a hundred times
smaller. Tremendous amounts of matter abide in that
curled well, crammed into a tight runnel of condensed
spacetime.

Whoever lives down there must not value elbow
room very much.

They belong to an order of life that craves a different
kind of dimensionality. A squeezing clasp that older
races interpret as loving salvation.

Joining others in the Plotting Room, I watched this new
variation on an old theme gradually loom before us.

"There are ssseveral billion white dwarves per gal-
axy," commented Akeakemai. "If even a small fraction
are inhabited like this, the p-population of transcendent
beings would be staggering. And none would've been
detectable from pre-Contact Earth!"

Sara held the hand of Emerson, whose eyes darted
among the surrounding vessels of our convoy, perhaps
fearing what they might do, now that we'd arrived. I
sympathized. We're all waiting for the other shoe to
drop.

Deceleration continued through normal space, as the
Niss Machine rematerialized to report. It had finished
researching the symbol on our prow—the broad chev-
ron representing our counterfeit membership in a higher
order of sapiency.

"Let me conjecture," I said, before the whirling ho-
logram could explain. "The emblem stands for a union
of the hydro- and oxy-life, coming together at last."

322   David Brin

One of my few remaining satisfactions comes from

surprising the smug machine.

"How . . . did you know?" it asked.
I shrugged—a blithe gesture, covering the fact that I

had guessed.

"Two line segments meeting at an angle of one hun-
dred and four degrees. That can only represent the
bonds of a water molecule. Hydrogen plus oxygen,
combining to make the fundamental ingredient of all life
chemistry. It's not so mysterious."
The spinning lines seemed to sway.
"Maybe for you, "the Niss replied. "Eartbling precon-
ceptions are not as fixed, perhaps. But to me this comes
as a shock. After all the warnings, the endlessly repeated
stories about how dangerous Zang are . . . bow illogi-
cal, touchy, and inscrutable they can be . . ."

I shrugged.

"Young boys call little girls names, and vice versa.
Often, they can't stand each others' company. At least,
till they grow up enough to need one another."

It was a facile analogy. And yet, the comparison made

sense!

I used to wonder about the oxy-hydro antagonism.

How, if they are so fundamentally different, so explo-
sively hostile and incompatible, did the Zang and their
brethren manage to keep peace with the Civilization of
Five Galaxies for so long? Why hasn't one side wiped
out the other, instead of grudgingly cooperating in com-
plex feats of migration and ecomanagement, sharing
spiral arms and space lanes with a relative minimum of

violence?

How, indeed? It seemed improbable.

That is, unless the whole thing was already worked
out at a higher level! A level where both life orders at
last matured enough to find common ground.

A consummation, with each side providing what the

other lacks.

So.

Here we are, at a place of fusion and consolidation.

Heaven's Reacli  323

A union forged amid strong gravity currents, deep
within the Embrace of Tides.

We seem to be invited.
That leaves just one question.
Why?

H

arry

E EXPECTED TO BE WELCOMED HOME WITH
congratulations, perhaps by Wer'Q'quinn himself,
or at least the old squid's senior aides, eager to re-
ceive Harry's data and hear about his successful
mission.

A damned difficult mission, if truth be told. An epic
voyage to one of the worst parts of E Space, where he
had prevailed against horrible odds, and even picked up
a couple of human-sooner castaways for good measure!

Anticipating acclaim, what he found at Kazzkark Base
was chaos.

All the north pole docking bays were full, except a few
set aside for official use. Approaching one of those,
Harry had to shout his priority code, adding threats until
a surly Migration Institute monitor-drone finally vacated
a slot reserved for Navlnst craft.

Beyond the starlit scaffolding, he glimpsed myriad
sleek refugee ships, tethered in layers from one end of
the planetoid to the other, creating a dense, confusing
snarl of shadowy forms and glinting strobe lights.

"Ain't it excitin', Dwer?" murmured the girl with the
scarred face—Rety—whose eyes gleamed at the sight.
"Didn't I promise ya? Stick with me an' I'll get you to
civilization! That's what I said. Good-bye smelly ol' Jijo,
and hello galaxy! We'll never be dirty, hungry, poor, or
bored again."

Harry exchanged a glance with the other human, the

324  David Brin

tall male. Both young savages were clearly out of their
depth. But unlike Rety, Dwer seemed to know it. His
eyes expressed worried awe at the view outside.

Kinda like the way I feel, Harry pondered. Starships
were packed together like shattered murwa trunks after
a bad windstorm on Horst. The disruptions must've got a
lot worse since I left . . . especially if folks are choosing
dumpy old Kazzkark as a place to run away to!

Magnetic grapples settled snugly around his battered
survey station, which at last powered down with a re-
lieved groan. Harry, too, exhaled the tension he had
carried in his spine ever since departure, sighing deeply.

Home again . . . such as it is.

Downloading Wer'Q'quinn's data to a portable wafer,
he turned and ushered his guests toward the airlock. In
normal times, returning from any other mission, this pair
would have stirred a sensation at the sleepy base. Hints
at a newly discovered sooner infestation would spread
quickly, and make the arresting officer famous.

Residual loyalty tugged at Harry. Humans were pa-
trons to his own race, after all. Ostensibly, he wasn't
supposed to care about that anymore. But habits were

hard to break.

Besides, Dwer and Rety saved my life.

The conflict left him feeling more ambivalent than tri-
umphant as they passed through a short tunnel into the

planetoid.

With everything in an uproar, maybe my report

about them will just be overlooked.
He decided he could live with that.

The Ingress Atrium was filled with noise and commo-
tion as a melange of races pushed and jostled, ignoring
the delicate rhythms and rituals of racial seniority and
interclan protocol as they pressed for admission, hoping
for sanctuary from an increasingly unreliable cosmos.
Harry's Institute credentials got him through several
gates, moving 'to the front of the queue with his two
humans in tow. Still, it took most of a midura to reach
the final portal labeled IMMIGRATION AND QUARANTINE. Along

Heaven's Reach  325

the way, he overheard some of the worry and panic
fluxing through the Civilization of Five Galaxies.

"—three out of four transfer points in Lalingush Sector
show dislocations, or catastrophic domain recom-
binations," hissed a tunictguppit trader in GalSeven,
exchanging gossip with a rotund p'ort'l whose chest-
mounted eye blinked furiously.

The p'ort'l snorted in reply—a rich sound, with mul-
titoned harmonies. "I hear most of the remaining trans-
fer points have been seized by local alliances, who are
exacting illegal taxes on any ship attempting to enter or
leave. One consequence is vast numbers of stranded
merchants, students, pilgrims, and tourists with no way
to get home!"

To Harry's surprise, the two young humans didn't
seem at all panicky or intimidated by the crowd. Rety
grinned happily, stroking the neck of her little urrish
"husband," while Dwer stared at the diversity of sapient
life-forms, occasionally leaning over to whisper in the
girl's ear, pointing at some type of alien he recognized
—perhaps from legends told around a campfire, back
on his tribal homeworld—a more cosmopolitan attitude
than Harry would have expected. Nevertheless, Dwer
betrayed underlying nervousness in the way he clutched
his bow and arrows tightly under one arm.

Harry had considered confiscating the crude archery
equipment. In theory, prisoners weren't supposed to go
around armed. Still, he doubted even the most stickling
Galactic bureaucrat would recognize the assortment of
twigs, strings, and bits of chipped stone as a weapon.

Speaking of rule sticklers, he thought, on reaching the
main desk. The same sour hoonish official was on duty
as last time, and just as obnoxious as ever. Despite the
declared state of emergency, Twaphu-anuph flapped his
richly dyed throat sac at anyone who showed even the
slightest irregularity of documentation, ignoring their
protests, sending them back to the end of the line. The
hoon seemed frazzled from overwork and strain when
Harry stepped up to the desk.

Get ready for a surprise, you gloomy old bureaucrat,

326  David Brifl

Harry thought, relishing how his new tail and fur color
would shock Twaphu-anuph.

To his disappointment, the hoon barely regarded
Harry with a quick scan before looking back down at
his monitor screens. Apparently, the pale fur coloration
did not alter the official's gestalt of a Terran chimpanzee.

"Ah, hrr-rrm. So it is Observer Harms, once again
inflicting his unwelcome simian visage on my tired sen-
soria," Twaphu-anuph commented in snidely accented
GalSix. "Only this time—equally noxious—he brings
along two of his grubby Earthling masters. Have they
come to take you home at last, like a truant child?"

Harry sensed Rety and Dwer stiffen. He hurried to
respond with more firmness than he might have other-
wise.

"Twaphu-anuph, you exceed your prerogatives,

which do not include heaping personal abuse on a fel-
low acolyte of the Great Institutes, However, if you pass
us through at once, I may refrain from lodging a formal

protest."

Perhaps it was fatigue from a long, successful mission

that gave Harry's voice a more confident tenor. To his
surprise, the big hoon seemed unmotivated to continue
his traditional derisive taunting. Twaphu-anuph held

out a giant hand.

"Hr-rr-r. Show me the humans' identification tags.

Please"

Harry shook his head.

"They are specimens claimed for observation by the
Navigation Institute, entering Kazzkark under my own
credentials. You may image both humans and do a bio
scan before letting us through. That should take about
thirty duras to accomplish. Regulations do not allow a
longer delay. Or shall I complain to Wer'Q'quinn?"

Their eyes met. A low, rumbling sound fluttered from
below Twaphu-anuph's chin as the throat sac drummed.
Harry knew he was being roundly cursed in a semipri-
vate racial dialect. Formal insult could not be taken,
since no official Galactic language was involved, but
several onlookers seemed to grasp the cutting remark,
expressing agreement or amusement in their own ways.

Heaven's Reach  327

Ever since the debacle at the NuDawn Colony, centuries
ago, malevolence from hoons had been a tedious fact of
life to members of beleaguered Earthclan.

Dwer Koolhan abruptly burst out laughing, a sound
that cut through Twaphu-anuph's hostile umble, caus-
ing it to trip and founder. The hoon gave up a surprised
stare as the young human responded in Anglic—also an
unofficial tongue, but one that many sophonts under-
stood these days.

"Ouch, what a good cut! Hold on there a dura, while I
explain to this poor chimp what you just said about his
body type, his ancestors, and all that!"

Leaning toward Harry, Dwer offered a quick wink
and whispered.

"Smile and pretend you're tellin' me something to say
back at the fool."

Harry blinked.

"What do you think you're trying to—"

Dwer stood up straight again, guffawing loudly and
pointing at Harry. He made as if to say something to
Twaphu-anuph, but was unable to get by gasps of
laughter.

"He says . . . the chimp says ..."

Rety wore a sour expression, rolling her eyes. But
Harry could only stare in amazement as Dwer gathered
a deep breath, looked straight at Twaphu-anuph . . .
and began approximating a deep hoonish umble!

A kind of ferocity seemed to flash in Dwer's eyes as
he threw a belchlike groan at the officious inspector,
whose throat flapped with astonishment and dismay.

Abrupt silence reigned when Dwer took a breath and
switched to Anglic.

"There, wasn't that clever? Where I come from, any
chimp who said something like that would be called a
real—"

Harry grabbed Dwer's arm and squeezed. The young
man was wiry for a human, but no match for chim
strength. Obediently, Dwer cut off at once, smiling ami-
ably at the crowd. None had ever heard an Earthling
umble before. It sure was a first for Harry!

Then, as if for good measure, Rety's little "husband"

328   David iriii

stuck his little urrish head out from her pouch, giving
the tall hoon a hiss of raspberry scorn, prompting still
more surprised shouts from the throng.

"Enough!" Twaphu-anuph cried, slamming his heavy
fist on a switch, causing the portal to fly open. "Hoon-
talking humans? Earth-talking hoons? Has the whole cos-
mos gone crazy? Get out of here! Go!"

While the bureaucrat buried his massive head in his
hands, Harry kept his grip on Dwer's arm, pulling until
all of them passed safely onto the covered avenues of
Kazzkark, letting go only when the Ingress Atrium was

far behind them.

Stepping back, he regarded the sooner boy, as if for

the first time.

After a long pause, Harry grunted with a brief nod.

"I got just one question for you."

"Yes?" Dwer replied.

"Can you teach me how to do what you did back

there?"

There are ways of reporting an event that make it seem

uneventful.

While waiting in Wer'Q'quinn's lobby for his boss to

see him, Harry quickly modified his written account of
meeting Dwer and Rety in E Space, removing his
surmise that they came from a sooner world. It wasn't
necessary to hide any actual facts. Who else but another
Earthling would recognize Dwer's handsewn buckskins
and neolithic weaponry for what they were?

He could rationalize that he wasn't really breaking his

oath. Sort of.

"Your ship broke down and you lost all personal ef-
fects before the machine craft picked you up," he
coaxed the pair. "You also suffered brain damage, re-
sulting in partial amnesia. That should qualify you for
basic aid, under the Traveler's Assistance Tradition.
Maybe enough to pay for air, water, and protein till you
find a way to earn your keep. Got that?"

While Dwer nodded soberly, Rety murmured to the

little male urs.

Heaven's (leach  329

"You hear that, yee? Brain damage? I bet Dwer can
fake that real good."

Her "husband" responded by aiming a swift nip at her
left hand, which she yanked back just in time. All at
once, Harry decided he liked the small creature.

"I know some people in Low Town," he said. "Maybe
they can find the two of you some jobs you're suited for.
Meanwhile, here's a data chip with standard information
about Kazzkark and the surrounding sector," he contin-
ued, handing over a clear rod, which Rety slid into her
prize possession—a rather beat-up-looking tutorial
computer of Terran design. "Study hard while I'm in-
side. When I finish, I'll take you someplace safe. But in
return I'm gonna want your story—the whole story, you
understand? About your home and everything."

Both humans nodded, and Harry felt sure they meant
it.

A musical chime seemed to fill the air—a unique
rhythm and melody that Harry had been taught to rec-
ognize more surely than his own name.

A summons. Wer'Q'quinn's staff must have finished
going through his data, taken by instruments that had
peered at the Real Cosmos from the outside.

At last, he thought, standing up. Already the two
young humans were immersed in images from the
teaching unit, so he left without a word. Hurrying
toward his boss's office, Harry felt growing excitement.
With this recent success, he had earned some consider-
ation from the Navigation Institute. Perhaps enough to
be let in on the big secret.

Maybe now someone will tell me what in Ifni's Proba-
bilistic Purgatory is going on!

Several miduras passed before he emerged at last from
Wer'Q'quinn's sanctuary, feeling rather dazed.

He had hoped for an explanation.

Now Harry wondered if it was such a good idea, after

all.

Am't it always like this? The gods warn us to be care-
ful what we wish for. Sometimes it comes true.

330  Baviil Inn

•     •     •

There was good news, bad news . . . and tidings that
were downright terrifying.

First came congratulations on surviving a hard voy-
age. The changed fur coloring—plus addition of a new
body appendage—seemed relatively mild compared to
the afflictions that some other observers came home
with. He was given a generous personal compensation
allowance, and the Navlnst staff said nothing more

about it.

As for the mission, Wer'Q'quinn could not be more
pleased. Using the peculiar perspectives of E Space to
gaze in at the sidereal universe, Harry's cameras had
measured a progressive stretching of the underlying
subvacuum. A process that was rapidly nearing rupture.
Thanks to his bold mission, Wer'Q'quinn's local savants
knew almost as much about this process as their august
superiors, back at Quadrant HQ.

That was also the bad news.

Those superiors must have known for some time
what was going on. Yet they had delayed declaring an
emergency till the last moment. Even now they were
downplaying public fears.

"Could it be a conspiracy?" Harry had asked

Wer'Q'quinn, at one point.

The squidlike being thrashed several tentacles. "If so,
Observer Harms, this conspiracy includes the topmost
beings-in-authority of all major institutes, plus most
elder races, as well. In fact, now that we have fresh
facts, my staff has been able to coerce better infolink
references from our Kazzkark branch of the Great Li-
brary, revealing something so remarkable that we are
stunned nearly breathless from the news."

Harry swallowed, hard. "What is it?"

"Apparently, this is not the first time events such as
these have occurred! A lesser version of the same phe-
nomena took place about one hundred and fifty million
years ago, associated with the permanent or temporary
disfunction of seventy percent of all transfer points!
Then, too, society was racked by massive social disrup-

Hmen's Reach  331

tions and genocidal wars. Galaxy Three, in particular,
suffered terribly."

"But . . . how could such things be hidden? The Li-
brary—isn't it supposed to be ..."

Wer'Q'quinn waved the objection away, as if it were
naive. "Few facts were suppressed, per se. Rather, the
cover-up was executed more subtly, by emphasizing the
significance of some events, and minimizing others out
of all proportion."

Harry felt glad of his fur, covering a blush of embar-
rassment. This was exactly what he had done, burying
the truth about Dwer and Rety under mounds of de-
tail.

"The chaos of that epoch has always been attributed
to widespread interclan warfare, which turns out to
have been a symptom, rather than the cause,"
Wer'Q'quinn continued. "Anyway, people are accus-
tomed to finding historical records murky, clouded by
uncertainty, the farther back you go. That may be why a
far more crucial event—the Gronin Collapse—gets so
little attention."

"The . . . what?"

"The Gronin Collapse. Forgive me, you are a wolfling,
and your education is deficient. But most Galactic
schoolchildren know that the Progenitors returned, in
spirit form, approximately two hundred and thirty mil-
lion years ago, to guide and protect oxy-life during one
of its worst crises. Interstellar navigation became tortu-
ous. Conflicts slashed populations. Only a small number
of starfaring clans survived to begin renewing the Cycle
of Uplift with a fresh generation."

"I . . ." Harry frowned. "I think I heard of it. Weren't
machines and Zang supposed to be responsible, some-
how?"

"A superficial explanation that most accept without
further probing. In truth however, the answer was
something else. Something more grand . . . and far
more frightening."

Which brought Harry to the third, and most worrying,
bit of news.

"Apparently, these recent convulsions are part of a

332   David Brin

natural catastrophe whose proportions have not been
seen since the Gronin Collapse. And we will face
far worse calamities during the duras and piduras to

come."

"H . . . how much worse?"

Wer'Q'quinn twisted several long, suckered tendrils
around each other in a grasp strong enough to bend
steel. The elderly sophont, normally as unshakable as a
neutron star, seemed to shiver, as if it took strong will to

utter the next words.

"It seems that our civilization may be about to lose a

galaxy."

Harry reached the anteroom still in a daze.

Wer'Q'quinn had indicated that he already had an as-
signment planned for Harry, whose promotion would
take effect along with those new duties, starting tomor-
row.

Something about a message, just recently broadcast
from besieged Earth. A warning, aimed at all Institute
outposts. Senior officials have squelched it, wherever
possible, but rumors of its content are already spreading
panic through several quadrants.

It all sounded fascinating. But right now Harry's ex-
haustion showed even to his normally oblivious boss.
His head was in a muddle, and Wer'Q'quinn had or-
dered him home for some well-earned rest before start-
ing anew.

Entering the richly paneled outer chamber, Harry
stood for a long time, blinking, wondering what was

missing.

Dwer and Rety, he realized at last.

They were supposed to stay here, waiting for me.

He peered left and right.

They were gone!

Hurrying through the far portal, he stood on the top-
most step of Navigation Institute headquarters, staring at
the teeming crowds, wondering where the two humans

Heaven's Resell   333

might have run off to. Humans never before exposed to
the intricate dangers of Galactic culture, with no idea
what hazards lurked out there among several hundred
temperamental species . . . many of whom hated
Earthlings on sight.

s.

T ALL BOILED DOWN TO A MATTER OF LAN-

guage.

You can only contemplate what your mind is able

to describe, she thought.

The system of organized Galactic dialects had
helped oxy-races communicate with minimal misunder-
standing for two billion years—a primly logical structure
of semantics, syntax, grammar, and meaning. But now
she figured it had a double purpose—to obscure. A so-
phisticated culture of technically advanced and deeply
intelligent beings was channeled away from pondering
certain topics. Certain possibilities.

This could be the real reason wolfling races wind up
being annihilated, she thought. They may more readily
look past the blind spots. See what mustn't be seen.

That cannot be allowed.

Through a crystal pane, Sara glanced at swarms of gi-
gantic, needle-shaped habitats orbiting a dense relic star
at furious speed. Lined up along the radial path fol-
lowed by escaping rays of light, their inner points
seemed almost to brush the intensely bright surface.
Anyone living down there—perched deep within the
white dwarfs steep gravitational well—would experi-
ence profound tidal forces, tugging and stretching every
living cell.

Of course, that was the whole point of living here.
Unlike the Fractal World, mere hydrogen metal could
not survive the glare or tortuous strain of this place.
Hannes Suessi had tried to explain what kinds of field-

334  David Brin

reinforced materials might withstand such forces, but
Sara's mind only reeled at his cascade of obscure terms.
The technology, far beyond her barbarian education,

seemed altogether godlike.

Ah, but math , . . that was another story. Even back
home, with just pencil and paper as her only tools, she
had learned all sorts of clever shortcuts to describe the
countless ways that space might fold, flex, or tear—ana-
lytical methods that lay outside the normal Galactic tra-
dition.

Now, with some of Streaker's onboard wizard ma-
chines to assist her, Sara found herself performing ex-
travagant incantations. By word and gesture, she caused
glorious charts and graphs to appear in midair. Tensors
cleaved before her eyes. Tarski transforms and
Takebayashi functions dealt handily with transfinite in-
tegrals at her merest whim, solving problems that no
mere numerical processor could calculate by brute force

alone.

Her little chimp assistant, Prity, helped by silently

molding shapes with agile hands, fashioning outlines

that became equations.

Equations portraying a cosmos under stress.
I wish Sage Purofsky could have seen this, Sara

thought.

It was as if both calculus and computers had been
waiting to achieve their potential together. Joined now
under her direction, they were already making her old
teacher's dream come true, proving that the ancient con-
cepts of Einstein and Lee had relevance, after all.

Perhaps experts on Earth had already accomplished
the same thing, either openly or in secret. Still Sara felt
as if she were exploring virgin territory. Those concepts
cast light upon the future—revealing a calamity of un-
told magnitude.

Well, at least now we know—we weren't at fault for

what happened to the Fractal World. Gillian will find

that comforting, I guess.

Dr. Baskin clearly felt guilty over contributing to the
havoc that had struck the vast, frail shell of hydrogen
ice, crushing billions of inhabitants when it collapsed. It

Heaven's Reach  335

had seemed to be a direct result of Streaker's presence
—like a snake corrupting Eden. But Sara's evidence
now pointed to natural phenomena, ponderously inevi-
table, as impersonal as an earthquake. Far more unstop-
pable than a hurricane.

No wonder so many other refugee arks joined our
convoy. Delicate criswell structures must be shattering
all over the Five Galaxies, forcing members of the Re-
tired Order to choose quickly whether to rejoin oxy-civi-
lization or transcend to the next level ... or else stay
where they are, and die.

Unable to bear even a brief separation from the Em-
brace of Tides, many chose to remain huddled next to
their little red suns, even as the continuum shivered
around them, crushing their brittle, icy homes into evap-
orating splinters.

Looking down at the brilliantly compact white dwarf,
Sara wondered. Would the same worsening conditions
also affect this crowded realm—where sparkling needle
shapes whirled quickly around a superdense star? It was
a far mightier place than the Fractal World, occupied by
ancient, revered races, combining the best of hydrogen
and oxygen cultures.

Surely members of the Transcendent Order must
know what's coming. We are like ants compared to such
wise beings. They'll have means of protecting themselves
during the Time of Changes.

It was a reassuring thought.

Unfortunately, Sara could not keep from worrying.

She worried about the Buyur.

Her news got a sober reception at the next staff meeting.
Even when Sara exonerated Streaker from the Fractal
World tragedy, Dr. Baskin seemed more concerned with
understanding what might happen next.

"You're saying that all these disruptions are a natural
result of the expansion of the universe7"

"That's right," Sara replied. "The spacetime metric—
including the underlying yiem—stretches and weakens,
eventually reaching a fracture point. Domain bound-

336  Dsvid Brin

aries abruptly snap and reconnect. A bit like pressure
building underground for release in a quake. So-called
threads, or flaws in the original matrix, can be pinched
off, turning transfer points into useless maelstroms, iso-
lating whole sectors, quadrants, or even galaxies."

The older woman shook her head. "Cosmic expan-
sion has been going on for sixteen billion years. Why
should all this come to a sudden head now?"
The Niss Machine interjected at that point.
"The simple answer to your question is that this oc-
currence ... is not unique."
"What do you mean?"

"/ mean this sort of thing has happened before.
"Let me illustrate by asking a question, Dr. Baskin.
Does this symbol have any meaning to you?"

Sara watched an image take shape above the confer-
ence table—a complex form with thirteen spiral rays
and four ovals, all overlaid.

Gillian blinked for a moment. Then her mouth
pinched in a sour expression. "You know damn well it
does. Tom found it engraved on those strange ships we
discovered in the Shallow Cluster . . . the so-called
Ghost Fleet that got us in trouble the minute we laid eyes

on it."

Bowing its funnel of nested lines politely, the Niss

Machine continued.

"Then surely you recall one possibility we discussed—
that the Ghost Fleet might represent emissaries from an
entirely different civilization? One completely apart
from our five linked galaxies. Perhaps an expedition
that had crossed hundreds of megaparsecs of flat, open
space to reach us from a quite different nexus of life?"
The Niss waited for Gillian to nod.
"Well, I can now refute that guess. It is not true.
"Rather, those ships come from our past . . . a past
when more than five galaxies made up this nexus-asso-
ciation. "

A water-filled tube ran along one wall of the confer-
ence room, where Akeakemai slashed his broad tail,
causing a storm of bubbles to swirl around his sleek
gray body. With Lieutenant Tsh't under arrest, he was

HBBven's Reacli   337

now the senior dolphin aboard—an honor that clearly
made him nervous.

"M-mo-more? You mean there were once—
sssseventeen galaxiessss?"

"Seventeen, aye. Of which several were elliptical types,
as well as thirteen spirals. However, a while later—(the
records are vague on exact timing)—there appear to
have been, eleven . . . and then seven . . . and fi-
nally the five we know today."

Silence reigned. Finally, although his cyborg visage
remained mirror smooth, Hannes Suessi stammered.

"But—but how could we not already know about
something so ... something so . . ."

"Something so huge? So epochal and traumatic? I be-
lieve your own state of shocked surprise is a clue. Each
such loss would have struck hard at the normally
placid, deeply conservative society of the time. In fact,
the waves of disruption that Sage Koolhanjust described
must have been even worse in those earlier episodes,
wreaking untold havoc and ruin. Survivors would have
been busy for ages, picking up the pieces.

"Now suppose older, wiser spirits asserted themselves
during the aftermath, taking control over the Great Li-
brary through those crucial centuries, it would not re-
quire much effort to erase and adjust appropriate
archive entries ... or divert blame for the chaos onto
more mundane culprits. Say, the Zang, or criminal oxy-
clans, or a breeding-explosion by machine life-forms."

"But how could they conceal the loss of whole galax-
ies!"

"That may have been easier than it seems. The last
time this happened on a large scale—the Gronin Col-
lapse—there followed hardly any mention of lost territo-
ries, because the Migration Institute had already
prepared by— "

Sara stood up.

"By evacuating them!"

She turned to address Gillian and the others.

"The Transcendents must have known in advance,
two hundred thirty million years ago. They ordered
abandonment of the two galaxies they were about to

338  livid Brin

lose, before the rupture took place." She stared into
space. "This explains the mystery about Galaxy Four!
Why all of that spiral was recently assigned fallow
status, forcing all oxygen-breathing starfarers to depart.
It wasn't for reasons of ecological management, but be-
cause they sensed another split coming!"

The Niss hologram shrugged, as if it all seemed obvi-
ous now. The entity made no apologies for taking so

long to catch on.

"Clearly, the higher orders of life have either confided
in or manipulated senior officials of the Great Institutes,
so the governing bodies of oxy-civihzation would make

preparations."

"But there's so much we still don't understand!" Sara
objected. "Why must the affected galaxy be emptied of
starfarers? How does all this affect the other life orders?
What does it—"

Gillian Baskin interrupted.

"I'm sure you will help us pierce those veils as well,
Sage Koolhan. Meanwhile, this news is disturbing
enough. When you said a galaxy was about to split off, I
thought you meant the one containing Earth—the Milky
Way. That might help explain why our planet was iso-
lated for so long. And why we created such commotion
when we finally made contact."

The Niss answered with some of its old patronizing

tone.

"With all due respect. Dr. Baskin, do curb your in-
nate human tendency toward solipsism. Despite some
petty excitement caused by this little ship, the universe
does not revolve around your kind."

Sara found the rebuke snide and unfair. But Gillian
accepted it with a nod.

Suessi reported on efforts to cast off the ship's transpar-
ent sheath, an armor layer that once had protected it
against devastating weapons, but now seemed a death
shroud. It had proved nearly fatal just two hours ago,
when Streaker tried to depart the white dwarfs funnel-

Heaveii's leach   339

like gravity well, sneaking away from the swarm of
"candidates for transcendence."

Unfortunately, the Jophur battleship, Polkjhy, lay
waiting just above, swooping in to launch a new form of
attack. Emitting complex pulses on a hyperspatial
resonance band, the enemy stroked a response from the
strange atoms locked in Streaker's outer shell, turning
the throbbing layer into a huge antenna, drawing a flux
of energy from D Space! As the Niss predicted, tempera-
tures soon climbed. The deck plates warmed steadily,
with no apparent way to slough the mounting heat.

Lacking any effective means to fight back, Streaker
could not even tear free of Polkjhy's grasping fields to
dive back amid the mob of craggy arks, spiraling inexo-
rably toward the white dwarf star. If the assault contin-
ued, the Earthlings would have to surrender ... or
else broil.

Then, abruptly, a Zang globule approached from the
swarm, beaming a recognition code that set the herd of
Jijoan glavers baying loudly in the hold. With evident
frustration, the Polkjhy released its grip and backed
away as "deputy" vessels budded off the giant Zang,
moving toward Streaker.

Relieved, the Terrans rendezvoused with the rescuing
globules.

"I guess it's time to say good-bye to our little friends,"
Gillian Baskin had said. The glavers were about to meet
a destiny mapped Out for them long ago.

Willingly, the small troop of quadrupeds clattered to
the airlock, where Sara bid them farewell.

May this bring the redemption that your ancestors
sought, when they came toJijo. A strange, but honorable
goal. To unite what had been distinct. To bridge the
gap, helping oxygen and hydrogen meld as one.

At last she understood how both civilizations had
been able to coexist for so long, despite a fractious an-
tipathy during their youthful, starfaring phase. Because
they were fated for each other, like preordained mates,
who only discover affinity on their wedding eve.

Moreover, this union explained why the known cos-

340  David Brin

mos was never overwhelmed by machines. United, the
hydro- and oxy-orders were more than a match for
silicon and metal, preventing digital sapience from tak-
ing over and exploiting every scrap of matter in all five

linked galaxies.

It seems so tidy, so perfect—even romantic, in a way.
Almost as if the universe were designed with this in

mind.
Watching the glavers go—carried by translucent,

glowing bubbles—she envied their clear-cut role. Their
obvious importance. At that moment, they were Jijo's
great success, valued participants in something in-
arguably noble, contributing their wise simplicity to
help bring about glorious fusion.

Streaker seemed emptier when they were gone.

Suessi reported failure. The material covering the hull
proved impossible to scratch by any means at his dis-
posal.

"Whoever gave Streaker this coating not only saved
our lives, back at the Fractal World. They also made sure
we must stay with this convoy, all the way to the bot-
tom."

With Polkjby orbiting above, ready to pounce if
Streaker tried leaving, there seemed no choice but to
accompany the candidates' armada, spiraling toward the
great, javelin-shaped habitats. Akeakemai sighed a re-
signed Trinary haiku.

* A re we ready? Or not?

* Yanked from blissful dreaming,
* Hear the call of depths! *

Emerson D'Anite laughed aloud, despite his crippled
brain. But Sara had to consult her portable computer for
a translation. Even so, she probably missed nuances of
the quirky, intuition-based language.

Am I ready? To become transcendent?

Sara wondered what that meant, but all she could
picture was an image of vast, cool intellects, in hybrid

Heaven's Reach  341

bodies stretched thin by tides, contemplating ornate
wisdom that would make her beloved equations seem
like the flagella flailings of some crude bacterium. Even
if such beings found a way to incorporate humans and
dolphins into their composite mind, she scarcely found
the prospect attractive.

Anyway, this is probably just a trick played on us by
the Old Ones—like reaming Emerson's brain, or turn-
ing Hannes into a cyborg. A joke we'll only get when we
reach those glittering needles.

Accepting Suessi's report, Dr. Baskin concentrated on
practical matters.

"What physical threats do we face, as we approach
the white dwarf?"

"There is strong ultraviolet radiation," answered S'tat,
one of Suessi's engineers, from atop a walker unit at the
far end of the conference table. "But our armor seems to
handle it without t-trouble."

"How about the intense gravity down there? Will our
clocks slow?"

"Yessss. The field is intense enough to make a differ-
ence in the flow oft-time." Akeakemai nodded, bubbles
rising from his blowhole. "By lessss than one percent."

Gillian nodded. "And the gravitational gradient7"

Sara had done the research.

"The tides are several orders bigger here than at the
Fractal World. You'll feel a tugging sense along the
length of your body. I don't expect them to be pleasant
—though they say that older sapients find it irresistibly
attractive."

Gillian nodded.

"The famed Embrace of Tides. The more advanced a
sophont species becomes, the more they crave it, and
the less they can bear traveling where space is flat.
That's why we see little of transcendent life-forms. No
wonder they're considered a separate order."

"Separate," Suessi agreed. "But still ready to meddle
in the affairs of younger races."

Sara watched Gillian shrug, appearing to say—Why
worry about things we can never change?

342   David Brill

"So this is transcendence. Each uplifted species that
survives starfaring adolescence eventually winds up in
such a place. Both oxies and hydros. From across the
linked galaxies, they converge at white dwarf stars in
order to achieve . . . what? Niss, do you know?"

The spinning lines whirled, a maze of shifting pat-
terns.

"Your question is the same one that obsesses theolo-
gians, back in the 'adolescent' culture we call home.

"Some believe transcendent beings find renewed
youth in the Embrace of Tides.

"Others say the elders pass through a mystic portal,
following the blessed Progenitors to a better realm. As
you well know, minor differences over such details can
rouse strong tempers among hot-blooded clans, such as
the Soro, or Tandu—"

"Tell me about it!" Hannes muttered sourly. "Ifni-

cursed fanatics."

".So it seems to you—and my Tymbrimi makers, and
other moderate clans who feel the affairs of the Tran-
scendent Order are rightfully none of our business. We
will find out the truth, when our own turn comes.

"But need I remind you those 'fanatics' you mention
are powerful among the races who swarm flat space-
time in myriad starships? They wield great influence,
and act more swiftly than the moderates. Their fleets
presently lay siege to Terra, and have hounded this crew
ever since we escaped the Shallow Cluster."

Sara watched Gillian lean forward, her cheekbones
stark in light from the whirling hologram. "You're build-
ing up to some point. Get on with it."

"My point is that this ship. Streaker, has suffered terri-
ble persecution because it represents a danger and an
affront to reverent tradition all across the Five Galaxies.

"The relics and data you carry appear to threaten
deeply held creeds."

"We already knew that much," Gillian replied. "Can I
assume you've finally figured out why?"

The Niss broadened its spiral of lines, spreading and
almost brushing the blond human's face.

Heaven's Reach  343

"Indeed, I think that I have.

"It seems your discovery resurrects an ancient heresy
that had been considered dead for millions of years.

"A heresy claiming that everything our civilization
believes is wrong."

ari

EEP WITHIN THE JOPHUR BATTLESHIP, THINGS

had changed yet again.
The last time Lark visited the Polkjhy's Life Core,

the place resembled a dense but orderly forest

grove—a farm in three dimensions—featuring lush
green rows and columns of vegetation neatly organized
on metal scaffolding to purify the great vessel's air and
water, serving the Jophur crew efficiently, like any other
machine.

Now it was a tangle of riotous growth, a jungle where
plants and autotrophs from myriad worlds had broken
out of their assigned places, curling round the disap-
pearing latticework, intermingling in a bedlam of anar-
chic biogenesis.

Amid the profuse growth, he glimpsed skittering little
things—animals of varied types that surely had not been
here before. Did they escape from some onboard lab-
menagerie, amid the crash and confusion of battle? Or
did caretaker computers deliberately thaw and release
them from storage, in some vain effort to regain control
over a miniature ecosystem that grew more complex
and wild with each passing midura? Moving deeper, he
even spied little scavenger organisms that looked like
individual Jophur rings, writhing and twisting as they
made their way along branches, seeking rotten matter to
consume. Their pale colors expressed innocence and
simplicity of purpose. None appeared eager to seek so-
phistication, or to gather sapiency by combining into
stacks.

Lark found the Life Core's new look an improvement.
He came from a world where nature was allowed to find

344 David Inn

its own equilibrium—a complex balance, invariably
messy, that worked better than any plan. Even when
many participants of a planetary biosphere were foes,
preying on each other with tooth and claw, the overall
result wound up looking like cooperation, giving each
individual and species a role to play, helping the whole
system thrive.

Kind of like our own little group of strange allies, he
thought, pondering the curious expedition that had
made its way to the heart of the Jophur warship. We
may not trust each other, but lacking any other choice,
we work together.

Pushing through the rank overgrowth, he paused
near a vine that hung heavy with ripe clamber-peaches,
popular on more oxy-worlds than anyone could count.
Lark plucked one and brought it to his mouth, but then
had to wait for rippling layers of membrane to creep out
of the way, until there was room enough to take a good
bite out of the fruit. Red juice sprayed around his tongue
and between several teeth, dribbling down his chin, as-
sailing taste buds with pleasure. Greedily, he consumed
several more. It was Lark's first decent meal in days.

The passenger—a modified Zang globule that spread
its bulk across his body like a cumbersome second skin
—seemed to catch some of Lark's complaint. A tendril
presented itself before his left eye, and a vacuole
opened inside that gelatinous mass. Tiny subdeputy
blobs popped forth, performing a microscopic drama,
communicating in the Zang manner, by simulation.

Lark shook his head.

"No, I'm not ungrateful. I realize you've been feeding
me from your own body mass, so we could get this far.
But forgive me if I prefer something that doesn't stink of
rotten eggs, for a change!"

He was fairly sure that his actual words—sonic vibra-
tions in the air—had no meaning to the alien. That type
of language, abstract and structured, was as foreign to
such bubble-beings as the notion of walking around on
stilt-limbs, stiffened by rigid bones. Lark's best guess
was that the creature/entity tracked his eye movements
instead, somehow gleaning import from which little

Heaven's Reacft  345

speck or simulated blob he chose unconsciously to look
at, in which order. The result was a crude form of telep-
athy, unlike any he had ever heard or read about.

Subdeputies whirled some more, inside their vacuole-
theater.

"Yeah, okay," he answered. "I know. Gotta keep
moving. There isn't much time."

A rustling commotion disturbed the dense foliage just
ahead. Lark reached warily for his best weapon, the pur-
ple ring which sprayed message chemicals on com-
mand, sometimes overcoming Jophur guards or battle-
drones. Although its effectiveness had declined, the
tricky little torus still reduced the number of times they
had to fight, making possible this journey deep behind
enemy lines.

A bulky form pushed through the jungle. Wide at the
bottom and tapered on top, it had the ominous shape of
a Jophur.

Or a traeki, Lark reminded himself, crouching amid
shadows. Even when the figure drew near enough to
identify by its stained contours, he still wasn't sure
which word should apply. The composite being had
once been Asx, a beloved traeki sage, then became
haughty Ewasx of the Jophur. Now it would answer to
neither name. Ripples coursed up and down its waxy
pyramid of greasy donuts, while segments vied and de-
bated among themselves. Inside that fatty tower, new
arrangements were being worked out, with the Master
Ring no longer in complete control.

Quite possibly—at any moment—the issue might be
decided in favor, of resuming loyalty to Polkjhy's cap-
tain-leader, or reporting Lark's presence to the embat-
tled crew. But not yet. Meanwhile, there continued a
strange, tentative partnership of Zang, human, and ring
stack. A loose coalition of collective beings. Lark de-
cided to call the confused creature "X"—at least till it
made up its minds.

Waves of shadow and color flashed briefly, while the
stack whistled breathy Galactic Six from its oration
peak.

"I/we/I managed to accomplish the intended feat—

346  David Brin

accessing a terminal at the agronomist's workstation.
(The agronomist erself was elsewhere, having been re-
assigned to combat roles during the emergency.) My/
our appointed task of discovering news—this proved
possible to achieve."

"Yes?"' Lark took a step forward. "Did you learn
where they took Ling?"

He had hoped to find her in the Life Core, near the
nest where they had been happy—all too briefly.

The composite creature twitched and shuddered.
Across its corrugated, waxy flesh there crawled dozens
of small rings, crimson in color, feeding on its secre-
tions. To the Polkjhy crew, those innocuous-looking to-
roids were carriers of a plague, more horrid than the
Zang infestation.

"Of the remaining humans—Ling and Rann—there
are no recent reports. As to their last known position, I/
we narrowed it down to a quadrant of the ship . . .
one that became cut off twenty miduras ago, when fresh
incursions of Zang-like entities apparently penetrated

the hull."

News of hydrogen-breathing reinforcements did not
affect Lark's passenger as expected. The globule-entity
quivered, indicating a strong desire to avoid contact
with the newcomers until they could be viewed from a
safe distance.

So, Lark thought. There are factions, nations,
races . . . or whatever . . . among hydros, too. Like
us, they fear their own relatives more than the truly
alien. I guess that shouldn't surprise me.

During their long, circuitous journey from the nursery
chamber, all three odd allies had stopped to watch im-
ages on terminal screens, broadcast by the Jophur crew
to keep their soldiers informed of what was going on
outside. While X tried to describe a white dwarf star and
explain what was known about transcendent life, the
Zang seemed upset. What disturbed it was mounting
evidence that hydro- and oxy-orders eventually merged,
blending together in a steep mixing bowl of gravita-
tional tides. Apparently, Lark's passenger found the
news unnerving.

Heaven's React]  347

You are in way over your depth, just like me, aren't
you?\\e. asked the Zang at one point. It took several tries
to get the question across—he was still learning this
quirky mode of conversation. But eventually, after trem-
bling violently for a while, it calmed down and meekly
indicated assent.

Even hydro-entities must have trouble dealing with
their gods. It seemed to be a law of nature.

"But you have Ling's last coordinates?" he asked X.

"Indeed. It should be possible to approach that sec-
tor ... if we dare."

Lark nodded. Somehow he must persuade his com-
panions that the risk was worthwhile. "And the other
matter you were going to look into?"

The pile of greasy toroids flashed a series of shadows
—flickering patterns-of-regret that seemed so deeply
Jijoan that the creature felt more like Asx than ever. In
speaking, it switched to GalSeven.

"Alas, the news is dire from your perspective . . .
and perhaps ours/mine. During this ship's long journey,
from the ill-fated retirement habitat to this indrawing of
transcendent races, there were several moments when
the Polkjhy got a fix on local star groups, ascertained its
position, and managed to fire off message capsules. Of
these attempts, at least three show high likelihood of
escaping the convoy-swarm and making their way to
chosen sites in the Civilization of Five Galaxies.

"In other words, the Jophur have succeeded in report-
ing to their home clan all about Jijo.

"All about the forlorn g'Kek.

"About traeki refugees who for so long escaped dom-
inance by master rings.

"And about humans and other races, ripe for secret
experimentation/manipulation, out of sight from law or
any other restraint."

Lark's shoulders slumped. His heart felt so heavy that
flashes of concerned inquiry came from the Zang pas-
senger, worried about his metabolic state.

Jijo is lost, he realized.

Of course that had always been in the cards, one way
or another. But Polkjhy's troubles had made it seem pos-

348  David Bfin

sible—just barely—that the great battleship might meet
a gruesome end before reporting what it had discovered
in Galaxy Four. For this reason, he and Ling had aban-
doned the safety of their little nest, hoping to sow con-
fusion in the enemy HQ.

I guess we should have just stayed here, making love
and eating fruit' till they found us, or till the universe

came to an end.

Now he had nothing left, except a desire to free Ling
for as long as they might have left together. . . . And to
hurt the enemy, if possible.

Fortunately, a weapon lay at hand. A gift from the
crafty old traeki sage, Asx.

The red ring. The one Ling hid in the nursery, before
she was captured. It must have been programmed by
Asx as a predator, spreading and reproducing through
the incubators, filling a wide range of niches. When
combat with Zang invaders brought Jophur soldiers to
the infirmary, seeking spare parts, they were given de-
scendants of that original ring.

A mutated form of Master-type torus, with differences
that only a wise old pharmacist-sage could have come
up with, applying lessons learned by the traekis during
two thousand years of exile. Tricks that Jophur sophisti-
cates would never have encountered on the space lanes.

Soon, the fortunes of war shifted once again. Instead
of beating back the hydros, Jophur forces resumed los-
ing ground. A strange epidemic seemed to afflict many
of the troops. Fits of self-doubt, or traeki-style multiple
thinking, beset those who had formerly been egotisti-
cally self-centered and assured. Some suffered stack dis-
solution—breakdown into individual components that
then crawled off, each seeking its own way. Others
grew contemplative, or went catatonic, or began ranting

and reeking madly.

A few started entertaining new and unusual notions.
If only we had first spread the disease close to the
command center, before they could react.

But the Jophur were quick, clever, and resilient. Re-
treating and establishing lines of quarantine, they man-
aged to retain control over vital ship functions.

Heaven's Reach  349

But just barely. For most of Polkjhy, the overall result
was chaos. A traveler could not know in advance what
the next deck or corridor would be like. Weakened by
struggle, no party to the conflict seemed able to do
more than hold its home enclaves while anarchy spread
everywhere else.

"One additional point merits discussion," continued
X. "I/we picked up information by eavesdropping on
the command channel. Reports indicate deep concern
on the part of the bridge crew. The captain-leader and
priest-stack have been debating the significance of a
message, recently received."

"A message?"

"A warning, recently beamed across the Five Galax-
ies. If true, this alert bodes ill for a great many races and
clans, but especially for this ship and all its varied occu-
pants."

"Who sent this 'warning?" Lark asked.

"The homeworld of your own race, Lark Koolhan.
Beleaguered Earth, surrounded and threatened by anni-
hilation.

"Apparently, feeling that they have little to lose, the
Terragens Council recently broadcast an iconoclastic
theory to explain recent disruptions racking the Five
Galaxies. A hypothesis derived by some of their sages,
after secretly combining wolfling mathematical incanta-
tions with Galactic science. So provocative is this con-
cept—so disturbing and frightening its implied
accusations—that the Great Institutes have been moved
to issue frantic denials. So frantic, in fact, that Earthlings
have attained fresh credibility in many quarters!

"Indeed, the reaction has been profound enough that
some clans now send armadas to help lift the siege,
while others converge bent on wrathful genocide! The
fleet battles near Terra have intensified tenfold."

Lark listened, at first unable to react except by blink-
ing—at least a dozen times—in numb surprise.

"But . . . what . . ."

He shook his head, provoking a squishy, nervous re-
sponse from his blobby passenger.

"But what was the warning?"

350  Oavil flrin

The creature he called X puffed colored steam, ex-
pressing nervous awe in the manner of a Jijoan traeki.

"They claim that the Great Institutes have been con-
cealing a terrible danger. That most of the links uniting
our Five Galaxies may soon dissolve, unleashing turmoil
and desolation on the unprepared. In the ensuing vio-
lent backlash, many great and noble things may be lost.

"Moreover, if the Earthlings are right—(and not per-
petrating a desperate hoax)—we aboard the Polkjhy are
in the greatest danger of all. Here, at this sacred locale,
where transcendent beings seek enlightenment within
the Embrace of Tides."

D

wer

T FIRST, HE EXPECTED THE HUNT FOR RETY TO

be easy.

How could a human hide in Kazzkark? Every-
where Dwer went, people turned and stared with a
• • variety of sensory organs. Diverse limbs and ten-
drils pointed, while susurrant comments in a dozen Ga-
lactic dialects followed him down every lane.
Apparently, Earthlings were infamous.

Even if no one in Kazzkark had any idea what kind of
smelly biped Rety was, the girl would draw attention to
herself, as surely as stars were fire. In all the time he'd
known the young sooner, that trait had never failed.

Dwer's instincts were more reticent. He preferred
slinking quietly through this bizarre noisy place—spa-
cious as a canyon, yet claustrophobic as a boo forest,
with a slim roof to keep the precious air from blowing
into space. The environment would be unnerving
enough without throngs of aliens loudly arguing or ges-
ticulating, then lapsing to hushed murmurs as he

passed.

I always hated crowds. But according to Harry
Harms, this is just a tiny outpost! I can't imagine a real

city.
Dwer tried not to stare, partly because it was imperti-

tteaven's Reach  351

nent, and to keep from looking like a total rube. Among
the bedtime stories his mother used to read aloud, a
standard plot told of some rustic innocent coming to a
metropolis, only to be fleeced by urban predators.

Fortunately, I don't have much to covet or steal, he
thought, counting blessings.

At a busy intersection, Dwer paused to consider.

If I were Rety, where would I dash off to?

None of this would have happened if he'd been vigi-
lant. While waiting for Harry at Navigation Institute HQ,
Dwer had left Rety to visit the toilet. It took some time,
as he studied the strange array of mechanisms designed
to remove waste products from many species. Emerging
—mussed and damp from several near accidents—he
cursed to find Rety gone and the front door gaping to a
busy street.

Harry's gonna be mad, he thought, plunging outside,
hoping to catch sight of her. Dwer briefly glimpsed a
short bipedal form just turning a corner, and sped in
pursuit, but soon lost the dim figure in a maze of side
avenues.

He needed a plan. Carefully, Dwer ran through a list
of Rety's priorities.

Number one—get away from Jijo and make sure no
one ever takes her back again.

To Dwer, that seemed pretty much a done deal. But
she might worry that Harry Harms knew too much. Con-
ceivably the chimp might gather enough information to
figure outJijo's location, and even insist they return with
him. Rety might not want to take the chance.

Number two—make a living. Become invaluable to
somebody powerful, so she'll never be hungry again.

That left Dwer at a loss. The girl had her computer-
ized tutor unit, plus the data on Kazzkark that Harry
provided. Could she have figured out a scheme while
Dwer was in the toilet?

Number three—get rid of her scars. Rety had always
been self-conscious about the weals that marred one
side of her face, caused by cruel bullies who had tor-
mented her back in the Gray Hills Tribe. Personally,
Dwer did not much notice the marks. He had seen

352   David Brill

worse on Jijo. Besides, anyone who ever loved or hated
Rety would do so because of her powerful presence and

force of will.

Still, she would want to take care of that as soon as

possible.

Was it possible, on Kazzkark? With no resident human
population, would there be proficiency to perform re-
pairs on Earthling flesh?

Why not? Computers can store the expert knowledge
of countless skilled workers. And medicine would get top
priority. You never know which species will visit an out-
post, so you'd best be prepared for all of 'em.

Dwer knew he was reasoning from a slim base of
information. Since infancy, he had heard stories about
the radiant civilization his ancestors left behind. Now he
felt numbed and dazzled by the reality.

Maybe I should've waited for Harry. I know Rety and
be knows Kazzkark. We'd do better together than sepa-
rately.

Preparing to head back, Dwer suddenly experienced
a strange, disquieting sensation. It took moments for
him to find a word to describe it.

I'm . . . lost.

It had never happened to him before! Not back home.
Always there had been the sure draw of north, and a
sort of internal map that unreeled each time he made a
turn or took a step. But here on a drifting planetoid, his
brain must lack some necessary cue. Dwer had no idea

where he was!

He stood near a stony wall, trying to get bearings
while streams of varied, bizarre life-forms swept past.
Ignoring them, he fought to concentrate but was
blocked by a rising sense of panic.

After E Space, I figured I could adjust to anything. 1
may be a sooner, but I'm not a savage. I grew up with
other races around me. But this . . . all this . . .

The noise, bustle, smell, and grating presence of so
many types of sapient minds—some of them brimming
with hostility toward his kind—made him want to duck
into the nearest hole and not come out again.

How long the funk would have lasted, Dwer had no

Heaven's Reach  353

idea. But it cut short abruptly when a large, fuzzy figure
barged into his field of view, shorter and much rounder
than a human, with whiskered cheeks and a pelt of bris-
tly brown fur. A stout biped, vaguely mammalian, it dis-
played sharp teeth in a grimace that Dwer took as a
deadly threat—until it boomed eager greetings in An-
glic!

"Well, well. As I live and breath mints! A human? Well,
well! Indeed a human, here in the booney tunes! I have
not this pleasure had since past times . . . before crisis
times, when peace was! Shake?"

The creature held forth a meaty paw, from which re-
tractile claws kept popping in and out, unnervingly.
Dwer blinked, remembering vaguely about an old
Earthling tradition of touching and clasping palms that
had largely been abandoned long ago, since most aliens
disliked it. Nervously, he extended his left hand—the
one he would miss a little less if the creature snapped it
off. "Shaking" felt awkward, and they were both clearly
glad when it was over.

"Forgive my ignorance," Dwer said, attempting to
mimic the formal, interspecies bow he had seen used a
few times on Jijo. "But can you tell me who ... or
what . . ."

His voice trailed off as the rotund figure opposite him
grew flushed. Sallow skin reddened underneath the
streaky brown fur. Dwer feared he must have given of-
fense—until the creature began huffing in a rhythmic
manner, clearly trying to imitate human-style laughter.

"Is true? You recognize me not? A Syntbian? Among
the best of friends we have been to you humans! Very
best! Well, well. Until this cursed crisis, that is. I admit.
Friendship is tested, sorely, when death flows like star-
light. I admit this. I, who am called Kiwei Ha'aoulin.
This I admit. You will not hate me for it?"

Dwer nodded. A Synthian? Yes, he had heard of
them . . . and vaguely recalled seeing pictures in an
old folio, when Fallen taught him a little Galacto-
xenology in the Biblos archive. Indeed, the race had
been known for good relations with Earth, back in the

354  David Brin

early days before starship Tabernacle fled to Jijo.
Though a lot might have changed since then.

"It is my turn to apologize, Kiwei Ha'aoulin," he said,
mimicking the name as well as he could. "I kind of
suffered a little . . . er, brain damage in deep space.
An accident where all my possessions were lost."

The Synthian's eyes swept across Dwer's ragged
clothes before settling on the qheuen-made bow and

quiver of arrows.

"All possessions? Then this lovely proto-aboriginal ar-
chery set ... it is not thine to display, or possibly to

sell?"

Dwer stared for several seconds. According to Harry

Harms, no Galactic should even recognize the finely
carved wooden implements for what they were. Yet this
one knew the primitive weapon on sight, and clearly
desired it! Covetous eagerness seemed to crackle from

its bunched-up muscles.

A hobbyist, Dwer realized. An enthusiast. He had met
the type, even back on Jijo. For some reason, his in-
stincts as a tracker and hunter abruptly kicked in. Com-
merce, after all, followed many laws of the jungle. Panic
fled as familiarity took its place.

"Well, well," he said, slipping into a soft semblance of
the other person's speech. "Perhaps I exaggerated. I ad-
mit that I managed to hold on to a thing or two from the
shipwreck. A few special things."

"Treasures, no doubt," the Synthian replied, while
avid tremors coursed its hunched spine. "Well. I am one,
among my kind, known as a fishy-naddo of things Ter-
ran-earthly. I would help you find a market for such
things. And thus? From poor castaway to enabled
starfarer you might become! Enabled enough to buy a
ticket in comfort from this miserable un-place to a some-

where-else-place, perhaps?"

Not waiting for an answer, the Synthian slipped an

arm around Dwer's.

"Well, well. Shall we talk more? Kiwei Ha'aoulin
knows very nice meal-site nearby. Good food! Good
talk about treasures and news from the stars! Come?"

Dwer's right hand stroked his bow. On Jijo it was,

Heaven's Reach  355

indeed, valuable. Beneath his foolish demeanor, Kiwei
Ha'aoulin must have a keen eye for quality. Who knew
what an aficionado of primitive Earthling tools might
pay?

I'd bate to part with it, but this could help me learn
more, and maybe find Rety.

Driven as much by hunger as curiosity, Dwer nodded.

"I accept your hospitality, Kiwei Ha'aoulin. Let's go
and talk of many things."

Ignoring hostile stares and murmurs from all sides, he
accompanied his new friend, hoping for the best.

E

merson

|AZING FROM A SECRET CRYSTAL SANCTUARY,
he watched countless stars roll by ... along with

I just as many glittering lights that were actually huge
vessels. In fact, nearby space had grown so
crowded that a single sweep of the naked eye made
out hundreds of shining snowflakes, or bubbles, liquidly
shimmering. Fractal arks jostled past globule-forms in an
ever-tightening throng, spiraling toward their common
goal—a white-hot disk surrounded by swarms of giant,
glittering needles that almost grazed its surface.

Emerson chose not to look that way. Just thinking
about the destination was as painful as its glaring image.

He knew what must happen soon, before Streaker
arrived. He had worked hard to prepare.

Crippled without speech, Emerson had only a rudi-
mentary grasp of why Streaker was here, or what it
meant for Zang vessels to mix amicably with some of
the same oxygen breathers they used to shun ... or
sometimes fought bitterly. Watching Gillian and Sara
converse, their brows furrowed with a blazing intensity
of focused thought, he had tried to sift amid the "wah-
wah" sounds for hints of meaning. But many of their oft-
repeated phrases—like "the Embrace of Tides"—
evoked no response from his wounded mind. Unless it
had something to do with the increasing tendency of his

356  David Brin

body to twist and stretch in a preferred direction, with
his feet aimed toward the white dwarf star.

At least some individual words seemed to resonate,

just a little.

"Embrace," he whispered, relishing its sensuous qual-
ity.

A few hours ago Emerson had been sitting beside

Sara, with her head resting against his shoulder while
they enjoyed a quiet moment together. Stroking her hair
had become his normal way to help ease the tension of
her daily struggle—Sara's ongoing effort to wrestle truth
out of the universe by sheer mathematical force. His
duty was a pleasant one. He would gladly provide any-
thing she needed or wanted.

That is, except for the one thing she desired this time.
With gentle hints, Sara had shyly made known her
willingness to reach new intimacy . . . but he was
forced to turn her down. Peeling away from her warm
clasp, Emerson saw questions in her eyes. Worry that he
might not find her arousing. Worry that his wounds had
robbed him of manly desires. Worry that there was so
little time left for two to become one.

How could he explain? It would take words, sen-
tences, volumes to justify thwarting such a natural de-
sire, for bodies to follow where hearts already had gone.
Frustrated, he sifted memory for a song that might suf-
fice, but came up empty. All he could do, before fleeing
to his star-covered sanctuary, was touch Sara's cheek
and let his eyes express the trueness of his love.

In fact, there was nothing wrong with Emerson's sexual-
ity. He longed to prove it to her. But not now. A con-
frontation loomed, and he needed every resource.
Strong animal cravings might help keep him anchored
through the coming showdown, reminding him of pri-
orities that more advanced minds had forgotten.

His plan was necessarily crude, since thinking came
so hard without words. By visualizing certain acts, body
movements, emotions, and images, he had a general

Heaven's Reach  357

idea what to expect, and how to react when the time
came.

It must be soon. Emerson could still discern meaning
from a spatial diagram, and one truth grew plain as
Streaker gyred into the white dwarf's gravitational fun-
nel. A point of no return would come when the convoy
of immense spacecraft got so closely packed that no
single ship could escape on normal engine power. Gil-
lian would have to break out before then, or risk forever
abandoning the outer cosmos—the realm of open vac-
uum where young races thrived. Where blazing space-
ships crossed star-speckled skies.

The same logic applied to the secret faction of Old
Ones.

They have to act soon, or else be trapped along
with . . .

Emerson stopped short—then resumed his thought,
warily.

... or ... else . . . be . . . trapped along with
us, down among the Transcendent habitats, unable to
intervene any longer in the affairs of the Five Galax-
ies. ...

A low grunt escaped his throat. Despite expecting it
this time, the sudden return of speech filled him with
aching mixtures of sorrow, joy, and fear.

The words . . . the words are back again!

At least Emerson was better prepared now. For many
days he had been storing memories, laboriously freez-
ing snippets of speech that others said, in hope of fitting
the pieces when this moment came.

"Let me conjecture. The emblem stands for a union of
hydro- and oxy-life, coming together at last. ..."

". . . those derelict ships we found in the Shallow Clus-
ter must have come from our past . . . when more
than five galaxies made up this nexus-association."

or divert

358   Baviil Brin

". . . suppose older, wiser spirits asserted themselves af-
ter each disruption . . . controlling the Great Li-
brary . . . to erase and adjust archives . .      -'-•-.—*

blame ..."

". . . So this is transcendence. Every species that was
uplifted . . . and survives to adult phase . . . winds
up in such a place. ..."

"Whoever gave Streaker this coating not only saved our
lives . . . they made sure we must stay with this con-
voy, all the way to the bottom. ..."

no way to get rid of the beat

So many ideas, converging at once! It might seem like
this for a blind man to have cataracts removed from his
eyes, revealing vistas of utter clarity where there had
been fog. And yet, many concepts also felt somehow
familiar! As if they had been lurking close to compre-
hension for quite some time, massaged and predigested
by undamaged portions of his brain, awaiting only clear
sentences to make it all come together.

Emerson would gladly have spent hours just standing
there, letting gravitational tides align his head toward
the heavens while he grabbed and combined notions
from cascades that seemed to roar through his mind like
a pent-up flood. But he was not given the leisure.

A voice interrupted—at once both remote and mock-
ing. Distant, yet derisive.

"WE NOTE THAT' YOU DID NOT CAU US, DESPITE HAVING BEEN
SUPPLIED WITH A CODE TO USE, WHEN READY TO ACT ON OUR OFFEK."

Emerson scarcely bothered peering amid the glittering
lights outside. A dark ship must have drawn nearby in
cloaked secrfccy, and trying to spot it would be futile.
Instead, he went into rapid motion, squeezing his body
out of the narrow crystal dome, then sliding down the

Heaven's Reach  359

rungs of a ladder designed for another race, in a far
different time.

"I was curious to see just how badly you want the
goods you asked for," he replied in a low mutter under
his breath. Sound wasn't the medium of communication
here. Rather, the Old Ones were monitoring a stolen
plug of his own gray matter they had somehow kept in
quantum contact to the rest of his brain. When brought
close enough, it flowed with words. His words.

Words they could instantly read.

"WE DO Mr HAVE TO EXPLAIN TO THE LIKES OF YOU. IT IS ENOUGH
THAT 1KB SEEK, AND YOU SHALL PROVIDE. "

Jogging down a hallway, Emerson pulled from his
pocket a small handmade instrument with a flashing in-
dicator. No words had been needed to construct the
simple tool, nor did he contemplate its meaning.

"Aren't you guys running out of time?" he asked his
tormentors—members of the Retired Order, whose
homes had vanished in the ruin of the Fractal World.
Retirees whose vaunted detachment had failed under
testing.

"If you wait much longer, you'll transcend, whether
you like it or not. The data you seek won't do you any
good. There'll be no way to tell your friends, back in the
Five Galaxies."

Icy tones echoed in his head.

"WE HAW: SPENT AEONS CULTIVATING PATIENCE. ALL THIS KACING
AUOU'1', TAKING FIERCE ACTIONS . . . IT IS UNPLEASANT. WE HAD fOX-
GOJ7EV HOW QUICKLY DEEDS ARE FOLLOWED BY EFFECTS. "

Emerson rounded a corner and passed through a
hatch, guided by the telltale marker.

"Yeah, all the uncertainty must be driving you nuts.
So tell me, how does it feel to almost gain entry to the
Transcendent Order, your goal for a million years, only
to sneak away at the last moment, just to carry off a few
bytes of data stolen from a miserable Earthship? Aren't
you tempted just to let go of all those old obsessions? To
give in and embrace the tides?"

The reply came only after a long pause, while he
raced down Streaker's, long, almost-deserted hallways.

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO HOLD SACK. THE

360  David Bfin

GRAVITATIONAL TUG AND STRETCH AXE VOLUPTUOUS IN A MANNER THAT
NO WORDS——NO MERE PHYSICAL SENSATION——CAN DESCRIBE. "

"Go ahead and try," Emerson urged. "What is the big
deal about the Embrace of Tides?"

"YOU ARE 700 YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND. WITHIN THE EMBRACE,
ONE FEELS UNION WITH THE WHOLE COSMOS. IT IS COMFORTING PHILO-
SOPHICALLY, AS WELL AS ON THE LEVEL OF FAITH. THESE 7S WISDOM
HERE, AND KNOWLEDGE VASTLY BEYOND THE GREAT IJBRARY, OR EVEN
WHAT WE KNEW IN THE FRACTAL WORLD. "

"Really? Then why not just go?" Vehemence filled his
voice, now echoing off the pale walls. "Do the wise and
noble thing. Accept your diploma. Graduate, dammit!
Gimme back my brain. The life you stole from me. Go
down to your paradise with clean karma and a clear

conscience!"
When the meddlers replied, there seemed almost to

be a note of contrition.

"UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, YOUR PLEA MIGHT HAVE ETHICAL
MERIT. BUT NOW FAR GREATER ISSUES ARE AT STAKE THAT FORCE
US . . ."

There was another pause.

"JUST A MOMENT. WE DEJECT SOMETHING IN YOUR EMOTIVE TONE.
IN YOUR MANNER . . ."

Emerson felt strange, tickling sensations, as if the left
side of his brain were being scraped or probed. When
the voice resumed, it had a new, resentful tone.

"YOU HAVE LEARNED TRICKS OF DECEPTION AND DISTRACTION.
CLEARLY, IT IS NO LONGER POSSIBLE TO SCAN YOUR THOUGHTS SIMPLY
BY MONITORING WORDS AND GLYPHS. THE THINGS YOU SAY APPEAR
ARGUMENTATIVE, B[V IN TRUTH THEY ARE MEANT TO DEFEK. TO DELAY,

"REVEAL WHAT YOU ARE HIDING/REITAL, OR EXPERIENCE PAIN/"

Emerson gritted his teeth as he ran, trying hard not to
laugh out loud or show the depth of his contempt. But a
little leaked out as blankets of concealment were as-
sailed by ancient skill. While the Old Ones could not
draw facts out of his reluctant mind, they got a good
picture of his attitudes.

"WE PERCEIVE THAT ALL FORMS OF BASIC COERCION ARE OBSOLETE
OR INAPPLICABLE fN YOUR CASE. YOU HAVE GONE PAST PAIN, A LESSON
THAT MANY RETIREES SPEND AGES OVERCOMING. NOR DO YOU WHIM-
PER AND CLASP AFTER WHAT WAS TAKEN FROM YOU. NO /AV/KWEVT

Heaven's Reach  361

OR BRIBE WILL CAUSE YOU TO BETRAY FRIENDS AND CLAN MATES. YOU
HAVE NOT EVEN TRIED TO STEAL THE DATA WE ASKED FOR.

"ALL OF THIS MAY BE ADMIRABLE, ESPECIALLY IN A WOLFLING. IN-
DEED, UNDER OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES, WE MIGHT TAKE PLEASURE IN
COMPENSATING YOU FOR YOUR TRIALS, AND CONVERSING FURTHER
ABOUT THE VIRTUES OF UNCERTAINTY.

"BUT THE ISSUES WE FACE ARE TOO DIRE, AND 1TME IS SHORT. THE
INFORMATION MUST BE OURS/"

The telltale in Emerson's hand flashed a new direc-
tion. Up. He halted below a ceiling hatch that lay
cracked open. Light streamed from within.
Still hoping for delay, he blurted aloud.
"Let me guess. You had a backup plan, in case I
wouldn't do as you asked."

"CALCULATIONS BASED ON EARLIER NEURAL SCANS PREDICTED ONLY
A MODEST CHANCE YOU WOULD COOPERATE. SURELY YOU DON 'T THINK
WE WOULD COWT ON SUCH A SLENDER HOPE?"

Letting the voice jabber on, Emerson slipped his
tracker in a pocket and leaped, catching the rim of the
hatch and writhing his legs to haul himself into a main-
tenance conduit. Silently blessing the low ambient grav-
ity, he consulted the device again before heading aft
along a tube lined with ducted cables.

" . . NATURALLY WE WERE NOT SO FOOLISH AS TO RELY ON YOU
ALONE. "

Fearing the Old Ones were about to break contact, he
blurted.

"Wait! I still may be able to help you. But you gotta
understand ... we humans hate being kept in the
dark. Can't you tell me why you need Streaker's data?
What's so damn special about that stupid fleet of ancient
ships we found?"

That was the chief perplexing quandary dogging the fu-
gitive Earthlings for three long, hellish years.

Oh, the superficial answer was easy. When Creideiki
and Orley beamed images from the Shallow Cluster,
they triggered religious schisms across the Five Galax-
ies. Rival clans and alliances, who had controlled their
feuding for ages, sent battle fleets to secure Streaker's

362   David Brin

samples—and especially the coordinates of the derelict
fleet—before their rivals could acquire them.

Some said the Ghost Armada might be blessed
Progenitors, returning to survey their descendants after
two billion years. But if so, why react violently?
Wouldn't all dogmatic differences be worked out, once
truth was shared by all?

Emerson sensed hesitation. Then a faint perception of
agreement, as if the voice was waiting for something
else to happen. Meanwhile, it might as well converse
with a bright wolfling, to pass the time.

"ALL OF THIS HAS TO DO WITH THE EMBRACE OF TIDES. THE
DELICIOUS TUG THAT EACH OLDER RACE BEGINS TO FEEL AFTER LOSING
INTEREST M DASHING ABOUT ON MANIC STARSHIPS. WE ALL FOLLOW
THIS ATTRACTION, DROPPING OUR FORMER DIFFERENCES TO ASSEMBLE
TOGETHER NEXT TO LITTLE RED SUNS, WHERE OUR MINDS MAY GROW

AND PURIFY.

"THEN, FROM SUCH PLACES OF RETIREMENT, MANY PROCEED TO SITES
LIKE THIS ONE, WHERE OXYGEN AND HYDROGEN MERGE PEACEFULI.Y,
UNITING IN COMMON APPRECIATION OF THE STRENGTHENING EMBRACE,
PRO\WG THAT A PLAN IS AT WORK, MAGNIFICENT AND BEAUTI-
FUL. ..."

Emerson heard a low clattering, coming from some-
where just ahead. Softly, he laid the tracker down, then
hurried toward the rustling sounds. From another
pocket, he pulled a slim device—one he had stolen days
ago from Gillian Baskin's office.

". . . 7'HOUGH WHERE THE COMBINED RACES GO FROM HERE——70
WHAT DESTINY——HAS ALWAYS BEEN A MYSTERY. YOUNGER CLANS DE-
BATE IT ENDLESSLY, BUT TRANSCENDENT LIFE-FORMS NEVER EXPLAIN
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. ALL WE HAVE ARE HINTS AND STRANGE EMANA-
TIONS FROM . . ."

Concentrating hard to blank his thoughts, Emerson
rounded a corner and abruptly saw starlight ahead,
glimmering through a crystal pane. He knew this place.
It housed the main communication laser, a wide-
barreled tube occupying most of the available volume,
aimed through a broad window.

Streaker's magical coating lay beyond, a meter thick

Heaven's Reach  363

but utterly transparent, covering nearly all of the ship in
a layer that was both miraculous and deadly.

A figure stood nearby, working at an open access
panel. Emerson recognized the fluid skill of those
hands, using tools to perform rapid modifications on the
laser system. One arm was clearly artificial, while rem-
nants of the head lay encased in a mirrorlike dome.
Cyborg components like these had saved the life of
Streaker's chief engineer, back at the Fractal World.
Generosity, from a different, more kindly faction of Old
Ones—or so the crew thought at the time.

Next to Suessi lay a large data reader and several crys-
talline knowledge cells—enough to hold all of
Streaker's hard-won discoveries.

"Hello, Hannes," Emerson said aloud.

The instant he spoke, several things happened at
once.

Servos whined as the figure spun around, raising a
cutter torch whose short flame burned blindingly hot.
Without his old friend's face to look at, Emerson could
only assume the man meant to use it.

Meanwhile, the voice interrupted its explanation with
a hiss of surprise that seemed to shoot through Emer-
son's head like an electric jolt. He cried out, instinctively
grabbing at his temples. But that reaction lasted just an
instant. Gritting his teeth, he aimed the stolen plasma
pistol past Suessi's shiny dome.

"Stop it, or I shoot the laser right now! You know pain
won't work on me."

The lightning ceased at once.

"IN TRLTJTf, WE NOW BELIEVE IT, HAVING FOOLISHLY REPEATED THE
ERROR OF TAKING YOU FOR GRANTED. OUR COMPUTER MODELS CONSIS-
TENTLY UNDERESTIMATE YOUR FERAL CLEVERNESS. COULD THIS ADAPT-
ABILITY HAVE BEEN FOSTERED DURING YOUR EXILE ON THE SOONER
WORI.D?"

"Flattery'11 get you nowhere. But yeah, I learned some
new ways of thinking, there. You should hear me curse,
sometime. Or sing."

"IN ANO-IVER LIFE, PERHAPS. So YOU FIGURED WE WOULD HAVE AN
ALTERNATE AGENT. DID YOU ATTACH A TRACER, TO FIND HIM THE
MOMENT WE ARRIVED?"

364   David Brin

Emerson nodded. "Something like this seemed likely.
The one person you might have altered would be
Hannes."

"WE DID NOT ALTER THE HUMAN ARTIFICER. THOSE WHO REPAIRED
HIM WERE SINCERE. BUT WE LATER INCORPORATED THAT FACTION, AND
THUS GAINED THE ACCESS CODES. SINCE IT CLEARLY MATTERS TO YOU,
BE ASSUKED HE HAS NO PAIN. HE PERCEIVES THIS AS JUST A BAD
DREAM. "

"How considerate of you!" Emerson snapped.

"YOU THINK US CAI10US. YET, WI7V THE DESTINY OF MANY RACES
AND TRILLIONS OF LIVES AT STAKE, WE HAD REASONS—— "

"I see only that you're cowards! You feel drawn by the
Embrace of Tides, yet you fear to go in. You worry it
may be a mistake!"

"AN OVERSIMPLIFICATION, BUT THUE ENOUGH.

"THE STORY IS SO BEAUTIFUL, SO PERFECT-—WITH OXY AND HYDRO
LIFE ORDERS COMBINING IN ELEGANT PEACE, MERGING AMID A GLORIOUS
FUNNEI. OF TRANSCENDENCE——THAT HAKDLY ANY CANDIDATES EVER
QUESTION THE GENERAL ACCEPTANCE OF THIS PATH, FOLLOWED BY
THEIR ANCESTORS SINCE TIMES IMMEMORIAL. THE EMBRACE IS ALMOST
IRRESISTIBLE. DIVING TO TRANSCENDENCE IS AN ULTIMATE ACT OF

JKUST. OF FAITH.

"BUT THEREIN LIES THE RUB/ TO SOME OF US, FAITH IS NOT
ENOUGH. THERE WAS ONCE A MINORTrY VIEW, A HERESY THAT LOOKED
ON THE EMBRACE OF TIDES, AND CALLED Ft SOMETHING ELSE. "

Emerson nodded.

"A recycling system. You're worried that this white
dwarf is just like the oceanic trench on Jijo . . . the
Great Midden. A graceful way to clear away the old and
make way for the new! Yeah, that makes just as much
sense as a mystical portal to some higher layer of real-
ity!"

Deep sadness filled the alien presence—a fretful

brooding that seemed poignant in a species so ancient
and learned.

"THE DISCOVERY MADE BY YOUR DOLPHIN-CREWED SHIP IN TUB
SHALLOW CLUSTER . . . THE REAL REASON IT CAUSED SUCH CONSTER-
NATION ..."

Abruptly the voice stopped. Emerson crouched ner-
vously as the deck shuddered beneath his feet. Tremors
accelerated, growing in pitch and intensity.

Heim's Reach 365

"You're attacking us!" he accused. "All your talk was
just to humor me until—"
The voice interrupted.

"YOU ARE RIGHT THAT I WAS PERFORMING A DELAYING TACTIC. BUT
FOR A DIFFERENT REASON. THE SHOCKS YOU FEEL ARE FROM STRAIN
FRACTURES IN THE VERY FABRIC OF THE COSMOS, CONnNUING THE SAME
PROCESS THAT DEMOLISHED OUR HOME THAT YOU CALLED THE FRACTAL
WORLD.

"THESE FRACTURES ARE SPREADING AT AN ACCELERATING PACE. "

"Sara thinks—"

"WE HAVE FOLLOWED HER WORK WITH INTEREST. SHE APPEARS TO
KNOW WHAT THE TRANSCENDENTS COVERED UP——THAT FATE SEEMS
BOUND TO SMASH THE TIES BINDING OUR GALAXIES . . . INDEED, THE
NE7WORKS THAT MAINTAIN CIVILIZATION. "

It was an awesome statement. Yet, something else the
voice had said bothered Emerson.

"A ... delaying tactic? Why? I already stopped
Hannes from—"

He shouted an oath.

"Of course. You Old Ones wouldn't leave anything to
chance. You'd have a third option. A backup for your
backup! What is it? Tell me!"

"OR ELSE WHAT? WILL YOU SHOOT YOUR FRIEND f WE COULD HAVE
SENT HIM CHARGING AT YOU, SEVERAL DURAS AGO. WITH CYBORG
STRENGTH AND SPEED, WE CALCULATE THIRTY PERCENT ODDS HE WOULD
HAVE PREVAILED BEFORE YOU PUT HIM OUT OF ACTION. A WORTH-
WILE GAMBIJ-:, FROM OUR POINT OF VIEW.

"EXCEPT THAT BY NOW OUR THISD AGENT HAS ALREADY DEPARTED
YOUR SHIP. "

"Your . . . third agent?"

"WE MADE A BARGAIN WITH A YOUNG WOLFUNG. IN EXCHANGE FOR
COPIES OF YOUK SHIP LOGS, WE WILL TAKE HER AWAY FROM THIS PLACE.
"FROM HERE TO SEE HER GODS. "

Darting past immobile Suessi, Emerson pressed
against the laser-window and peered outside.

Streaker's nose lay to his left, where just one of the
airlocks had been cleared of the magic coating to allow
egress. Emerson could not see that aperture. But a few
hundred meters outward, he glimpsed a stubby vessel—
a little escape pod, puffing as it turned toward a dark
patch of space.

366  livid Brio

A black patch that blocked a swath of stars.
Emerson's brain seemed to spin. His thought pro-
cesses were much quicker than they had been before
his mutilation. Still, it took moments to realize—

"Lieutenant Tsh't! You sprang her from the brig and
helped her escape!"

"A SIMPLE MATTER Of MEME-INFECTING YOUR SHIPBOAKD COM-
PUTERS. MUCH HARDER WAS 7HE PHYSICAL EFFOKT, HELPING HEK ENTER
PLACES WHERE GILLIAN BASKIN HAD HIDDW THE SECRETS, WORKING
WITH A M/ND-CONTROLLED SUESSI TO STEAL THEM, THEN HAVING BOTH
AGENTS SMUGGLE OUT THE MATERIAL BY SEPARATE ROUTES.

"AND NOW AT LAST, DESPITE YOUR INTERFERENCE, WE ARE ABOUT
70 POSSESS THE DATA NEEDED TO MAKE CORRECT DECISIONS AFFECTING

MULTITUDES .

"THIS PUTS US M A GENEROUS MOOD TO REDSESS YOUR MAW

INCONVENIENCES . OUT OF RESPECT FOK YOUK FERAL INGENUITY, LET US
MAKE AMENDS. IN DEPARTING WE SHALL LEAVE BEHIND SOMETHING
YOU 'LL BE GLAD TO HAVE BAC—— "

The voice cut off abruptly as another wave of space-
time tremors struck. This one made Emerson's skin
crawl with tingling sensations. Pulsations coursed the
length of his digestive system, producing several loud

ecruptions.
The stars outside wavered, and the vague black patch

he had glimpsed before started to shimmer, revealing a

familiar outline.

A galuphin-class sneakboat, he identified. An expen-
sive, but conventional Galactic design.

"Wha—?" uttered a nearby voice. Hannes Suessi
groaned, recovering consciousness. "What'm I doin'

here? What's happening?"

Emerson had other things to worry about than updat-
ing a friend. Spatial fluctuations had confused the enig-
matic Old Ones. With their cloaking mask disrupted,
they dropped all pretense at stealth and made speed
toward the little life pod, in order to pick up Tsh't and
the information they prized. But the same tumult that
made Streaker's hull vibrate was causing them trouble,

too.

Indeed, the surrounding vast armada of "transcen-

dence candidates" seemed to be breaking up! Wavelets

Heaven's Reach  367

of compressed metric tore through their crowded ranks,
pushing one phalanx of great ships toward another. Em-
erson saw collisions—and sparkling explosions—ripple
from one area to the next, as jagged oxy-vessels merged
prematurely with hydro-globules, releasing convulsions
of raw energy.

Amid all this chaos, something far more disconcerting
was going on. At least from Emerson's perspective. His
power of speech kept fading, then surging back again,
briefly enhanced beyond all natural ability, causing
countless strange associations to spill forth.

The voice was absent, yet he continued getting im-
pressions from the beings he called Old Ones. Sensa-
tions of deep concern. Shifting toward worry. Followed
by desperation.

Moving in fits and starts, their sneakboat approached
the little pod carrying Tsh't, fighting chaotic disruption
waves all the way. While the heavens coruscated with
dire accidents—and untold populations died just short
of their transcendent goal—Emerson's erstwhile tormen-
tors struggled to dock with the renegade dolphin lieu-
tenant.

"I feel . . . like somehow I been used," murmured
Suessi, moving alongside to peer out the" window. "I
sure wish you could talk, lad. I could do with some light
put on the subject."

Emerson glanced at Suessi, then at the shadowy
sneakboat . . . and then rapidly from his friend to the
big comm laser.

"Hannes . . . ," he began, then had to wait till an-
other wave of fluency passed through his mind. He
knew that each time might be the last.

"Hannes, we gotta use the comm laser to burn those
two boats, now!"

Suessi stared in surprise at the brief, unexpected elo-
quence. His dome-covered head turned to follow Emer-
son's pointing finger. "What, those? Why not call Dr.
Baskin and use real combat beams—"

The quantum link to Emerson's speech center flick-
ered out, leaving him shrouded in dull muteness, unable
to explain that the foe would surely have meme-

368   David Brill

disabled the fire-control systems of any formal weapons

in order to guarantee their safe escape.

He managed to force a few words out by sheer will-
power.

"No . . . time! Do! Do it!"

The shiny dome nodded. Both shoulders lifted in a

true Suessi shrug.

"Okay! You gotta help me, though. This thing ain't

exactly meant for frying spaceships."

They set to work at once, sharing a rhythm long famil-
iar to engineers laboring through a shipboard emer-
gency—from Roman trireme, to ancient submarine, to
the first sluggish starcraft Earthlings once hurled toward
the Milky Way, filled with hopes for a friendly universe.
Emerson found that speechlessness did not hamper him
as much if he let his hands and eyes work together with-
out interference. Somehow, they knew which connec-
tions to shift. Which adjustments to make. When Hannes
spoke, the hands responded as if they understood.

It left his mind free to observe with strange detach-
ment, even as Streaker's hallways started clamoring
with alarm signals, sending crew rushing to battle sta-
tions. Clearly, Suessi yearned to go join his engine gang,
but so great was their mutual trust, the fellow took Em-
erson's word that this was more important.

It made Emerson doubly glad he hadn't been forced

to shoot his friend.

"Hokay," Suessi announced. "Here goes nothing."

The laser throbbed, and the air temperature in the
little chamber abruptly dropped several degrees as pul-
sating energy flooded into space.

Instantly, he could tell that the first pulse missed its
target, disappearing among the flashes of coruscating
catastrophe that surrounded Streaker, growing more

garish and terrible by the minute.

Cursing roundly, Emerson stabbed several control

buttons, bypassing the computer, then began slewing
the laser by hand, aiming by sight alone.

Meanwhile, the sneakboat kept fighting waves of
spacetime backwash to finally make contact with the
little craft carrying Tsh't. Impact wasn't gentle. Hull

Heaven's Reach  369

panels crumpled on one side, but the sturdy, Then-
nanin-built pod held together. Soon, the larger vessel's
surface melted to envelop the escape capsule, drawing
it inside.

Tsh't and her purloined cargo were safe in the grasp
of those who wanted it so badly.

Emerson had mixed feelings while struggling to adjust
the balky laser. Though he hated the Old Ones for their
callousness—especially the way they had mutilated him
and others for their own purposes—he also understood,
just a little, their rationale. Without words, he could pic-
ture the panicky background for their actions.

Ultimately-^after passing through the young, hot-
tempered, starfaring stage—each race had to choose
whether to continue down a comforting runnel that ap-
peared to welcome all whose souls were ready. A place
of union, where the best of hydro and oxy cultures
merged, preparing to move on.

But move on to what?

The vast majority felt it must be something greater
and more noble than anything in this cosmos. The place
where blessed Progenitors had gone so long ago.

But there was another, minority opinion.

On Jijo, Emerson had learned something deep and
gritty about the cycle of life. A metaphor that he held in
his mind, even after speech had gone away.

An image of the deepest part of the sea.

And a single word.

Dross.

He jabbed the firing button.

Once again, the laser moaned a cry, deeper than a
hoonish umble and more combative than the war shout
of a desert urrish warrior, accompanied by a sudden
wave of cold.

Something flared in the night! A sparkle of destruc-
tion. Fire illumined one end of the sneakship, outlining
its aft segment, which now shimmered with devastating
explosions.

All at once, words returned to Emerson's life. The
voice reentered his mind, in tones that conveyed hurt
perplexity.

370  David Brin

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? ONCE ON OUR WAY, WE
PLANNED SENDING YOU THE CYLINDER. THE PLUG OF TISSUE THAT YOU
CIIA VE. AFTER WE HAD NO FUKTHES NEED OF IT, OK OF YOU.

"NOW VOW 7KEASURE WILL BE LOST, ALONG WITH US, AS WE FALL

INTO A DYING WHriE SUN. "

Already the mortally wounded sneakboat could be
seen tumbling along a plummeting trajectory, while
Streaker's engines cranked to push the other way.

"I know that," Emerson sighed. So many hopes had
turned to ash when he fired the laser bolt. Especially his
dream of talking to Sara. Of telling her what was in his
heart. Or even holding on to thoughts that right now
seemed so fluid and natural, so easy and fine. Smooth,
graceful thoughts that would become hard again, mo-
ments from now, when what had been stolen, then re-
stored, would finally be lost forever.

"BUT WHY? IN YOUR CKUDE WAY, YOU UNDERSTAND OUR WORRY.
YOU SYMPATHIZE WITH OUR MISGIVINGS ABOUT THE EMBKACE OF
TIDES. YOU EVEN SUSPECT WE MAY BE RIGHT/ WOULD IT HAVE BEEN
SO BAD TO LET US HAVE THE CLUES WE NEED? TO LEARN THE TRLTIU
ABOUT DESTINY? TO KNOW WHICH WAY TO CHOOSE?"

The plaint was so poignant, Emerson weighed ex-
plaining, while there was time.

Should he talk about orders from the Terragens Coun-
cil, that secrets from the Shallow Cluster must be shared

by all races ... or none?

A raging corner pondered telling the aliens that this
was Pyrrhic revenge, getting even for things they had
done to him—no matter how well justified they thought

they were.

In fact, though, neither of those reasons excused his

act of murder. While Streaker shuddered under ever
more intense spacetime waves—climbing laboriously
through a maelstrom of colliding transport arks and
flaming Zang globes—he found there was only one an-
swer to give the Old Ones.

The right answer.

One that was both logical and entirely just.

"Because you didn't ask," he explained, as the quan-
tum links began flickering out for the last time.

"You . . . never once said . . . please."

H

arry

THE SEARCH WENT BADLY AT FIRST.
Kazzkark was a maze of tunnels where sophonts
could all too easily disappear—whether by choice
or mischance. And matters only worsened as the
placid lifestyle of an Institute outpost vanished like
a memory. More refugees poured in, even after the
planetoid started quivering in response to waves of sub-
space disturbance. Tempers stretched thin, and there
were more than enough troubles to keep police drones
of the Public Safety Department busy.

When it came to looking for a pair of lost humans,
Harry was pretty much on his own.

His first good lead came when he overheard a Syn-
thian chatter to comrades in a space merchants' bar,
bragging about a sharp business deal she'd just made,
acquiring some first-rate wolfling relics for resale to the
collectors' trade.

"Mild guilt—this I experience, concerning the meager
price that I paid for such marvelously genuine hand-
crafted items, "prated the husky creature in Galactic Six.

"Of their authentic, aboriginal nature, I have no
doubt. Evidence of this was overwhelming, from the mo-
ment I programmed my scanner with appropriate
archaeological search profiles, checking for tool marks,
use patterns, and body-oil imbuements. The result? Ab-
solute absence of tec b no-traces, or other signs of forgery!
A bona-fide aboriginal tool/weapon, weathered and
worn from the primitive fight for survival under bar-
baric circumstances!

"What? What is that you say? You would view this
marvelous acquisition? But of course! Here it is. Behold
the elegant sweeps and curves, the clever blending of

372   David Btin
animal and vegetal materials, revealing non-Galactic

sapiency in its full, unfettered glory!

"The shipwrecked human who formerly owned these
artifacts—his reported brain damage must have under-
mined all sense of value! His recovery from space amne-
sia—it will not bring pleasant realizations for the poor
young wolfling, when be realizes how much more he
might have charged for bis precious archery set, which
will now garner me great profit on the aficionado cir-
cuit.

"Especially now that the chief source of all such relics

—planet Earth—will surely vanish under cascades of
fire, within a few jaduras."

Harry was not present where these words were spoken.
He was halfway across Kazzkark, searching for Rety and
Dwer in a poor refugee encampment, when those
snatches of dialogue were sent to his earpiece by a

clever spy program.

Using his new rank-status, he had ordered a scan of

all sonic pickups, scattered throughout the planetoid,
sifting countless conversations for certain rare key
words. Till now, the computer had just found trivial cor-
relations. But this time, the Synthian went through half
the list in a few duras, covering all but Dwer's name!

Racing across town, Harry sent a priority call for
backup units to join him. Perhaps it was the new golden
comet on his collar, or just a sense of urgency, but Harry
plunged through the crowd, ignoring shocked looks

from senior patron-class beings.

He arrived to find several proctor robots already hov-
ering menacingly near a bar advertising a range of intox-

orelaxants. A throng gathered to watch.

"The rear exit is secured, Scout-Major Harms," re-
ported one of the bobbing drones. "The denizens
within seem unsuspecting. Several fondle concealed
weapons', of types we are equipped to counter, with
moderate-to-good probability of success."

Harry grunted.

Heaven's fleach  373

"I'd prefer a guarantee, but that'll do. Just stay close.
Let everyone see you as we enter."

He was tempted to draw his own sidearm, but Harry
preferred to handle this courteously, if possible.

"All right. Let's go."

Half a dozen Synthian traders sat in a booth, looking
alike in grayish brown fur with dark facial streaks.
Tliickset, their heavy shoulders and bellies draped with
pouched bandoliers. Harry soon found the one he
wanted. A sleek bow and quiver of arrows, made from
finely carved wood and bone, lay on the table. When a
merchant reached for these, Harry bore in, asking where
she got them.

Kiwei Ha'aoulin reacted with combative relish, strik-
ing an indignant, lawyerly pose. After listening to the
Synthian complain loudly for more than twenty duras—
vociferously denouncing "illegal eavesdroppers and bu-
reaucratic bullies"—Harry finally broke in to remind
Kiwei that Kazzkark was sole property of the Great In-
stitutes, and lately under martial law. Moreover, would
the merchant like to unpack her ship's hold, comparing
each smig and dram meticulously to the official cargo
manifest?

All bluster quickly faded from the raccoonlike counte-
nance. Harry had never met a Synthian, but they were
familiar figures on daytime holodramas back on Earth,
where Synthian characters were stereotyped as jovial,
enthusiastic—and relentlessly self-interested.

This one took a long pause to evaluate Harry's propo-
sition, then switched to rather good colloquial Anglic.

"Well well, Scout-Major. You had only to ask. Shall I
lead you to where I last saw Dwer Koolhan. Yes! But be
warned, he may not look the same! If you find him. For
as we parted, he was making enquiries. Asking ques-
tions about cosmetic surgery. As if his intent was to go
into hiding!"

374  Oavid Brin

While they hurried together along the main boulevard,
Harry muttered into his cheek microphone, inquiring if
any local body-repair shops had done custom work on
humans during the day and a half since Kiwei Ha'aoulin

last saw Dwer.

He also checked in with HQ. Wer'Q'quinn had sched-
uled yet another emergency meeting of the local
Navlnst planning staff in four miduras.

What was left of the staff, that is. Most scouts and
senior aides had already departed, scurrying across the
quadrant on urgent rescue missions, commandeering
vessels of all sizes to evacuate isolated outposts, setting
up buoys to divert traffic from destabilized transfer
points, and tracking the advance of chaos across this
portion of the Five Galaxies.

Especially troubling were reports of violent outbreaks
among oxy-clans, or between various life orders. An un-
commonly furious confrontation had flared in
Corcuomin Sector between one of the more reclusive
hydrogen-breathing cultures and a vast swarm of ma-
chine entities, whose normal home-domain in deep
space had grown so ruptured that vast numbers of un-
registered mechs began migrating into rich territory for-
bidden to them by ancient treaties. So frenzied and
brutal was the resulting clash that weapons of unprece-
dented force had been unleashed, tearing through walls
separating various levels of spacetime, causing vortices
of A and B hyperlevels to come swirling into the "nor-
mal" continuum, wreaking havoc everywhere they
touched. There were even reports that memetic life-
forms seemed to be involved as allies of one side or
another—or perhaps taking advantage of the confusion
to spread their ideogrammatic matrices into new hosts—
filling the battlefield with riotous sensory impressions,
fostering ideas that were too complex and bizarre for
any organic or electronic mind.

Amid all this, Wer'Q'quinn kept delaying Harry's next
assignment. Too inexperienced and undiplomatic to be
entrusted with a big command, Harry was also appar-
ently too valuable to waste on some futile errand.
"Keep in touch, "Wer'Q'quinn kept telling him. "Isus-

Heaven's Reacli  375

pect we will need your expertise in E Space before we're
done."

The Synthian merchant motioned toward one of the
side streets selling clothing and personal accoutrements
of all kinds.

"Here is where I last saw the human, bidding me fare-
well as he clutched a purse filled with GalCoins from
our transaction, appearing eager to rush off and spend
his new fortune as quickly as possible."

"GalCoin?" Harry asked. Far better if Dwer had been
paid in credits or marks, which could be traced across
the Commercial Web. "How much did you pay?"

Kiwei Ha'aoulin tried to demur, claiming commercial
privilege, but soon realized it would not avail.

"Seventy-five demi units."

Harry's fists clenched and he growled. "Seventy-five!
For genuine Earth-autochthonous handicrafts from a
preindustrial era? Why you unscrupulous—"

He went on cursing the Synthian roundly, since the
merchant clearly expected it. Anything less would have
insulted her pride. But in fact, Harry's mind was already
racing ahead. He had no intention of informing Kiwei
Ha'aoulin that the precious bow and arrows were far
more recently made than she thought. They were, in
fact, contraband from an illegal sooner settlement,
carved hy qheuen teeth and burnished at an urrish
forge.

He was interrupted by a computer message. Appar-
ently one of the body shops had been visited lately by a
young Terran, who paid cash for a quick cosmetic over-
haul. Nothing fancy. Just a standard flesh-regrowth pro-
file that the shop had in its panspecies file.

"Let's go!" he told the Synthian. She resisted momen-
tarily, then caught the fierce look in Harry's eyes. Kiwei
Ha'aoulin gave an expressively Earth-style shrug.

"Of course, Scout-Major Harms. Well, well. I remain
perpetually at your service."

Unfortunately, the repair shop in question lay some dis-
tance beyond the Plaza of Faith. To reach the other side,

376   B avid Brill

they would have to work their way past a host of mis-
sionaries and zealots, all fired up by the steady unrav-
eling of order throughout the Five Galaxies.

Much had changed since Harry last visited this zone,
where elegant pavilions had been tended by neatly
robed acolytes, politely pontificating their ancient dog-
mas in the old-fashioned way, with traditional rhythms
of surety and patience. Since most Galactic sects aimed
to persuade entire races and clans, the emphasis had
always been on relentless repetition and exposure—to
"show the flag" and let other sapients slowly grow ac-
customed to a better view of destiny. Individuals mat-
tered only as vehicles to carry ideas home, spreading

them to family and nation.

This atmosphere of tranquil persistence had already
begun wearing thin during Harry's, last visit. Now, as
intermittent subspace tremors made the stony walls
shiver, it seemed to be unraveling completely.

Crowds filled the once placid compounds of several
religio-philosophical alliances—the Inheritors, Immer-
sers, and Transcenders. Immaculate fabric partitions got
trampled as listeners pushed toward shouting deacons
dressed in gaudy silver gowns, perched on ridiculously
elevated platforms that teetered near the high ceiling.
Their amplified and translated words boomed or
flashed, transmitting stridency in at least a dozen Galac-
tic dialects, as if persuasion could be bought through
sheer volume. Each side fought so hard to drown out
the others that Harry could hardly make out anything
beyond a head-splitting roar. That did not deter the
crowds however, whose urgency seemed to make the
air crackle with supercharged emotion.

This place must be swarmin' with invisible psi waves
and empathy glyphs, Harry realized, glad that his own
mental talents went in other directions, leaving him
blissfully insensitive to such scraping irritations. A Tym-
brimi who got caught in this mob would prob'ly fry his

tendrils on all the crazed vibrations.

There were other changes in the Plaza. Platoons of
Inheritor and Immerser acolytes could be seen carrying
staffs, cudgels, utility cutters, and other types of make-

Heaven's Reacli  377

shift weaponry, eyeing each other with distrustful wrath.
Beyond one translucent curtain, Harry even thought he
glimpsed several sharply angled figures moving about—
huge and mantislike.

He shuddered at the unmistakable silhouettes.
Tandu.

Next Harry and Kiwei Ha'aoulin passed the pavilions
of the Awaiters and Abdicators ... or rather, their
remnants. Tattered banners lay charred on the ground—
silent testimony to how vehement the ancient rivalries
had become. Their differences of opinion were no
longer even ostensibly patient, or theoretical, now that a
day of reckoning seemed near.

A few soot-covered Awaiters—mostly spidery guldin-
gars and thick-horned varhisties—picked warily through
the ruins, protected by drones they had hired from some
local private security service. The varhisties, in particu-
lar, looked bitterly eager for revenge.

Meanwhile, every side avenue seemed filled with
clamor and speculation. A formation of cop-bots swept
eastward at top speed, rushing around the next corner
toward some noisy emergency. Duras later, Harry
glanced down an alley and thought he glimpsed some
shabby scavengers stripping a corpse amid the shad-
ows.

Along the main north-south Way, preachers stood on
rickety pulpits, shouting for attention. The dour-looking
Pee'oot proselyte was still where Harry remembered,
stretching out its spiral neck and goggle eyes, jabbering
in obscure dialects about the need for all species to re-
turn to their basic natures—whatever that meant.

Harry also spotted the Komahd evangelist, whose de-
ceptive smile split even wider upon meeting Harry's
gaze. Its rear tripod leg thumped loudly for emphasis.

"There!" the Komahd shouted, pointing with bony
digits. "Perceive how yet another Terran passes by, thus
proving that this vile infection will not be rubbed out
when their homeworld is finally invaded and brought to
justice. No, friends. Not even when Earth is sequestered,
and its rich gene-pool is divided up among the righ-

378 OHil Brio

teous. For they have spread among us like infecting vi-
ruses!

"Have you all not seen, this very day, copious evi-
dence for their malignant influence? Even here on far
Kazzkark, wolflings and their insane followers spew vile
lies and calumny, reviving ancient selfish heresies, un-
dermining our shared vision of destiny, debasing the
foundations of society, and depicting our revered ances-
tors as little more than fools!"

While shouting hatred of Harry's clan, the Komahd
kept "smiling" and batting deceptively beguiling eye-
lashes, creating a misleading expression that clearly
meant something quite different wherever the creature
came from. It-seemed noteworthy that the proselyte's
ire, previously directed paranoically toward hydrogen
breathers, now seemed centered wholly on poor little

Earthclan.
That struck Harry as rather unfair and overwrought,

since everyone was betting on the fall of Terra in a mat-
ter of weeks or days, if not hours. Nevertheless, he
sensed danger from the Komahd's small band of follow-
ers. The emblems of his Navigation Institute uniform
might not offer protection if he stayed.

"Wait," Kiwei Ha'aoulin murmured as Harry tugged
her arm. "I find this sophont's argument cogently entic-
ing! His rhetoric is most appealing. The logic seems un-
assailable!"

"Very funny, Kiwei." Harry growled. "Come on.

Now"

Clearly delighted with her own wit, the Synthian chor-
tled happily. Kiwei's people were enthusiasts, but prag-
matists above all. Like many races in the "moderate
majority," they cared little about obscure religious argu-
ments over the nature of transcendence, preferring to go
about their business, leaving destiny to take care of it-
self. All else being equal, they would happily have
shared the infamous "Streaker discovery" openly, and
even paid the Terragens a nice finder's fee, to make it all

worthwhile.

Alas, the moderate majority was also famous for dith-
ering and indecision. Eventually, they might finish their

Heaven's Reach  379

endless deliberations over whether to save Earth,
though by that time help would come too late to accom-
plish anything but stir the ashes.

Speaking of going about one's business, Harry hoped
this would be the last of the religious swarms. But no
sooner did he and Kiwei push around the next bend
than they found the way completely blocked by the big-
gest mass gathering yet! Crowds extended far ahead and
to both sides, filling a domed intersection that had for-
merly been a market for selling organonutrient supple-
ments.

The melange of sapient species types dazzled him
with its sheer variety—from willowy, stalklike zitlths to
a pair of hulking brmas. Indeed, an amazed scan took
in many races that Harry had only vaguely heard of be-
fore. The veritable forest of strange limbs, heads, torsos,
and sensory organs mingled and merged till his con-
fused eyes found it hard to tell where some creatures
finished and others began.

Smell alone was so dense and complex, it nearly
made him swoon.

Many onlookers used portable devices to monitor
what was being said by the distant missionaries—who
could only be made out from here as dim silvery glints
on an upraised stage. Others tilted their varied eyes
toward a dozen or so large vid screens, mounted high
along the stone walls, each one emanating a different
dialect.

A fraction of the crowd pressed forward, seeking
something ineffable from direct experience.

"Curious," Kiwei Ha'aoulin commented. "I count sev-
eral racial types that are not normally prone to religious
fervor. And quite a few others whose clans are in deep
ideological conflict with each other. Note over there! A
tourmuj Awaiter and a talpu'ur Inheritor, standing en-
raptured, side by side. I wonder what conceptual magic
has them so captivated."

"Who cares?" Harry groaned impatiently. He wanted
to reach the body shop before closing time, so the trail
would not go cold. "Ifni! We'll never get around this
mess."

380 David Bnn

He was about to suggest turning around and taking a
long detour, when the sound of his Anglic cursing at-
tracted attention from a tall, camellike being, who
turned to regard Harry with coal-black eyes.

It was a j'81ek, whose starfaring nation had such a
long history of antipathy toward Earthlings that Harry's
right hand twitched, seeking comfort from the touch of

his sidearm.

Only this particular j'81ek did something unexpected.
After staring at Harry for several duras, it abruptly swept
its long neck downward, bowing in a gesture of deep
respect! Applying force with all four powerful legs, the
creature pushed against the crowd, opening the begin-
nings of a path for Harry and his companion.

Somewhat amazed, the two of them moved forward,
only to have the same thing happen again! Time after
time, some onlooker would notice Harry, then hurriedly
nudge those in front, clearing a path. No one objected
or demurred. Even high-ranking beings from senior pa-
tron lines made way graciously, as if to an equal.

The experience was all the more daunting and
strange to a chimp who stood less than a meter and a
half high. It felt as if some force were dividing a sea of
tall aliens before him, creating a narrow lane that he
could not see beyond,, leaving him with no idea what to
expect at the other end. The whole thing would have
felt just a bit unnerving, if everybody didn't seem so
damned friendly.

That made it totally unnerving!

He was too immersed in the crowd to catch anything
but an occasional glimpse of the big display screens. But
soon the preacher's voice came through in clear Galactic
Seven, causing him to stumble with sudden recognition.

". . . anyone can understand why the great and
mighty religious alliances have been driven to a frenzy
by this news, broadcast recently from the sacred martyr
world. This gift sent to us from wonderful doomed
Earth.

"A gift of truth!

Heaven's Reach  381

"By combining Galactic science with their own inge-
nious mathematics, the wolflings have uncovered a se-
cret that high officials of the Institutes tried for many
aeons to conceal—a secret also known by majestic be-
ings of the Retired and Transcendent orders—that the
convulsions presently racking the Five Galaxies are part
of a natural process! One we should embrace, rather
than dread!"

At once Harry recognized the manner of speech, as well
as the strange message.

It was the Skiano proselyte! The one who used to
sermonize in the street, unable to afford even a side-
walk pulpit. Given to extravagant metaphors, it had
compared humanity's "wolfling" nature—supposedly
arising to sapience without intervention by a patron race
—to legends of "virgin birth." Harry vividly recalled the
great prow-shaped head with twin pairs of inset, flash-
ing eyes, uttering a chilling prophecy that Earth would
suffer a kind of crucifixion, gloriously dying for the sake
of others, before rising again, in spirit.

Now he understood why the crowd parted for a Ter-
ran—even a mere chimpanzee. (One with a tail that
twitched nervously!)

Alas, that knowledge came as slim comfort. Clearly,
the Skiano was riding a wave of public hysteria. Harry
had walked into a revival meeting for one of the most
bizarre heresies ever to strike the Five Galaxies!

Entranced and thoroughly amused, Kiwei Ha'aoulin
began leading the way, forging ahead eagerly, as if to
compensate for Harry's growing reluctance, acting like a
strutting majordomo, alerting one and all that an Earth-
ling was coming through!

In a whispered aside, she urged him to enjoy the spe-
cial treatment while it lasted.

"Well well. Maybe you should buck up, little furry
fellow! With the whole cosmos shaking apart, we might
as well have some fun."

Not a typically Synthian attitude. But then, fatalism
can be a strong antidote to cowardice.

382   David Brin

This time, Harry decided to accept Kiwei's reasoning.
He squared his shoulders back, trying for the full bi-
pedal dignity that human patrons had imbued into his
ancestors while also giving them the gifts of speech and
sapiency. He smoothed down the hackles in his pale
fur, and even allowed the anomalous tail to rise up, in

pride.

Abruptly, the throng ended. He and Kiwei found

themselves at a raised platform where visiting dignitar-
ies could sit and watch the spectacle in comfort.

Harry wanted only to get away and resume his earlier
business, searching for the wayward sooners. But the
only path available aimed straight up a ramp to the re-
served area. As he climbed alongside Kiwei, the Skiano
missionary's strange dogma resonated.

"... why do the mighty alliances and Old Ones so op-
pose the idea of a God who loves each person? One who
finds importance not in race or clan, but in every par-
ticular entity who is aware and capable of compassion?

"Could it be because they fear such an idea might
bring an end to Uplift or species improvement?

"Nonsense! Those things would still take place, under-
taken by free individuals! By sovereign souls who have
faith in themselves and a personal redemption—when
each honorable sapient will meet the Creator of All,
finding utter fulfillment at the Omega Point."

Harry had heard it all before—a strange blending of an-
cient Earth beliefs—many of them mutually incompati-
ble—-upgraded to address the mass fears of a Galactic
civilization where the accustomed certainty was melting
on all sides. The Skiano's brilliant added touch—por-
traying the wolfling planet in the role of glorious, re-
deeming martyr—took advantage of Terra's plight . . .
while doing little to help save it from wrathful battle

fleets.

If Harry thought the sermon bizarre, something more

interesting awaited him among the varied dignitaries—

Heaven's Reach  383

none other than his old antagonist, the port inspector,
who slouched as low as possible, clearly wishing to be
elsewhere.

Harry loudly greeted the big hoon, calling out his
name.

"Twaphu-anuph! Is that really you? Come to expand
your horizons a bit, have you? Decided it was time to
see the light?"

Upon spying Harry, Twaphu-anuph recoiled. With his
elegantly dyed throat sac flapping miserably, he ges-
tured lamely toward a young female hoon sitting next to
him.

"My presence here ... it was not voluntary.
My ... hr-rrm . . . daughter made me come."

Harry barely stifled a guffaw. If hoons had one ap-
pealing trait, it was how they doted on their offspring.
Harry still found it mystifying why this charming attri-
bute nevertheless resulted in a race of dour, prudish,
inflexible bureaucrats.

While Harry savored Twaphu-anuph's discomfort, the
Skiano kept preaching.

"Today we see the great powers striving to suppress truth
—even as they vie to rain ruin down on Blessed Earth.
Why? Because they worry about the Big Mistake.

"Long ago, a so-called 'heresy' was quashed. But
truth can only be bidden, never destroyed.
"Now they fear all sapients will see at last—"
The prow-headed missionary paused dramatically.
"—that the vaunted 'Embrace of Tides' may be an
embrace of lies!"

The crowd must have already known the gist of this
message. Yet a moan coursed the vast hall when it was
said aloud.

It gave Harry a chance to torment the port official
some more.

"How 'bout that, old fellow?" he murmured. "Genera-
tion after generation, workin' and slaving and havin' no

384  David BriR

fun, just so's your distant smart-aleck descendants will
get to jump through a black hole to paradise. But what if
there's nothing down there, at the other end of the sin-
gularity? What if it's all for nothin?"

While Twaphu-anuph slumped miserably, his daugh-
ter leaned forward eagerly, peering with excitement
toward the dais, where the Skiano paced back and forth
under spotlights.

". . . but there is another kind of salvation! One that
needn't dwell on far horizons of space and time. One
that comes to each of us, if we just open up . . ."

Twaphu-anuph's daughter turned to her other compan-
ion, a sturdy-looking young male hoon, whose arm she
held with evident affection. A slender rousit perched on
her shoulder, staring at a black, ferretlike creature
lounging on the male's back. Another inexplicable irony
was that animals tended to like hoons, something that
sapient beings seldom did.

Both youths were clearly well embarked on a bond-
ing cycle—a scene that might have looked fetching, ex-
cept the inevitable outcome would be yet another
generation of sullen oppressors.

Why would boons attend this bizarre rally? It runs
counter to everything they stand for!

Harry jerked reflexively, reacting to a nudge from his
Synthian companion.

"Over there!" Kiwei Ha'aoulin pointed. "Is that possi-
bly one of the Earthlings you seek?"

Harry peered toward one end of the glare-lighted
stage, where the Skiano's attendants swarmed in
flowing robes of blue and gold. In their midst stood a
smallish human figure, similarly attired, who made com-
manding gestures, sending acolytes fanning through the
congregation, armed with collection plates.
Harry blinked in surprise.
Rety!
A bath alone would have transformed the sooner girl.

Heaven's Reacti   385

Resplendent garments took things further. But Harry
saw that her face had also changed. Where scar tissue
had once puckered her cheek and jaw, smooth pink
skin now glistened.

The customer at the body shop wasn 't Dwer, after all,
I should've guessed.

Rety must have nosed around Kazzkark till she found
the one group that would find her invaluable—a cult
whose icon was the blue wolfling planet. Indeed, from
the looks of things, she had risen to some prominence.
A survivor, if Harry ever saw one.

"And now," Kiwei Ha'aoulin murmured. "We com-
plete the circle. You are about to be reunited in full, and
I will take my leave."

Harry reached out to stop the Synthian . . . then no-
ticed that the audience was rippling once again. Like the
Red Sea, parting. Emerging from a morass of beings
who shuffled, slithered, flopped, or crawled out of the
way, there strode a slim figure dressed in dun-colored
clothing that seemed blurry to the eye. With the hood of
his homespun garment thrown back, Dwer Koolhan's
shock of unruly hair seemed to gleam in contrast, like
his dark eyes.

Well, be must've spent some of the seventy-five coins,
Harry thought, noting that the young man held a small
electronic tablet and was using it the way natives on
Horst would hold a dowsing rod, searching back and
forth for water. On the back of one arm, Dwer also wore
a makeshift arrangement of bent metal tubes and elastic
bands that no Galactic would see as a weapon, but
Harry recognized as a vicious-looking wrist catapult—
more useful at close urban quarters than any bow and
arrows. At his waist, the human wore a long knife in a
sheath.

To anyone but another Earthling, he might have
seemed completely calm, oblivious to the crowd. But
Harry read tension in Dwer's shoulders as the living
aisle spilled him toward the. dignitaries' ramp. Kiwei had
begun edging away again, but now the Synthian's curi-
osity overcame caution and she stayed to watch the
young sooner approach.

386  David Brin

"Well, well . . . ," Kiwei said, over and over, licking

her whiskers nervously.

Dwer acknowledged Kiwei with a nod, showing no
sign of any rancor over being cheated—much to the

Synthian's obvious relief.

Approaching Harry, he turned off the small finder

tool.

"Smart of you to set up a personal beacon, Captain
Harms. I bought some lessons how to set this tracker
onto your signal. We use sniffer-bees for the same pur-
pose, back home."

Harry shrugged. He hadn't expected it to work. But
clearly, wherever these sooners came from, their school-
ing included resiliency.

"I'm just glad you two are all right," he replied gruffly,

nodding toward Rety.

Dwer scanned the scene onstage, where Rety could
now be seen with the Skiano's parrot on her shoulder,
leading the audience in a strangely compelling psalm,
merging contributions from at least half a dozen Galactic
dialects with slow, sonorous Anglic. Though his pupils
dilated, Dwer's face showed no surprise.

"Shoulda figured," he commented with a terse head-
shake. "So, how d'you suggest we get her out of there
without startin' a riot among these—"

The young man stopped abruptly. His jaw
dropped . . . then snapped shut again.

"I don't believe it," he murmured. Then, with an ex-
pression of grim determination, he added, "Excuse me,
Cap'n Harms. There's something I got to do right now."
Harry blinked. "But . . . what—"

Dwer moved past him, quickly and silently slipping
off his outer tunic. With rapid, agile motions, he tied the
arms and hooded neck, creating a makeshift bag which
he grasped in his left hand. Creeping in back of the first
row of dignitaries, Dwer ignored protesting grunts from
those seated in the second rank. The crowd's continued
chanting covered all complaints as he sidled behind
Twaphu-anuph' and the inspector's daughter, making
straight for the third hoon—the young male, whose fer-
retlike pet seemed at last to sense something. Though it

Betven's Reach  387

faced the other way, spiny hackles on its neck lifted
from the mass of black fur. It started to turn, bringing
both glittering eyes around. Eyes that flared with
shocked realization the same moment that Dwer
lunged.

Well I'll be shaved, Harry thought as the creature
writhed in Dwer's hard grasp, snapping and hissing furi-
ously until it was swallowed by the improvised sack.
Even then, the fabric container bulged and jerked as the
beast fought confinement.

That was a tytlal! He had thought there was some-
thing familiar about the lithe creature—but the size had
seemed wrong. A miniature tytlal . . . riding the
shoulder of a boon!

No wonder recognition was slow. Tytlal normally
massed nearly as much as a chimpanzee. Far from being
mere pets, they were intelligent, articulate starfarers,
well known and admired on Earth. Also, like their Tym-
brimi patrons, they thoroughly disliked hoons!

Possible explanations occurred to Harry. Was Dwer
rescuing a captive tytlal child from captivity?

That theory vanished when the third hoon turned
around, saw Dwer, and cried out an umble of delighted
surprise. While the bag kept quivering, onlookers were
treated to a sight unprecedented in the annals of the
Civilization of Five Galaxies—a human and hoon em-
bracing each other joyfully, like long-lost cousins from
the same hometown.

They found a place to talk, assembling in the lattice
space supporting the dignitaries' platform. Harry
watched in amazement as Dwer's huge alien friend
spoke colloquial Anglic perfectly, though with an
archaic accent.

"Alvin" also exuded an enthusiasm-—a joie de vivre—
that seemed totally natural, though Harry had never
seen anything like it in a hoon before.

"Hr-rr. The last time I saw you, Dwer, you were dan-
gling under a hot-air balloon, preparing to take on a

388  David Brin

Jophur battleship single-handed. How did you wind up   i

here?"

"It's a long story, Alvin. And we'd never have made it
without Captain Harms, here. But what about you? Does

this mean the Str—"                                 \
Dwer stopped abruptly and shook his head, amend-   '

ing what he had been about to say.

"Does this mean our friends escaped to the transfer

point all right?"

For the first time in his life, Harry saw a hoon shrug—   i
a surprisingly graceful and expressive gesture for such   '

an uptight species,                                      i

"Yeah, they did. That is, sort of. In a way." The tat-
tooed throat sac fluttered and sighed. "For now let's just   I
say it's also a long story."

Kiwei the Synthian had a suggestion.

"I know a very nice establishment where they offer
free food and drink to tellers of fine tales, no matter how   |
long. Shall we all go—"                               '

Dwer ignored Kiwei.

"And your pals? Ur-ronn? Huck? Pincer? Tyug?"        ,

"They are well—along with the friend who brought   \
us here. You can imagine that some of us find it easier to   ;

get around in public than others do."

Dwer nodded, and Harry saw that levels of meaning

passed between the two.

Wait a minute, he pondered. If Dwer and Rety are
sooners, from some hidden colony world, but they know
this boon, then that must mean—

He lost the thought as Alvin responded to something
Dwer said by umbling with jovial tones that sounded
uncannily like laughter.

"So, you finally got the drop on old Mudfoot."

The young human held up the now quiescent bag.
"Yeah, I did. And he doesn't come out till I get some
answers, at long last."

Alvin laughed again—making Twaphu-anuph shiver
with visible confusion. But the bureaucrat's daughter
seemed to adore the sound. With a second show of
rather unhoonish enthusiam, she introduced herself as

Heaven's Beach  389

Dor-hinuf, and surprised both Earthlings by offering to
shake their hands.

"Ever since he arrived, Alvin has been telling us about
your wonderful world of Shangri-la," she told Dwer.
"Where so many races live together in peace, and where
hoons have learned to sail\"

Her infectious excitement seemed as strange as the
sudden bizarre image filling Harry's mind—of hoons
braving sea and spume in spindly boats.

Shangri-la? Harry noted.

Of course he'd mask the true name of the sooner
planet. But why under that particular name? Why a
Terran literary reference?

For that matter, how did a boon ever come to be
called Alvin?

From the sound of things behind them, the Skiano's
heretical rally was starting to break up at last. Harry •
brought this to the others' attention.

"For once, I agree with Kiwei. We should go some-
place private and talk further, before I have to report
back to headquarters. But first let's collect Rety—"

He stopped then, sensing that something was chang-
ing. Through the soles of his feet, Harry felt another of
the tremors that had made Kazzkark tremble intermit-
tently for several jaduras. Only this time a new rhythm
seemed to take over.

A rising intensity.

Others sensed it too. The hoons splayed their shaggy
legs and a soft mewling escaped the bag where Dwer
kept his tytlal prisoner. The viewing stand rattled un-
nervingly, and dust floated downward from the stony
ceiling—the only barrier between living creatures and
the sucking vacuum outside.

Things are getting worse, Harry thought.

When a crack appeared in the nearby wall and began
to spread, he revised his estimate again.

This one is bad. Real bad.

Kaa

PILOT, WAKE UP! COME QUICKLY, YOU ARE

needed!"
Like a fish with a hook in its jaw, tugged out of

the sea by a cruel line, Kaa felt brutally yanked as
intruding words pierced his dream, shattering a

sonic phantasm of Peepoe.

She had been swimming beside him. Or rather, a pat-
tern of echoes and sonar shadows, reflecting off his
cabin, had coalesced as a likeness of her graceful form,
undulating happily nearby, almost close enough to
touch. Jijo's gentle sea had surrounded their bodies as
they plunged ahead, naked and free.

Dolphins sleep just one hemisphere at a time. But this
episode had the full flux and power of the Whale
Dream, enveloping him in the presence of his beloved,
and the planet where they had hoped to spend their

lives together.

When the noisome voice broke in, shattering that

blissful illusion, he felt the loss of Peepoe all over again,
finding himself once again stranded in harsh metal pur-
gatory, megaparsecs away from her.

In frustration, Kaa thrashed his flukes on the flotation
bed of his walker unit. Bleary from fitful sleep, his right
eye focused at last to regard the strange figure of Huck,
a creature whose physical form seemed like an improb-
able swirl of organic and mechanical parts. Rolling on
twin jittery wheels, the young g'Kek waved all four eye-
stalks in frantic agitation, jabbering rapidly about some-
thing that had her terribly upset.

Anglic speech patterns came slowly to waking neo-
dolphins, especially after immersion in the Whale

Neaven's Beach  391

Dream, but this time Kaa's anger bulled through, driving
a hot response.

"I sssaid I wasn't to be disturbed . . . except in an
emergency!"

Huck's frantic words penetrated at last.

"This is an emergency!" she wailed. "I j-just woke up
and found Pincer-Tip—"

"Yeah?" Kaa asked, sending a signal down his neural
tap to power up the walker. "What about him?"

The g'Kek was already rolling swiftly out of the little
cabin, two eyes aimed ahead and two back at Kaa.

"Come quick! Pincer's dying\"

The little red qheuen lay collapsed near the airlock—a
crablike figure with five legs splayed outward symmetri-
cally, like an ailing starfish. Several claws still shuddered
and snapped reflexively, but there was no other sign of
movement. When Kaa brought his walker unit closer,
aiming its forward camera for a close look, he saw trails
of ugly-looking substance—like ichor—dribbling from
beneath the wide chitin carapace.

"What-t happened?" he asked anxiously.

Huck snapped back.

"How should I know? I told ya, I was in that little
cabinet you assigned me as a hiding place, tryin' to
sleep, since you won't let me leave the ship. When I
came out, he was like this!"

"But-t . . . don't you know what's wrong with him?
Can you do anything?"

"Hey, just because I'm a g'Kek, that don't make me a
doctor, any more'n every dolphin is a pilot. We've got to
call for help!"

Kaa listened to the sick qheuen's ragged breathing.
Whatever the nauseating substance was, it came from all
five armpits, where the delicate air vents lay. Clearly, the
poor thing was nearing total collapse.

"we . . ." He shook his sleek gray head left and
right. "We can't do that."

"What?" Huck rocked back so hard that both rims
bounced off the floor. Her spokes hummed and she

392 David Inn

stared with all four eyes. "We're not in a wilderness any-
more, fish-head. We're at civilization'. They got all sorts
of things out there, beyond that airlock. Stuff we Jijoans
only read about in books, like hospitals and autodocs.

They might save him!"

Kaa felt the young g'Kek's wrath and outrage. The
heat of her devotion to a friend. He sympathized. But
there could only be one answer.

"We can't call attention to ourselves. You know that. If
anyone here even suspected that a dolphin was aboard
this ship, they'd cut it apart to get at me. And the same
holds for a g'Kek. We'll just have to wait for Alvin and
Ur-ronn to get back. They can move about without at-
tracting attention. Or better yet, when Tyug returns, the

alchemist can try—"

"That could take miduras! You know Alvin's got him-
self a star-hoon girlfriend. Tyug's spying on the Jophur,
and Ur-ronn stays out longer and longer each time, talk-
ing to engineers!"

That was the plan, of course, for that trio to act as
spies and envoys, getting to know the nature of things
within Kazzkark Base, and in the Five Galaxies at large.
If possible, they would make contact with some of
Earth's few allies, or else look for some way to buy
passage toward Galaxy Two. While attempting to de-
liver Gillian Baskin's message to the Terragens Council,
they would also try to learn about their own kind, find-
ing some way of securing future livelihoods, for them-
selves and their friends.

Huck was right. Alvin and Ur-ronn might stay out for
hours longer. Pincer would not last that long.

"I'm sssorry," Kaa said. "We can't risk throwing every-
thing away for just a sssslim chance of—"

"I don't care how slim it is, or about the risk! It

doesn't matter!"

Her eyestalks waved and twined in furious anger. But
while she cursed him roundly, Kaa knew he must be
firm for her sake, even more than his own. With all the
g'Keks of Jijb now in peril of genocide—deliberate ex-
tinction by wrathful Jophur, bent on satisfying an an-
cient vendetta—this one little female might be the sole

Heaven's Reach  393

hope of her entire species. Along with a tube of seminal
plasm, stored in the scoutboat's refrigerator, she might
possibly reestablish her posterity in some safe hiding
place, protected by sympathetic guardians.

Although it was not a role the adventurous Huck rel-
ished, she had claimed to see its importance. Until now,
that is, when she would toss it all away for friendship.

Personal loyalty. Love. These are supposed to outweigh
all other considerations, Kaa thought, wallowing in mis-
ery, even as the young g'Kek railed at him, demanding
over and over that he open the door.

Raised on Earthling novels, she feels the same way
about it that I do. That only the worst sort of person
would put stark pragmatism above intimate devotion,
abandoning someone you care about to certain
death . . . or something worse . . . even if it is logi-
cally the "right" thing to do.

So Kaa silently derided himself while Huck did it
aloud, making the small control room echo with her
wails.

Yet, he would not relent.

Anyway, the issue was settled soon. Just a few duras
later, Pincer-Tip was dead.

Huck lacked both strength and will to help dispose of
the body. That chore was left to Kaa, using the mechani-
cal arms of his walker to heave the bulky qheuen
toward the recycler. Huck turned three eyes away from
the gory scene, but the remaining stalk quivered and
stared, as if dumbly transfixed.

How could this happen? Kaa worried as he sent con-
trol messages down his neural tap, causing the machine
to move like an extension of his body. Did someone
attack the ship? Or was this caused by the disease we
heard about '. . . the one that slaughtered many
qheuens back onJijo?

If so, how was Pincer exposed?

Abruptly, Huck let out an amazed cry. Her whistling
shouts brought Kaa spinning around, stomping back

394  David Brin

from his grisly task. He looked down where she
pointed, at the bloody deck where Pincer had lain.

There, partly masked by gruesome liquids, both of
them now made out a design of some sort, carved
deeply into the metal deck.

"He . . . he . . . ," Huck stammered. "He musta
cut it with his teeth, while he was dying! Poor Pincer
couldn't walk or talk, but he could still move his mouth,
as it lay against the floor!"

Kaa stared, in part amazed by die slicing power of
qheuen jaws, and by the acute—even artistic—render-
ing that had been the poor creature's final act.

It showed a face, vaguely humanoid, but somewhat
feral looking, with lean, ravenous cheeks and a small,
bitter mouth. He recognized the shape at once.

"A Rothen!"

The race of sneaky criminals and petty connivers,
who had persuaded a cult of humans to believe they
were patrons of all Earthclan, and rightful gods of Ter-
ran devotion.

Then he remembered. There had been such a crea-
ture aboard Streaker\ A prisoner, brought aboard in
secret at Wuphon Port. A Rothen overlord named
Ro-kenn, mastermind of many felonies against the Six
Races ofJijo.

"He musta stowed away aboard this ship!" Huck
cried. "Stayed hidden till we docked, then came out an'
killed poor Pincer to get at the door!"

Kaa's mind roiled over the disastrous implications. No
matter how capable, Ro-kenn could not have managed
such an escape all by himself. He must have had help
aboard Streaker. Moreover, if this Rothen made it into
Kazzkark, all their plans might be in jeopardy.

Stay calm, he told himself. Ro-kenn can't go to the
authorities. The crimes he committed on Jijo are worse
than anything the sooners did.

Yes, but he might hurry to one of the hig fanatic clans
or alliances, and try to sell them information about
Streaker and Jijo. At the very least, he'll send word to
other Rothen.

Heaven's fleacli   395

"We had better try to contact Alvin and I'r-ronn." Kaa
said. And for once he could tell that Huck agreed.

Only that was far from easy. It .seemed that all avail-
able celecoirnn lines were jammed with frantic traffic.
And things only got worse as another wave of subspace
disruptions hit, causing the planetoid to shake and rat-
tle, resonating like a great, hollow bell.

From the Journal 01
Chilian Daskin

'HE UNIVERSE IS AWASH l\ TRACED}. YET. OMY
now. as it seems to he falling apart, have I finally
begun to see some of the ironic, awesome beauty of
its cosmic design.

T

As happened at the Fractal World, ire find oui-selres sur-
rounded by sudden devastation, orders of magnitude
greater than I ever imagined.

Far heloir us. whirling near the condensed core of a
massive ancient star. ire see L'ast. needle-shaped habi-
tats—each one longer than the moon is wide—made of
siiperstrong godstuff. built to withstand fierce tidal
strains. Only now those habitats of the Transcendent
Order show signs of terminal stress, shedding their outer
skins like brittle slough—quivering us wave after ii'are
of spatial convulsions surge through this part of Galaxy
Four.

According to both Sara and the \iss Machine, these
are symptoms of a fantastic rupture, beyond anything
seen in a quarter of a billion years.

The effects have been even irorse on the bilge armada
of "candidate ships" accompanying Streaker coiuvrg-
ing on multiple, crisscrossing downward spirals tou'ard
those needle monoliths. What had been a stately proces-
sion, triumphant and hopeful, wedding tu'o of life's

396  David Btin

great orders in a great and glorious union, is swiftly

dissolving into chaos and conflagration.

So closely were the giant arks and globules packed
together—in dense, orderly rows—that each wave of
bypergeometric-recoil throws one rank against another.
Collisions produce blinding explosions, slaughtering
untold millions and throwing yet more vessels off

course.

Yet, despite this awful trend, only a few other craft
have joined Streaker in attempting to escape, climbing
laboriously outward through the maze, seeking some
relative sanctuary of deep space. It seems that the addic-
tion of tides cannot easily be broken, once sapients have
tasted its deeper pleasures. Like rutting beasts, irresist-
ibly drawn toward mating grounds they know to be on
fire, a majority continue on course, accelerating into
the funnel, bound for the Embrace they so deeply desire.

Is this the ultimate destiny of intelligent life? After
striving for ages to become brainy, contemplative, wise
(and all that), do all races wind up driven forward by
ineffable instinct? By a yearning so strong they must
plunge whead, even when their goal is falling apart be-
fore their eyes?

At last, for the first time in three long years, I begin to
understand the persecution we Streakers have suffered
—and Earth, as well. For our discovery of the Ghost
Fleet truly does present a challenge, a shocking heresy,
that strikes at the very heart of Galactic belief systems.

Most of them—and the hydrogen breathers, as well—
maintain that true transcendence is the ultimate
destiny of those who merge within the Embrace of Tides.
Something must lie beyond ... or so they've reasoned
for countless ages. Why else would the universe have
evolved such an elegant way of focusing, gathering, and
distilling the very best of both life orders?

Surely, this must be the great path spoken of by the
Progenitors, wh'en they departed two billion years ago.

Ah, but then what of the Ghost Fleet, with its haunt-
ing symbols and glimmering hints at ancient truth?

Heaven's Beacli  397

Where did we find it?

In a "shallow" globular cluster, dim and nearly
metal-free, drifting lonely toward the rim of Galaxy
Two. A place where spacetime is so flat that even young
'races experience a faint, nervous revulsion. A kind of
creepy agoraphobia. Such locales are seldom visited.
since they contain nothing of interest to any life order,
even machines.

(In which case. what clue . . . what hunch . . .
drew Creideiki there? Did he set Streaker's course for the
Shallow Cluster because it seemed neglected by the
Great Library, with an entry as skimpy as the one about
Earth?

(Or was there something more to his decision? A
choice that seemed so strange at the time.)

Now, at last, I see why our enemies—the Tandu and
Soro and Jophur and the others—got so upset when
Streaker beamed back those first images of the Ghost
Fleet . . . and of Herhie and the rest.

If these truly are relics of the great Progenitors, sealed
away infield-protected vessels for countless aeons, what
does that imply about the Embrace of Tides? Did the
founder race—earliest and wisest of all—seek desper-
ately to avoid the attraction? Did they shun the deep
places? If so, might it he because they knew something
terrible about them?

Perhaps they saw the Embrace as something else en-
tirely. Not a route to transcendence, hut a trash disposal
system. A means for recycling dross, like the Great Mid-
den onJijo.

Nature's way of siphoning away the old in order to
make room for the new.

Standing in his glass case, Herhie smiles at me across
my desk. The mummy's eerie humanoidal rictus has
been my most intimate companion, ever since Tom went
away. Sometimes I find myself talking to him.

Well, old fellow? Is this the big joke? Have I at last
figured out why you 've been grinning all this time?

398  David Brin

Or are there more layers yet to peel away?
More terrible surprises to come.

It isn't easy trying to work our way out of this trap with
our two best pilots gone. The swarm of arks and globules
appears to extend endlessly above us, reaching far out
beyond the range of any solar system. The sheer amount
of mass involved approaches macroplanetary scales!
Like the accretion disk surrounding a newborn star.

Where could all these "candidates" have come from?
Might the same thing be happening elsewhere? A lot of
elsewberes? If even a small fraction of older white
dwawes are home to such convergences, that would
mean millions of sites like this one, surrounded by mi-
grants eager to enter paradise, despite a growing gaunt-
let of collision and fire.

On a practical level, Streaker cannot attempt any by-
perspace jumps till we're clear of all these massive ships,
and the rippling effects of their mighty engines.

Even if we do succeed in working our way outward,
the Jophur dreadnought is still out there. We detect it
from time to time, tracking us like some tenacious
predator, crippled and dying, with nothing else to live
for anymore beyond finishing the bunt. If we make it to
open space, there will be that peril to contend with.

If only we could rid ourselves of this deadly coating
and restore Streaker to her old agility!

Hannes has been working on a new idea about that,
alongside Emerson D'Anite. Something involving the big

Communications Laser.

Poor Emerson struggles to explain something to us—
humming melodies and drawing pictures, but all we
can tell so far is that be managed to defeat yet another
meme-attack on Streaker a while back, and destroyed
the renegade—Tsh't—in the process.

I cannot help it. I grieve for my friend. The sweet com-
rade who Was by my side through crisis after crisis. Poor
Tsh't only thought she was doing the right thing, seeking
help and succor from her gods.

Heaven's Reocli  399

Now another wraith follows through the night, surg-
ing like a porpoise through my restless dreams.

The big news is that the Niss Machine lately made a
breakthrough. It managed at last to tap into what passes
for a communications network among the Transcen-
dents.

As one might expect, it is a dense, complex system, as
far beyond Galactic-level technology' as a hand com-
puter exceeds an abacus. It was invisible for so long
because only small portions on the fringes use classical
electronics or photonics. The core technique appears to
be quantum computing on a scale so vast that it must
utilize highly compressed gravitational fields.

"Such fields are unavailable here," commented the
Niss. "Even among the needle habitats, whirling just
above the compact star core, the potentials are many
orders of magnitude too small.

"We must be picking up the margins of something
much greater. Something with its center located far
away from here."

Of course it occurred to us that this might be our
chance. Our hope of communicating with "higher au-
thorities, " as ordered by the Terragens Council. The
creatures who betrayed us at the Fractal World—those
so-called Old Ones—were like infants in comparison to
the minds using this new network. Indeed, all signs sug-
gest they are the pinnacle that life achieves.

Yet, I'm reluctant to just hand over our data from the
Shallow Cluster. We've been disappointed too many
times. Perhaps the Transcendents also suffer from the
same fear-—that a deadly trap underlies the Embrace of
Tides.

If it entered their thoughts to be vengeful toward us,
we'd have all the chance of a hamster against a bolo
battle tank.

"Let's ask simple questions, first, " I said. "Any sugges-
tions?"
Sara Koolhan burst forth.

400  David B fin

"Ask about the Buyur! Are they down there? Did the

Buyur transcend?"

Lately, she's grown obsessed with the last species to
have leasehold overJijo. A race of genetic manipulators,
who seemed to know in advance that sooners would
invade their world, and. about a coming Time of

Changes.

"Even such a simple query will be hard to translate. It
may be impossible to slip within the matrix in such a
way that anyone will notice, or bother answering,"

warned the Niss. "But I will try."

Of course we risk drawing the attention of even more
powerful enemies. But with the odds already against us,
it seems a worthwhile effort.

Meanwhile, our dolphin astronomer, Zub'daki, has
more bad news to report about the swarm of incoming

Candidate vessels.

He knows and cares little about hyperspatial disrup-
tions tearing the fabric of reality. That is Sara's depart-
ment. Zub'daki's interest lies in the white dwarf itself,
and the sheer amount of matter approaching it like flot-
sam in a whirling drain.

"What if most of the arks misssss their target?" he
asked. "What if they fail to rendezvous with the needle-

gatewayssss?

"What if the needles are no longer there to collect

them?"

I fear that my initial response was callous, asking

why we should care if a stampede of giants go tumbling

into a grave of their own making. As mere ants, it is our

duty to escape. To survive.
But I will go and hear what he has to say.
What will one more worry matter? I've long passed the

point where I stopped counting them.

L^arl

THE REUNION WAS BIZARRE, JOYOUS, AND
rather unnerving.

Having long dreamed of this moment—being re-
united with his lover—Lark now stared at Ling
across a gulf far wider than the few meters separat-
ing them.

She floated in a blobby stew, a dense swarm of writh-
ing, pulsating objects that moved languidly "within a
vast, transparent membrane—a bloated mass that filled
most of this large chamber and extended through sev-
eral hatchways into more of the ship beyond.

In addition to Ling's human form, he glimpsed at least
one wriggling qheuen larva, plus several animal types
from Jijo and other worlds. Lark recognized a multitude
of traeki rings, plus countless twining green things that
must have once been plants.

Bubblelike forms also crowded throughout the teem-
ing life-brew, rippling like amoebae, or bobbing gelati-
nous balloons. Though colored and textured differently
than the Zang creature he carried about like a suit of
clothes, Lark could tell they were related.

Despite the family resemblance, his passenger reacted
violently to sighting these "cousins." The Zang tried to
make him flee. But Lark was adamant, willing both stiff
legs to stride forward, to Ling.

Her naked form was draped with various throbbing
creatures. Symbionts, Lark thought. Some of them cov-
ered her mouth and nose, while others penetrated flesh
directly to the bloodstream. Weeks ago, the sight might
have sent chills down his spine, but by now the concept

402  David Brin

was familiar as breathing. Simply a more extensive ver-
sion of the arrangement he had made with the Zang.

Moving closer, he sought Ling's eyes, trying for con-
tact. Had this vast cell simply incorporated her for some
crude biochemical purpose, as an organelle, to serve a
minor function for the whole? Or did she retain her es-
sence within?

Lark's passenger extended a pseudopod over his left
eye, creating a vacuole in front of his field of view. In-
side that small space, hundreds of tiny "deputies" bud-
ded and performed gyrations, mimicking shapes and
playacting a suggestion that Lark should turn around
and get the hell away from here!

"Oh, stop bellyaching, you coward," he replied with
disgust. "On Jijo we learned you can make friends out
of old enemies. Besides, have you got anything better to

do right now?"

His meaning somehow got through, causing the Zang

to retract its deputies, resorbing them into its body and

pulling back sullenly.

Indeed, there would be no going back to the crea-
ture's base, on the opposite side of the battleship. In
between them lay a huge wilderness. Polkjhy now
swarmed with things, crawling through the hallways,
chewing through compartments and walls, transforming
them into grotesque shapes and outlandish forms. So
far, essential systems seemed to have been spared.
Those were still under control of the remaining Jophur
crew—who seemed to grow ever more shrill and pan-
icky in their communications—but for how much

longer?

He felt a large presence come up alongside. The third

member of their party.

"You are right, Lark," murmured the stack of glisten-
ing rings, whose throbbing mass quivered as its compo-
nents debated among themselves.

"This vast macro-entity appears foreordained to ex-
pand until it fills Polkjhy entirely. We might flee, but to
what end? Our trail has brought us here. Our/My/your/
our destiny clearly lies within. Let us find out what it

Heaven's (leach  403

wants. What are its aims. What it came here to accom-
plish."

Within the gelatinous mass, Lark saw signs of change.
Ling's eyes, which had been dismayingly vacant, now
seemed to clarify, gradually focusing past the mem-
brane, toward him.

All at once, a light of recognition shone! Though her
mouth was covered by a symbiont, the squint of a smile
was unmistakable, and her arms moved forward, reach-
ing out. Joyful at the sight of him. Reaching in welcome.

"Well, look at the bright side," he commented, al-
though the Zang passenger shivered with fearful resig-
nation. "It looks kinda interesting in there. Maybe we'll
learn a lot, eh?"

The giant membrane did not try to grab or seize them
when they approached. Rather, it recoiled a bit, then
seemed to sniff cautiously, as if deigning to be wooed.
Lark extended his arm, brushing the surface. It felt
chilly, and yet electrically pleasant in a way he could not
quite fathom.

The Zang quivered, then seemed to change its mind.
Lark had an impression of surprise. This was not the
deadly foe it had expected, but a distant relative, greater
and more kindly.

Decision came. A cavity formed, shaped like a tunnel,
or a doorway.

Lark didn't hesitate. He strode forward, to his love.

It seemed that his instinct was correct. There was some-
thing deeply natural about this merging.

In theory, the hydro- and oxy-orders were incompati-
ble, using disparate chemistry, different energetics and
existing at widely distinct temperatures. But life is very
good at problem solving. Symbiosis enables two or
more organisms to pool abilities, accomplishing what
one alone never could. It happened when early cells
joined together in Earth's oceans, creating unions that
were more competent than their separate parts.

Lark soon got used to the idea that this could take

404   David Bfin

place on a much more sophisticated level, especially
when guided by sagacious intelligence.

Anyway, while a teeming swarm of other "organelles"
surrounded him, he cared about just one, whose caress
made him feel more at home in this strange place than
he ever had in his bed, on Jijo.

I'm glad we're still functional in all the ways that
really matter, he commented.

Ling curled her body alongside his, maximizing con-
tact between their drifting bodies. Her answer came not
as sound, but directly, as if conveyed by the fluid sur-
roundings.

Typical male. Nothing else matters, as long as your
sexual organs are satisfied.

He blinked.

Weren 't yours?

She replied with a languorous squeeze, evidently
content. Her skin still trembled slightly with the rhythms
of their intense lovemaking.

A part of Lark—the restless thinker—wondered what
possible use the macro-being could make of human
sexual passion. Not that he was ungrateful for this new
phase of existence. But once his thoughts began spread-
ing outward, they would not stop.

Whatever happened to Rann? he inquired.

The one other human aboard, a fierce Danik warrior,
had turned his talents to helping the Jophur. Lark would
not relax knowing that enemy was out there, some-
where.

Don't worry about Rann. He won't be bothering us.

When he glanced at her, Ling shrugged, causing bub-
bles to flurry off her shoulders.

He was absorbed also. Mother must not have liked
how be tasted. But she doesn't waste good material, so
she put him to work in other ways. I saw a couple of
Rann's parts a while ago—a leg and a lung, I think—
incorporated in some organelle.

Lark shivered, feeling grateful that his "taste" met the
macrobeing's approval.
You call it Mother?
She nodded, not having to explain. The name made

Neaun's Reach 405

as much sense as any other. Though nurturing kindli-
ness was clearly just one aspect of its nature. There was
also a brutally pragmatic side.

He sensed agreement from the Zang, his longtime
companion, who now existed as a compact globule,
floating nearby. Their sole remaining link was a narrow
tube connected to his left side, and even that might dis-
solve soon, as they learned their separate roles in this
new world. The Zang was still deeply uncertain, though
one might have expected it to be more at home in this
world of drifting shapes, where bulbous deputies swam
back and forth, performing gaudy simulations.

In the murky distance, he saw that someone else was
having a better time adjusting. The stack of waxy traeki
rings—who had once been Asx, and then the Jophur
called Ewasx—stood planted on the floor, surrounded
by clusters of bubbles, membranes, and crawling symbi-
onts. From waves of color that coursed across its flanks,
Lark could tell the composite creature was having the
time of its life. What could be more essentially traeki
than to become part of something larger and more com-
plex, a cooperative enterprise in which every ring and
particle played a part?

Lark still wondered about how it all was organized.
Did there exist an overall controlling mind—like a
Jophur master ring? Or would every component get a
vote? Both models of symbiosis existed in nature . . .
and in politics.

He had a feeling such details were yet to be worked
out. "Mother" wasn't finished taking form.

Come along, Ling urged, taking his hand. / want to
show you something.

Lark needed a little while to get used to locomotion in
this new medium. Much of the time, it involved move-
ments akin to swimming, though in other locales the
surrounding density changed somehow and their feet
met the floor, allowing a more human mode of walking.
There were no clear transitions, as between sea and
shore. Rather, everything intermingled and merged, like
the thoughts he and Ling shared.

Guiding him along, she finally pointed to a vast nest

406  David Brin

of tendrils that spread outward from a central point,
waving and twisting. Many were linked to wriggling
forms—Lark saw another larval qheuen, a couple of
traeki stacks . . . and a form that resembled a
centauroid urs, curled in a fetal ball, protected by some-
thing like an embryonic sac. He did not recognize the
tawny figure, though urrish "samples" had been taken
by the Jophur, on Jijo. Its flanks heaved slowly, as if
calmly breathing, and Lark saw intelligent clarity in the

triple set of eyes.

There were other oxy creatures. Some he identified
from images on paper textbooks he had skimmed long
ago, back home in the Biblos archive, while others he
did not recognize. All were entangled with symbionts
linking them to hydro-globules and other blobby things.
The most eerie thing about it was that none of them

seemed particularly to mind.

Mother taps the data mesh here, Ling explained,
pointing to where the tendrils converged. Peering to
look past the murk, he made out one of Polkjhys main

computer panels.

Ling reached for three writhing tentacles, offering one

each to Lark and the Zang.

Let's take a look at what's happening elsewhere.

It was a strange way of taking information. Partly neu-
ronal and partly visual, it also involved portions of the
mind that Lark customarily used for imagination, pictur-
ing an event with that tentative what-if sensation that
always accompanied daydreams.

That made sense. For all hydro-beings, thinking was a
process of simulation—spawning off smaller portions of
themselves to play roles and act out a scenario to its
logical conclusions. Helped by his prior experience with
the Zang, Lark soon caught on, learning how to reach
out and pretend that he was the object of his attention.

I am Polkjhy . . . once a proud, battleship of the
haughty Jophur nation.

Heaven's Beacn  407

Now I am divided . . . sectioned into many parts.
My Jophur crew—doughty but distraught—have clev-
erly sealed off what they consider to be the most essential
areas . . . engines, weaponry, and basic life support.

Driven by single-minded, purposeful Master Rings,
they prepare for a last stand against loathsome invad-
ers ... while continuing to pursue their grudge hunt.
Chasing the Earthling ship, whether pursuit leads them
to Hell, or Heaven itself.

Lark felt a wash of strange emotion—grudging respect
for the dauntless Jophur. Their resiliency, in the face of
one catastrophe after another, showed why their kind
had gained power and influence among the vigorous,
starfaring oxy-clans. That they could manage, even tem-
porarily, to stave off powers much older and stronger
than themselves was an impressive accomplishment.

Even so, Lark hoped they would fail soon.

Ling guided his attention, nudging it gently outward,
beyond the battered hull.

He briefly staggered at a sudden impression, like that
of an immense tornado!

A giant cyclone surrounded them, a swirling crowd of
massive objects, sparkling and flashing while they spi-
raled down a condensing runnel toward the dim white
fire of a tiny star.

Lark quickly found that his knowledge base was no
longer limited to the narrow education of a Jijoan
sooner—a rustic biologist, weaned on paper-paged
books. It took only a slight effort of will to slip into
Ling's mind and perceive facts, correlations, hypotheses
to explain what they now saw. And beyond Ling, there
were other archives—less familiar, but equally available.

Abruptly, he reached outward to the immense cy-
clone of descending spacecraft, identifying with them.

I am the Candidates' Swarm, a migration of the elect,
chosen from among retirees of both oxygen- and hydro-
gen-breathing civilizations.

408  David Brin

Elated, to be here, at long last.

Fatigued by the pointless struggles and quandaries of
flat space and real time.

Lured and allured by the seductive enchantments of
the Embrace of Tides.

Fully aware of the disruptions now coursing through

the Five Galaxies.

Cognizant of dangers lying ahead.

Nevertheless, I draw inward. Merging my many
subunits. Creating unique blendings out of what was
merely promising raw material. Integrating the best of
hydrogen and oxygen.

Hoping and wondering what comes next ...

Lark now saw a context for what had befallen Polkjby. It
was part of a much larger process! The same blending of
life-forms must be happening on each of the millions of
huge vessels out there . . . only perhaps more peace-
fully, with less resistance by the resident crews, who
would be much better prepared for it than the poor

Jophur.

And yet, he could not help but grasp a background
tone of desperate worry. This majestic ingathering of
transcendence candidates should have been smooth
and ordered. But instead it grew more ragged and dis-
rupted with each passing dura. The sparkles that had
looked so gay earlier were now revealed as fiery im-
pacts. Violent death spread ever more rapidly among
the converging ships.

Again, Ling pointed and his mind followed. Instead of
outward, their shared attention plunged down, toward
the source of gravity and light, where immense slender
edifices whirled in tight orbit around a compact star.

To initial appearances, the needle-habitats were also
suffering severe strain. As he and Ling watched, chunks
larger than mountains shattered or fell off, dissolving
under the shear force of intense tides.

And yet, Lark felt no anguish, worry, or sense of im-
minent danger.

Heaven's fleacli  409

No wonder/he realized. The needles aren't habitats at
all.' They are gateways to another place!

Ling nodded. •

Actually, it is predictable, if you think about it.

Lark sent his mind swooping like a hawk toward one
of the fast-revolving structures, long and narrow, like a
javelin. Though portions of its skin were flaking off—
torn loose by chaotic hyperwave disturbances—he
somehow knew those portions were unimportant. Mere
temporary abodes and support structures. As these
sloughed away, they revealed a shimmering inner core,
luminescent and slippery to the eye.

His image-self arrived just as one of the "candidates"
—a fully transformed globule-ark—finished its long spi-
raling migration and approached the needle at a rapid
pace, skimming just above the white dwarfs licking
plasma fire. The great hybrid vessel—now a completely
blended mixture of hydrogen and oxygen civilizations—
fell toward the exposed gateway, accelerating as if
caught in some strongly attractive field.

Abruptly, the globule-ark seemed to slip sideways,
through a narrow incision that had been cut in space-
time.

The opening lasted but a few moments. But it was
enough for Lark to perceive.

His first impression from the other side was of dense
spinning blackness. A dark ball that glimmered with
sudden, bright pinpoints. Somehow he could sense the
twist and curl of vacuum as space warped around the
thing, distorting any constellations that lay beyond.

It is a neutron star, Ling commented. Long ago it used
up or expelled any fuel it bad left. Now it has self-com-
pressed down to a size far smaller than a white dwarf-
less than ten kilometers across.' The gravitational pres-
sure is so great below the surface that atomic nuclei
merge with their surrounding clouds of electrons, form-
ing "degenerate matter."

Those sparks you see below are gamma ray flashes—
translated into visible range by the transcendent mesh

410  Divil Brio

for our convenience. Each flash represents a grain, per-
haps as small as a bacterium, that quickened up to near
the speed of light before striking the surface.

There are half a billion of these dense relics in any
galaxy . . . and a new one produced every thirty years
or so. But only a few neutron stars have the narrow
range of traits needed by the Transcendent Order. Well
behaved. Rapidly spinning, but with low magnetic

fields.

Lark overcame his surprise.

/ get what's going on. The process continues!

How could a growing appetite for tides be satisfied by
a mere white dwarf star? Of course, they'll migrate to a
place where the fields are even more intense.

So, the myriad candidate vessels surrounding
PoU-iftiyright now are only passing through! They use the
white dwarf as an assembly area—a place to merge
and transform, getting ready for the next phase.

The next time a slit-passage opened, Lark once again
cast his thoughts through, riding the carrier wave of a
vast information-handling system, like a sea flea surfing
atop a tsunami, seeking to learn what kind of life tran-
scendent beings made for themselves in such a strange

place.

A fog seemed to envelop the neutron star, like a

dense haze, whirling just above the surface.

Habitats, Ling identified.

Lark tried to look closer, but was stymied by how fast
the objects sped by, just above the sleek black surface.
Each orbit took minuscule fractions of a second, racing
around a course where gravity was so intense that tidal
forces would rip apart any physical object more than a

few meters across.

Even with his perceptions enhanced by Mother, there
were limits to what his organic brain could grasp.

But . . . Mentally, he stammered. When hydro- and
oxy-life merge, the result is still organic . . . based on
water. Bodies with liquid chemistry. How can beings
like us survive down there?

Heaven's Reicft  4ll

As if his question were a command, the focus of their
attention shifted outward, to surrounding regions of
space, further from the neutron star, where an enor-
mous throng of dark, spindly objects could now be
made out, parked in stately rows.

Lark sensed metallic presences, each waiting its turn
with a patient silence that could only. originate in the
vast depths of interstellar vacuum.

Realization struck.

Machines!

A third life order had arrived. Answering some com-
pelling call, the best and highest of their kind assembled
to participate in a new union.

Another kind of marriage.

A narrow slit appeared in space, allowing ingress
from a white dwarf assembly zone. One more globule-
ark popped into the twisted sky, bringing its cargo of
merged organic life-forms.

Several dozen of the waiting mechanicals converged
around it, weaving a cocoon of fibrous light.

There was no resistance. Lark's expanded empathic
sense picked up no dread, or resignation. Only readi-
ness for metamorphosis.

The biologist in him recognized something elegant
and natural looking about the process, although soon
the details grew too complex and blurry even for his
enhanced perceptions to follow.

All at once, amid a burst of actinic flare, everything
was transformed. Consumed.

What fell away from the flash seemed like no more
than a rain of glittering specks, plummeting eagerly
toward the comforting squeeze—the intense embrace—
of gravitational fields just above the neutron star.

Lark's head whirled in awe. He pulled back his atten-
tion, anchoring it to the real world by riveting on the
soft brown eyes of Ling.

Is that it? Is that where everything culminates? With
hydros, oxies, and machines merging, then orbiting for-
ever next to a dense black sun?

412   David Brin

Ling shook her head.

That's as far as I've been able to probe. But logically,
I'd guess otherwise.

Think about it. Lark. Three life orders coalesce. The
three who are known as the fiercest. The most potent at
manipulating matter and energy. At last we know why
hydros, oxies, and mechs have been able to coexist for so
long . . . since they share a common destiny, and
none can thrive without the others.

But there are more orders. More sapient styles than
just those three! Quantals and Meta-memes, for in-
stance. And rumors of some that have no mention in the
Great Library. Simple logic—and aesthetics—make me
imagine that the process continues. Others must join as
well. At some level beyond the one we just saw.

Lark blinked.

Some level beyond? But what could lie beyond . . . ?

Then, all at once, he knew.

Sharing his realization, the little Zang next to him
vented foul-smelling bubbles—the equivalent of a dis-
mayed wail—and shrank inward. But Lark only nodded.

You're talking about black holes.

An unbeckoned flood of information crowded his
thoughts, revealing many different types of "holes"
known to science—sites where the density of matter
passed a point of no return, wrapping gravity so tightly
that no light, or information of any kind, could escape.
Only a few of the deep singularities would do for the
purpose Ling described. Smaller ones, mostly—massing
up to just a few dozen times a typical sun. Bottomless
pits, whose steep fringes would have the greatest tides
of all ... and where time itself would nearly stand

still.

In such a narrow zone, just outside the black hole's
event horizon, distinctions of matter and energy would
blur. Causality would shimmer, evading Ifni's grasp. Un-
der the right conditions, all of life's varied orders might
merge, creating a pure sapiency stew. Intelligence in its
most essential form.

If everything worked.

Heaven's Beach  413

You're right, it's logical and aesthetic. Even beautiful, in
its own way.

But I have one question, Ling.

Where do we fit in this grand scheme of things?

I mean you and I!

All the beings on these arks and globules surrounding
us may be ready for such a destiny . . . assuming they
survive the disruptions and chaos in order to reach the
next level. After all, they've spent ages refining their
souls, getting ready for this transformation.

But you and I were caught up in it by accident! Be-
cause we're in the wrong place at the wrong time. We
don't belong here!

Ling's hand slipped into his, and Lark felt her warm
smile inside his mind.

You don't like our new nest, love?

He squeezed back.

You know I do. It's just kind of hard to look forward
to the next step—being "merged" with some star-com-
puter mechoids, then squished down to the size of a pea,
and finally—

She stopped him with a light mental touch, a calming
stroke that brushed away incipient panic.
It's all right, Lark. Don't worry about it.

I very much doubt we're going to proceed much far-
ther down that path.

Not if'the Jophur have anything to say about it.

s.

ara

|ETTING AN ANSWER TO HER QUESTION DID
_ not settle any of the worries plaguing Sara.
11 While the Niss hologram gyred nearby, her fore-
1 I head creased with concern.

%V "Damn! I hoped to learn the bastards had tran-
scended."

The computerized voice replied with puzzlement.
"Might I ask why you are concerned about the fate of
any one particular elder race?"

414   David Bfin

Her frown deepened. "The Buyur weren't just any
race. Back when they held the lease on Jijo, they were
renowned for cleverness and wit. You might say they
were the Tymbrimi of their time, only far subtler at play-
ing games of manipulative politics and power . . . and
they had a much longer view of what it took in order to
execute a good joke."

"In the name of my Tymbrimi makers, thanks for the
compliment, "the Niss replied sarcastically. But Sara had
learned to ignore its feigned moods, designed to irk
people in the short term. She was concerned about a
race of jesters whose notion of a punch line could easily
span a million years. Patient comedians whose intended
victims might include her own folk—the Six Races of
the Commons of Jijo.

"Are you sure the Transcendents keep such good
records?" she asked. "Maybe the Buyur passed through
a different white dwarf—a different merging-funnel—
when they graduated to the next level."

"You misunderstand the nature of quantum comput-
ing, " commented the Niss, dryly. "Every part of the
Transcendent Mesh is in local contact with all others.
There are no distinctions of space, or even time. All
Transcendents know what the others know. We are talk-
ing about the closest thing to what you humans used to
call the Omniscient Godhead ... on this side of the
Omega Point."

Sara grunted, slipping into the thick accent of a Dolo
Village tree farmer.

"So far, I seen about a dozen levels o' so-called star
deities, and I ain't been impressed with a one of 'em.
Pettiness seems to follow life, no matter how high it
climbs."

"So young to be so cynical, "the Niss sighed. "Be that
as it may, the query you sent into the Mesh did receive
an answer. Assuming the Transcendents are not lying,
we can be fairly certain that the Buyur have not joined
them yet."

Sara glowered at the news. It had seemed the best
possible solution to a problem gnawing at her lately.

Heaven's Reach  415

The deeper she went into the equations—modeling the
violent convulsions now racking the cosmos—the more
one fact became clear.

The math was just too elegant, too beautiful for all of
Galactic society to have missed the correlations. No mat-
ter how hidebound and narrow-minded the majority
were, some others must surely have come up with simi-
lar, revealing shortcuts. Similar ways of seeing past the
blinders.

Anyone who did so would have pierced the veil of
secrecy, and known far in advance that a spatiotemporal
crisis was coming. A time when all hyperspatial paths
would undergo upheaval, and confusion would reign.

Mounting evidence convinced Sara that the Buyur
must have known. They had planned things so that
sooners would be lured into Jijo's system after Galaxy
Four was declared fallow and evacuated. They arranged
for a nearby transfer point to go dormant, and for
Izmunuti to enter flare stage, creating the perfect bottle
for whatever specimens came nosing into the trap.

And there are more coincidences, she pondered. Like
why all the squatter groups settled only on the Slope,
despite our initially warring natures. Supposedly that
was because of the Sacred Scrolls, but I figure there was
another force at work.

The Egg. Silently influencing our ancestors, even two
millennia before it burst up through the ground.

Indeed, why stop there? Might the Buyur have chosen
which races should send sneakships to Jijo, seeding the
illicit colony with just the right mix?

Did they manipulate the g'Kek, for instance, driving
those happy, prosperous space dwellers into a hopeless
vendetta with the Jophur, just so that a small remnant
would have to flee, seeking shelter beneath Izmunuti's
stark, unblinking eye? Did they then liberate some
Jophur from their master rings, creating a shipload of
restored traeki who must take shelter on Jijo and be-
friend the g'Kek?

The problem with thinking about plausible conspira-
cies was that tlie mind auickly gorged on every correla-

416  David Brin

tion, turning each one into a glaring likelihood . . .
such as blaming the Buyur for all that had happened to
Earth during the last several thousand years. Because
the darkness, ignorance, pain, and isolation helped
make humans what they were, eventually forcing them
to dispatch sneakships toward far corners of space.
Sending out lifeboats—such as the Tabernacle—in
hope of preserving small samplings of humanity against

the coming deluge.

Did the Buyur set all that up, just in order to have the
right ingredients for their masterpiece on Jijo?

Sara shook her head. If she followed that road—ex-
tending her theory far beyond available proof—it would
end in paranoia.                                    . a

"We have learned another thing, by tapping the Tran-   |
scendent Mesh," the Niss explained. "A titanic space
battle has been going on for weeks near the outskirts of
the Solar System. Even augmented by some recent brave
allies, Earth's defenses are now verging on collapse.
Soon, fanatics will have the path open before them.

"When they finally converge on the blue bomeworld
of your race, Sara, it would be unrealistic to hope for
mercy."

While she probed for answers, the escape attempt was

going slowly.

With its outer flanges still mired by the "magic" coat-
ing, Streaker was nowhere near as nimble as before.   1
Without Lucky Kaa at the helm, it taxed Akeakemai and
the other dolphins to pilot the ship slowly outward,
away from the white dwarf star.

All around them spun the worst traffic jam of all time,
a high-speed vortex of riotous confusion, peppered
with debris from violent explosions. While most of the
candidate globes tried to keep on course—doggedly
continuing their downward spiral, despite collisions and
chaos waves—^-a small minority were attempting to flee,
like Streaker. Enough of them to disrupt the ranks,
shredding any remaining semblance of order. Getting

Heaven's (leach  417

through such a maelstrom would take more than Ifni's
luck. It would take a miracle.

Even if the Earthship made it to open space, there
would be the Jophur battleship to contend with. And
the old problem of finding a safe place in the universe
to hide.

Sara glanced across the Plotting Room at Gillian Bas-
kin. The older woman stood in conference with a sleek,
blue-gray figure who floated beyond a glass barrier, in
the flooded half of the chamber. It was the dolphin as-
tronomer, Zub'daki, explaining something in a dialect of
Anglic that was too high-pitched for Sara to follow. But
from the hunch of Gillian's shoulders, it could not be
good news. Her face was pale and drawn.

These moments may be our last, Sara thought. /
should spend them with Emerson, not wallowing in the-
ories about ancient crimes, or analyzing cosmic calam-
ities no one can do anything about.

Alas, Emerson was never around. Despite his handi-
cap, the brain-damaged engineer had commandeered
all the technicians that Hannes Suessi could spare. They
had given up trying to scrape away Streaker's danger-
ous, cloying outer layer, and were working instead on
the communications laser. Though Emerson's idea was
still unclear to most of the crew, Gillian had approved
the project, partly in order to give off-duty personnel
something to do, keeping their minds occupied.

I wish I had such a refuge . . . a way to stay busy,
pretending I was making a difference. But the only
technology I know anything about is how to make pa-
per, using crude pulping hammers and power from
Nelo's little water-driven mill. Beyond that, I'm just a
shaman. A spinner of incantations. A practitioner of the
quaint Eartbling art of calculus.

Prity came alongside carrying several sheets covered
with perspective renderings—representing hyperspatial
pathways, tormented and stretched almost to the break-
ing point. Sensing her mistress's mood, the little chimp
assistant put the papers aside and climbed into Sara's
lap.

418  David Bfin

Dear sweet Prity, Sara thought while stroking her. You
are mute, while Earth's chimps haw progressed to speak
and fly starships. And yet, how I would have loved to
show you off! You would surely have amazed them, if
we ever made it to Terra.

Continuing her conversation with Zub'daki, Gillian
used quick hand gestures to conjure up holographic
images of several other dolphin faces, including
Akeakemai and the chief astrogator, Olelo, who listened
for a few moments, then protested loudly enough for
Sara to overhear snatches of bubbly Trinary-Anglic.

". . .we are proceeding as fast as prudently possi-
ble, under the circumstancessss. It would be foolhardy
and recklessss to just charge ahead through this chaotic

traffic jam!"

She could not make out Dr. Baskin's reply, but it had
considerable effect on Akeakemai, whose eyes bulged
with an almost human look of surprise. Chagrin over-
came the perpetual "smile" that neo-dolphins always
seemed to wear.

Sara gently lifted Prity from her lap and put her on the
deck. She stood up and began moving toward the con-
versation, whose intensity grew with each passing dura.

"But-t-t-t—" Akeakemai sputtered. "What about the
Transcendentsss? Surely they would never allow such a
thing to happ-p-pen!"

Allow what to happen, Sara puzzled as she ap-
proached.

Abruptly, the Niss Machine manifested its holo pres-
ence, spinning in midair near Gillian Baskin.

"I have bad news, "it announced. "The gateways have
shut down. They are accepting no more candidates
from this ingathering swarm."

"I was afraid of this," Gillian said. "The subspace dis-
ruptions have overcome the gateways' ability to func-
tion. Now the arks will have nowhere to go, piling up
just above the surface of the dwarf."

"The pileup' is already taking place, as ever larger
numbers of candidate vessels finish their transforma-
tions and settle into that low, crowded orbit. How-

Deaven's Reach  419

ever—" The hologram twisted and bowed. "You are
wrong about the gateways. They are not dysfunctional.
True, they appear to have stopped sending more candi-
dates through to realms beyond. But this is because they
now have other tasks in mind."

"Show us!" Sara demanded, intruding on Gillian's au-
thority. The older woman nodded, and a multidimen-
sional image sprouted. All objects were represented on
a logarithmic scale, allowing events to be seen in vivid,
compressed detail.

Down near the white dwarf, giant vessels thronged
like a teeming herd of restless beasts, circling ever more
tightly around a blazing fire. More streamed in steadily
as Sara watched, contributing to a disk that kept spread-
ing and thickening. Each new arrival came seeking
passage to the next level. To a fabled place, next to
some distant neutron star, where they might trans-
form yet again, and bask in the embrace of mighty
tides.

Only the conduits were gone! The needlelike struc-
tures had been busily occupied, just moments ago, pass-
ing candidates toward their goal. But now the immense
devices deserted their stations and could be seen climb-
ing away, abandoning the latecomers to their fate!

The gateways shimmered with inconstant colors that
made them seem slippery to the eye, reminding Sara of
the spectral flow—the desert of psi-active stone, back
home on Jijo—where even a single glimpse could send
a mind reeling.

Rising steadily away from the dwarf star, each needle
plunged through the runnel of descending arks, forcing
countless many of them to maneuver wildly out of the
way, leaving behind swirls of confusion. Whatever or-
der had remained in the mass pilgrimage swiftly van-
ished. Massive explosions glittered behind each
behemoth, like phosphorescent diatoms, churned in
some dark sea when a great beast comes rushing
through.

"One of those things is headed almost straight for
ussss!" the astrogator cried.

420  David Brin

Gillian snapped an order. "Get us out of here, and to
hell with prudence! Maximum inertial speed!"
Akeakemai responded with an emphatic tail slash.

"Aye!"

Almost at once, Streaker's engines began groaning
with urgency. Sara felt ominpus vibrations underfoot,
along with a strange tension in her spine as compensat-
ing fields struggled to match acceleration.

"You know this is ffffutile, of course," commented
Zub'daki. "Even if we avoid collisions and the Jophur,
we still aren't going to make it-t. Streaker would have to
be several light-years away in order to escape the com-
ing calamity."

"What are you talking about?" Sara asked. "What's

coming?"

Before the dolphin astronomer could answer, she

stepped back with a gasp.

In the holo display, one of the huge, javelin-shaped
gateways could be seen rising rapidly, leaving roiling
chaos in its wake, on a course that seemed destined to
pass nearby. While trillions died from crashes or fiery
detonations, the "gateway" surged blithely onward and

upward.

Only now Sara also observed—

"It's shooting at some of the ships!"

Indeed, the needle-artifact was apparently not content
with disrupting the migration with its backwash. It also
flailed out with beams of force, like cruel, glowing lari-
ats, aiming at specific targets as it climbed.

This was no anomaly. All the other gateways were
behaving the same way as they hurried away from the

white dwarf.

Sara felt Prity take her right hand. Aghast at the orgy
of destruction—vastly more bloody and devastating
than what had happened at the Fractal World—she
could only stare and wonder.

/ wish Emerson were here, so we could watch the end

together.
Amid the advancing wave of blinding outbursts and

Heoven's Reach  421

detonations, she had time for one more thought before
the shimmering monster lashed one more time, reaching
toward Streaker, with dazzling rays of light.

Forgive me for thinking it-—but God . . . it's beauti-
ful. . . .

/uvins Journal

OW CAN I EXPRESS THE JOY I FEEL? OR THE
sorrow that simultaneously fills my tense and throb-
bing spines?

Sometimes life seems just too ironic. The uni-
verse may be shaking apart around us, and yet I've
been blessed by Ifni's own good fortune, to find love
and strange-warm acceptance among my own kind.
Meanwhile, poor Pincer—whose idea it was to under-
take the adventures that eventually brought us here
from our wilderness home—met an untimely death at
the very threshold of civilization, because he happened
to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Scout-Major Harry Harms wanted to put out a police
alert for the murderer, but Pilot Kaa begged him not to.
A full investigation would blow our cover, revealing the
presence of dolphins and sooners at Kazzkark. Above
all, Huck must be protected, as the only living g'Kek
survivor outside ofJijo—though she chafes at being put
in such a position. Indeed, Huck is the angriest among
us, shouting to avenge Pincer, whatever the cost!

I was forced to agree with Kaa. With law and order
starting to crumble, it is doubtful that a "full investiga-
tion" would amount to very much, anyway.

"I'll put out some feelers," assured Scout-Major
Harms. "And unleash ferret programs to look for any
Rothen-like images on the monitors, in case Ro-kenn is
careless enough to stroll openly along the avenues. But
I'll wager he's gone underground. Rothen are notori-
ously clever at disguises and that sort of thing."

"Or else he may have already taken shelter with one

422   David Brill

of the great clansss," added Kaa. "Perhaps he is dicker-
ing with them right now, to sell out Streaker and Jijo."

Against that possibility, Harry asked Kaa to move our
little starship over to the docks of the Navigation Insti-
tute, sheltering it behind his own, odd-looking craft.

"You must understand, I'd never do this under normal
circumstances," he explained. "I took an oath. My first
loyalty is to the Institute, and to the Civilization of Five
Galaxies." Then Harry shrugged expressively. "But right
now it's unclear what that means anymore."

I confess, it was hard at first to watch him speak with-
out umbling out loud! I know it shouldn't surprise me so
much to see a chimpanzee talk with sober eloquence.
Especially one who stood so straight and tall, with ele-
gant white fur and an enviably agile tail. Clearly, his race
has benefited from several more centuries of genetic
Uplift since the Tabernacle departed Earth, bringing his
mute cousins to Jijo.

"In any event," Major Harms continued. "You have a
full set of bio identifications on Ro-kenn, contained in
that report you're carrying for the Terragens Council.
Perhaps they'll put some of their notorious interstellar
agents on his trail. I'm sure the bastard will get paid in
full for what he's done. Don't you worry."

A bold reassurance. Even Huck seemed a little molli-
fied.

And yet, given what we've heard about the Siege of
Terra, how likely is it to come true?

Even before Pincer's death, our glorious fellowship was
breaking up.

Last week, Ur-ronn met up with the p'un m'ang own-
ers of a freighter—birdlike creatures with bristles instead
of wings and no manipulative organs to speak of, ex-
cept for their beaks. This crew was in a real fix. Their
"hired hand" had left them in order to head home dur-
ing the crisis. They seemed delighted by the chance to
hire an urrish1 replacement, even when Ur-ronn told
them her technical education was somewhat lacking.

Since piloting is mostly automatic along the main

Heaven's Reach  423

trade routes, and robots take care of most ordinary
tasks, what the crew really needs is someone with intel-
ligence and tactile agility, to pick up stuff, run errands,
and pull levers whenever the machines prove too inflex-
ible. That sounds easy enough for a tireless worker like
Ur-ronn, whose nimble hands can wrap around any
task. It should be like child's play, after slaving away for
Uriel, back at Mount Guenn Forge.

I asked Twaphu-anuph to look over the contract with
a hoonish bureaucrat's eye for detail, and he declared it
satisfactory. The p'un m'ang will drop Ur-ronn off at
their third stop, a port where urrish ships stop fre-
quently, and she can make contact with her own kind.
Along the way she'll gain experience while earning
some credits to spend.

I hope she doesn't hector her poor employers to
death with questions.

"At least the ship is warm and dry," Ur-ronn said, after
visiting her new employers. "There's none of the Ifni-
cursed humidity I had to put up with on the way here!
And the p'un m'ang don't smell as bad as Earthlings,

either!"

Kaa answered with an amiably derisive spitting
sound. The two of them had spent a lot of time together
during the journey from Galaxy Four, talking about
technology and diverting each other's worries. I doubt
I'll ever see a stranger-looking friendship than a water-
loving dolphin and a hydrophobic urs, getting along fa-
mously.

"I'll keep all three eyes open for an Earthling or Tym-
brimi ship to pass this on to," she continued, patting the
pouch under her left arm. Inside lay a copy of Gillian
Baskin's report, coded for decipherment by the Ter-
ragens Council.

(I have another hidden duplicate. Who knows which
of us will get through first. Assuming the cosmos coop-
erates . . . and that Earth survives.)

I felt sad when Ur-ronn set off to depart with the p'un
m'ang. Bidding our dear comrade farewell, I wanted to
pick her up till all four hooves left the ground, and
squeeze her in a full hoonish hug. But I know that our

424   David Brin

races view such things differently. Urs are not a nostal-
gic or sentimental people.

Of course Ur-ronn loves Huck and me, in the manner
of her kind. Perhaps she will think about us, now and
then, with passing fondness.

But her life will soon be busy and focused.
She will not miss us nearly as much as we already
miss her.
' Such is the world.

As Ur-ronn departed, another companion returned to
me.

After miduras of intense questioning, Dwer finally got
what he wanted from Mudfoot. At last the little noor
spoke, confessing the truth of what we had supposed all
along—that centuries ago some Tymbrimi planted an
illicit colony of their beloved clients on Jijo. Although
most noor are born silent and partly devolved, a secret
group among them retained fully uplifted mental pow-
ers. They are tytlal.

Mudfoot agreed to provide Dwer with code words
and phrases that will bring the secret ones out of hiding.
This was Dwer's price for letting the creature go.
Mudfoot's aim now is to make contact somehow with
the Tymbrimi and inform them what's happened on Jijo.
Since that goal is compatible with my own, the little
fellow will accompany me when I journey onward.

Dwer seems satisfied. Indeed, I think his chief aim
was to get the best of Mudfoot, just once, before he and
Kaa set course on their long voyage back to Jijo.

Before everything comes apart.

The Five Galaxies rock and shudder as the moment of
sundering approaches.

With space quakes intensifying, and cracks spreading
through the ancient planetoid's walls, it grows apparent
that even isolated Kazzkark will be no refuge against the
coming convulsions. Already the refugee flow has re-
versed, as more ships and sapients leave than arrive.

Deam's Beacli  425

With half the normal space lanes already disrupted,
many folks are using the remaining stable routes to head
home while there's still time.

Among those departing, the most singular looking are
acolytes dressed in robes of blue and gold, spreading
the gospel of a bizarre faith—one that focuses on salva-
tion for individuals, not races. A creed in which Earth
plays the central dramatic role, as martyr planet.

A sect that proclaims love for Terra, while joyous over
its crucifixion.

I have no idea if the same message has been
preached in a million other locales, or by just the one
Skiano apostle. Either way, the cult seems to have struck
a chord that resonates in these troubled times. Fanning
across space to spread the word, the missionaries
seemed eager to take advantage of the chaos, and the
shakiness of more ancient faiths.

At the center of it all, acting as the Skiano's chief aide
and majordomo, is Rety, the young human female who
once seemed such an untamed savage, even on remote
Jijo. Transformed by surgery and new garments, she
beckons and commands the converts—even sophisti-
cated starfarers—like some haughty lord of an ancient
patron clan.

And they take it! Bowing respectfully, even when the

parrot on her shoulder squawks irreverently caustic re-
marks.

I've never seen a human act more confident, or more
arrogantly assured of her status.

Meanwhile, the Skiano himself paces slowly, an eerie
light flickering in one set of eyes, while the other pair
appears to stare at distant horizons.

Naturally, Dwer has failed persuading Rety to leave
this fanatical group. She would not even budge when
Harry Harms offered a transit pass to his homeworld, a
colony located far from the current troubles, where she

might possibly find safety and comfort with her own
kind.

Harry and Dwer both express frustration. But frankly,
I find Rety's adamant resolution understandable. She
has learned how pleasant it can be to find a sense of

426  David Bfin

importance and belonging among people who value
you.

So have I.

It's nearly time to put down my journal. Dor-hinuf ex-
pects me at her parents' dwelling, where members of
the local hoon community will gather again for an eve-
ning of dinner and poetry. A normal enough occur-
rence, back home on Jijo, but apparently quite daring
and new among my star-god relations.

I must paw through the box of books I brought from
Jijo and select tonight's reading. Last time, we had some
Melville and Cousteau, but it seems that human authors
are a difficult reach for many of these civilized hoons. I
expect it will take a while for me to teach them the
merits of Jules Verne and Mark Twain.

Mostly, they want me to umble from the odes of
Chuph-wuph'iwo and Phwhoon-dau, singing melodra-
matically about taut sails straining against sturdy masts,
defying wind and salt spray as a knifelike prow cleaves
bravely through some gale-swollen reach. My father
would be proud to know that the hoonish literary re-
naissance of Jijo, so long eclipsed by Earthling authors,
is at last finding an eager audience among our distant,

starfaring cousins.

It is most gratifying. And yet, I wonder.

How can this be?

Consider the irony! Huck and I always dreamed of
how romantic and wonderful it would be to go flitting
about in spaceships. But these civilized hoons only see
starcraft as conveyances—dull implements for travel be-
tween assignments—as they plod through the routine
destiny assigned to our kind long ago by our Guthatsa

patrons.

So what makes them receptive now, to umbles of

hope and joy? Is it the growing chaos outside? Or was
something lying in wait all along, sleeping underneath a
dark shell of oppressive, bureaucratic unhappiness?

Can it really be the simple image of a sailboat that
triggers an awakening, a stirring deep inside?

Heaven's fleacli  427

If so, the elation might have lain buried forever. No
civilized hoon would willingly risk life and limb at sea.
The mere thought would be dismissed as absurd. The
accounts would not balance. Averse to risk, they would
never give it a try.

Besides, what hoon can swim? Nothing in our ances-
tral tree would logically suggest the way hoonish spines
frickle at the sight of wintry icebergs on a storm-serrated
horizon, or the musical notes that rope and canvas sing,
like a mother umbling to her child.

Only on Jijo was this discovered, once our settler an-
cestors abandoned their star-god tools, along with all
the duties and expectations heaped on us by the
Guthatsa.

In fairness, perhaps our patrons meant well. After all,
we owe them for our sapient minds. Galactic society
sets a stern standard that most elder races follow, when
uplifting their clients toward sober, dependable adult-
hood. The Guthatsa took our strongest racial traits—loy-
alty, duty, devotion to family—and used them to set us
down a single narrow course. Toward prudent, obses-
sive responsibility.

And yet, only now are Dor-hinuf and her people
learning how our patrons cheated us. Robbing our
greatest treasure. One that we only recovered by play-
ing hooky ... by ditching class and heading for the
river.

To Jijo, where hoons at last reclaimed what had been
stolen.
Our childhood.

1-^ari'

THE TRANSCENDENCE GATEWAYS APPEARED TO
have finished their migration, climbing outward
from their former position near the surface of a
white dwarf star. Now all the huge, needle-shaped
devices glistened in much higher orbits, beyond the
outer fringes of the candidates' swarm.

428   David Brin

The distance traveled was a short one, as space jour-
neys went. But in crossing it, they created murderous

bedlam.

Below lay a roiling cauldron of fire and confusion, as
millions of vast spacecraft fought desperately for sur-
vival. Already disordered by chaos waves, all the prim
spiral traffic lanes were now completely unraveled, curl-
ing and splitting into myriad turbulent eddies. Engine
resonances intersected and interfered, creating mutual-
attraction fields, yanking vessels suddenly toward each
other. When one giant ark veered to avoid a neighbor,
that brought yet another hurtling toward explosive im-
pact.

Eruptions seemed to coruscate up and down the
densely packed funnel, converting what had formerly
been sentient matter into white plasma flame.

As if intending to make matters worse, each of the
titanic needles also lashed out during its brief voyage,
using beams of fierce brightness to seize several dozen
spacecraft, chosen apparently at random, dragging them
like calves at the end of a lariat.

Among the unchosen, those who brushed acciden-
tally against the tendrils were instantly vaporized.

Why? Lark asked, appalled by the sight. Why did they do

it?

He was counting on Ling for an explanation, since
she had once been a starfarer and had spent more time
exploring the Transcendents' Data Mesh. But on this oc-
casion she was equally astonished and aghast.

I . . . cannot begin to guess. . . . Unless they al-
ready bad their quota of candidates, and decided that
any more would be superfluous. ... Or else maybe
the chaos waves are getting too strong, and they had to
give up trying to send more nominees through to the
next level.

He shook his head, dislodging one of the symbionts
that had taken'residence there recently, devouring his

last hair follicles.

But that doesn't explain the callous disregard/or life!

Heaven's Reach  429

Those are sapient beings down there! Quadrillions of
them! Every one was a member of some ancient race
that bad studied and improved itself diligently for ages
just to get here. . . .

Ling took his arm and stroked it, pressing herself
against him for the warm comfort it provided them both.

Even so, Lark, they ivere still like animals, compared
to the Transcendents. Expendable. Especially if their de-
struction might serve a higher purpose.

He blinked several times.

Higher purpose? What purpose could possibly justify—

He cut off as a new presence began making itself
known, groping toward them across the mental byways
of the mesh. Soon, Lark recognized a familiar presence
—one that had formerly been his teacher . . . then an
enemy . . . and was now simply a friend.

"X," the modified traeki, had been doing some inde-
pendent exploration, and now wanted to report its find-
ings.

The Jophur have despaired of ever returning to their
clan, or accomplishing their mission. Moreover, they
realize they have very little time. Soon, the macroentity
that we now are part of—what you call "Mother"-—will
complete its conquest of the Polkjhy by breaking into the
engineering section, where the former crew have made
their last redoubt. When that happens, they will cease to
be Jophur—at least by their own narrow definition.

Before that happens, they have decided to embark on
a dramatic and conclusive course of action. A final act
of vengeance.

Lark cast his mind outward, visualizing the once
mighty battleship and its surroundings. Whether by luck
or by dauntless piloting skill, Polkjhy had apparently
succeeded in escaping the candidates' swarm. Only tat-
tered outskirts of the whirling disk lay between them
and deep space—a starry night sky that rippled, every
now and then, with shivering waves of chaos. The pros-
pect of flight beckoned, now that a getaway path
seemed clear. But Polkjhy's remaining crew members
knew it could never be. Mother would absorb them into

430  David Brin

the new hybrid existence, long before they reached the
first transfer point. Assuming the t-point was still usable.

Engine noises rumbled through the liquid environ-
ment, carrying notes of deep resolve. Lark sensed
Polkjby's trajectory—and realized it was aimed almost
straight toward one of the gleaming needle-gateways!

Throughout all this struggle and confusion, the
Jophur have kept tenaciously—even single-mindedly—
to their original purpose. They never lost track of the
Earthling ship.

It lies dead ahead, ensnared by the Transcendents in
a webbery of light.

Casting his viewpoint outward, Lark verified that each
great needle was now surrounded by clusters of captive
starcraft, wrapping them in layer after layer of lambent
windings. No reason or purpose for this strange activity
could be learned by sifting the mesh, but soon Lark
noticed that a faint resonance seemed to echo from one
of the confined vessels.

Something familiar.

Ling joined his efforts and together they focused
closer, until something clicked and the circuits abruptly
filled with jagged sonic patterns.

A human voice, somber but grimly determined.

Heaven's Reach  431

selected to perform some honored task. Some chore or
service deemed worthwhile by the highest overminds.
Yet, they petition to escape this distinction, resuming
their forlorn plight in a world of danger and sorrows!

Meanwhile, the remaining Jophur send Polkjhy
charging ahead with but one thought in mind—to deny
the Earthlings any taste of a transcendence they have
not earned!

A confrontation looms. One that should prove inter-
esting to observe.

Lark appreciated the traeki's sense of detachment,
even though the most likely outcome was for Polkjhy to
be swatted aside—vaporized—like some irritating gnat,
by powers unimaginably more powerful.

He considered ways to avoid this undesired end.

I wonder if it might be possible for us to communicate
with Streaker, via the mesh.

Ling nodded.

/ don't see why not. If only for a few moments.

Their traeki friend also agreed.

I/we have our/my own reasons to wish this. Let us
work together, and strive to achieve that connection.

H

arry

"... we repeat. This is not a destiny of our choosing.
We are not legitimate members of the candidate swarm.
Nor are we part of the retired life order. We have no
business in the Embrace of Tides, nor do we wish to
experience any form of transcendence at this time.

"Duty calls us back to Galaxy Two. Please let us go!
We humbly request that you let us flee this doomed
place, while there is still time.

"Again, we repeat. This is not a destiny of our choos-
ing. . . ."

Lark felt the traeki's mental touch, sharing thoughts that
seemed to slither, like smooth rivulets of dripping wax.
How interesting. Apparently the Terrans have been

HEN ONE OF THE BIG SOUTH POLE GALLERIES
suddenly collapsed—blowing several thousand
gasping tenants into deadly vacuum—the high of-
ficials in dominion over Kazzkark finally gave in to
the inevitable. They issued the long-awaited direc-
tive.
Evacuate!

"My research—sifting through the oldest, most ambigu-
ity-protected archives in the Great Library—indicates
that conditions were probably similar during the Gronin
Collapse," Wer'Q'quinn explained when Harry reported
for his last assignment.

432   David Brill

From a high balcony at Navigation Institute HQ, they
watched as crowds thronged down the main arcades
toward various egress ports, streaming to reclaim the
starships that had brought them here. Meanwhile,
Wer'Q'quinn waved a languid pseudopod and contin-
ued contemplating the past.

"Then, as now, the Institutes went into denial at first.
Later, under instructions from higher life orders, they
concealed the truth from most of our civilization until it
was too late for any concerted preparation. Indeed, an
identical scenario would have repeated this time, if not
for the recent warning that was broadcast from Earth.
Without it, most of the races in the Five Galaxies would
have had scarcely any chance to get ready."

"A lot of clans chose to ignore the warning," Harry
groused. "Some are too busy attacking Earth to listen."

After a gloomy silence, he went on.

"I don't suppose there's any chance that all these spa-
tial disturbances will affect the Siege of Terra, is there?"

Wer'Q'quinn swiveled a squidlike gaze toward the
chimpanzee scout, as if scrutinizing him for any sign of

wavering loyalty.

"That seems unlikely. We estimate that up to thirty-
percent of the t-points in Galaxy Two will remain at
least partly functional. Of course, during the worst part
of the crisis, metric backlash will convulse every level of
hyperspace. Woe unto any vessel that tries to undergo
pseudoacceleration while that is going on! But this
should scarcely inconvenience the great battleships
presently surrounding your ancestral solar system. They
will be safe, so long as they remain in normal space, and
refrain from using probability weapons until the rupture

is over.

"Naturally, we expect the effects will be far more se-
vere in Galaxy Four."

Harry nodded. "Which is exactly where you're send-
ing me."

"Would ypu withdraw? I can send another."

"Oh, yeah? Who else are you gonna find who's willing
to enter E Space at a time like this?"

Wer'Q'quinn's answer was eloquent silence. Of his

Heaven's Reach  433

remaining staff, only Harry had the experience—and tal-
ents—to hold any hope of success in that bizarre realm
of living ideas.

"Well," Harry grunted. "Why the hell not, eh? You say
I should have time enough to lay down new instrument
packages along the Path, from here to Galaxy Four, and
still make it back before the crisis hits?"

"It will be close," Wer'Q'quinn averred. "But we have
supplemented our traditional calculations with new esti-
mates, utilizing wolfling techniques of mathematical in-
cantation that were contained in the message from
Earth. Both methods appear to agree. The main rupture
should not take place till after you safely return."

Another long silence stretched.

"Of course I would've gone anyway," Harry said at
last, in a gruff voice.

A low sigh. A nervous curling of tentacles.

"I know you would."

"For the Five Galaxies," Harry added.

"Yes." Wer'Q'quinn's voice faltered. "For the Civiliza-
tion of ... Five Galaxies."

Down on the boulevards of Kazzkark, the worst of the
exodus appeared to be over. While gleaners sifted
through dross and wreckage from so many hurried de-
partures, Harry strode along with a floating donkey-
drone, bearing capsules to deposit in E Space for
Wer'Q'quinn. Telemetry from these packages might re-
veal more about the strains now pulling apart the con-
nective tissue of space. Perhaps next time—in a
hundred million years or so—people might understand
things a little better.

And there would be a next time. As the universe ex-
panded, ever more of the ancient "flaws" that linked
galaxy to galaxy would stretch, then break. After each
sundering transition, the number of surviving t-points
would be smaller, their connections less rich, and the
speedy lanes of hyperspace become that much more
inaccessible.

As it ages, the cosmos is becoming a less interesting,

434  David Bfin

more dangerous place. Everything must have seemed so
close and easy in the Progenitors' day, he thought. A
time of magic, when it was almost trivial to conjure a
path between any two points in seventeen linked galax-
ies.

He squared his shoulders back.

Oh, well. At least I get to take part in something im-
portant. Even if Wer'Q'quinn is exaggerating my
chances of getting home again.

Kazzkark had seemed so immaculate when he first
arrived here from training school. Now a dusty haze
seemed to pervade the corridors, shaken from the walls
by quakes and chaos waves, which rattled this entire
sector at ever narrower intervals. They had grown so
frequent, in fact, that he hardly noticed most of them
anymore.

It just goes to show, even the abnormal can get to
seem normal, after a while.

Approaching the dockyards, he witnessed a large
party of hoonish clerks and their families, carrying lug-
gage and tugging hover-carts, preparing to board a
transport for one of their homeworlds. Tile queue was
orderly, as you would expect from a hoonish proces-
sion. Yet, something appeared different about this
group. They seemed less dour, more animated, than
others of their kind.

It's their clothes! Harry realized, all at once. Alvin's got
them wearing Hawaiian shirts!

Indeed, roughly a third of the hulking bipeds had set
aside the more typical robes of boring white or silver,
and draped themselves instead with tunics bearing gar-
ish prints of flowers and tropical ferns—split down the
back to leave room for their craggy spines. Umbling as
they waited patiently in line, the group made every
nearby corridor reverberate with tones that seemed far
livelier than the dirgelike chants usually heard from

hoons.

One GalSix trill-phrase, in particular, caused Many to

stumble.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that translates into
Anglic as "heigh bo!"

Heaven's Reach  435

Some of the older hoons looked on all this with per-
plexed—even miffed—expressions. But toward the
front there stood a crowd of youths—teenagers, he
noted—who boomed out the refrain with enthusiastic
bellows of their bulging throat sacs.

A cheerful ballad about transition, and eagerness for
new vistas.

Over in a corner, shuffling behind the hoons, stood a
strange figure, looking like a short, shabby Jophur. It
was Tyug, the traeki alchemist from Jijo, accompanying
Alvin on the next phase of his adventure.

Harry tried to catch Alvin's eye as he walked past, but
the lad was fully immersed, enjoying his role as the out-
of-town boy who had come to stir things up. With Dor-
hinuf close to his side, and a pair of tytlal lounging on
his broad shoulders, Alvin leaned against a loosely
wrapped shipping crate, feigning nonchalance while
keeping a close vigil over its contents.

One edge of the tarpaulin shifted as Harry watched.
From the darkness within, a single eye drifted upward at
the end of a waving stalk. Another tried to follow,
squeezing through to twist and stare at the surround-
ings.

Without pausing in the umble song, Alvin silently
used one burly hand to grab both wayward eyes and
cram them back inside. Then he tied the tarp down
firmly. The crate shuddered, as jf someone inside were
rolling back and forth in protest. But Alvin only leaned
harder until things settled down.

"Ahoy!" shouted a hoon at the front of the queue,
when the portal opened at last, leading to their ship.
"Avast back there. Here we go!"

Harry tried holding it in. He struggled hard, and man-
aged to make it fifty meters farther along before his
splitting sides could take it no longer. Then he ducked
around a stony corner, sagged against the nearest wall,
and guffawed.

The Official Docks were nearly deserted. Dignitaries of
the Library, Migration, Commerce, and War Institutes

436  David Brin

had already scurried off, leaving empty moorings. Only
Wer'Q'quinn's busy teams remained on duty, rushing
forth on rescue missions, or using beacons to guide traf-
fic around danger zones. Noble work. Harry's own days
might be better spent that way, helping save lives and
patching the raveled skeins of Galactic society. After the
main rupture event, Navlnst must promote recovery by
getting trade going again.

But Wer'Q'quinn saved me for this mission. I guess
the old octopus knows what he's doing.

Ahead lay Harry's venerable observation platform, de-
signed for cruising the memic jungles of E Space. Al-
though this mission was bound to be the most
dangerous yet, Harry found his footsteps speeding up,
drawn by strange eagerness.

Humming under his breath, he recognized the same
melody Alvin's new in-laws had been umbling as they
prepared to depart.

It seemed a catchy tune.

Good for traveling.

A song of anticipation.

More chaos waves struck the planetoid while he was
busy loading Wer'Q'quinn's instruments into the hold.
Ancient stone walls groaned with resonant vibrations,
causing the ship's decks and bulkhead to vibrate vio-
lently. Harry had to scoot out of the way when an un-
secured crate toppled from an upper shelf. Thanks to
Kazzkark's slight pseudogravity, he managed to avoid
getting crushed, but the box smashed hard, spilling deli-
cate parts across the floor.

While sweeping up, he listened for the wailing siren
to announce a vacuum breach. Only after several duras
passed did his fur settle down. Apparently, the dock
seals were holding—for now.

Harry stepped outside to visit the stocky little Then-
nanin-built star cruiser that lay parked behind his sta-
tion. Stepping through its airlock, he shouted for the
pilot.

Heaven's Beaclr  437

"Kaa! You ready to ship out? I'll be outta here in less
than a midura, if you're still thinking of tagging along."

The sleek gray dolphin emerged from his control cu-
bicle, riding atop a six-legged machine. Kaa was starting
to look weary. It had been weeks since he'd had a
swim. Aside from rest periods in a narrow water tank,
he'd spent most of that time lying on the float bed of a
walker-drone.

"It'sss not soon enough for me," the pilot hissed.
"Alassss, I'm stuck waiting here till Dwer returns."

Harry glanced around.

"Aw hell," he grunted. "Now where's Dwer gone off
to?"

Another voice spoke up from a rear doorway, uttering
Anglic words with unctuous, almost seductive tones.

"Well, well. I would surmise that the young human is
trying—yes, one more time!—to persuade his female
counterpart—Rety—to come along. Would you not
guess it so?"

Kiwei Ha'aoulin emerged from one of the tiny cabins,
working past a pile of supplies tied down by cargo net-
ting. The Synthian had pressed to accompany Kaa, de-
spite warnings that it would surely be a one-way trip. In
fact, each admonition just heightened her resolve. Kiwei
even offered to finance all the food and other items
needed for Kaa's voyage.

She did not believe that a so-called "great rupture"
was imminent.

"These disturbances will pass," she had blithely as-
sured. "/ am not saying everything will go back to nor-
mal. While the Institutes and great clans spend
centuries sorting things out, they will be lax about en-
forcing minor rules against little sooner colonies—or
against smuggling! Can't you scent business opportuni-
ties in this? I shall serve asJijo's commercial agent, yes!
In utter secrecy and confidence, as off-planet liaison for
the Six-or-Seven Races, I will market primitive auto-
chthonous implements on the collectors' market, and
make us all quite rich!"

Harry had watched greed battle typical Synthian cau-
tion. Eventually, Kiwei resolved the conflict by entering

438  Oavid Bfin

a state of pure denial, blithely rejecting any notion that
upheavals might change the cosmos in fundamental
ways. Harry felt guilty about giving in to her request.
But a Synthian trader could be obstinately tenacious,
•wearing down all opposition. Besides, Kaa needed the
supplies.

Kiwei stepped over the crude caricature that Pincer-
Tip had carved in the metal deck—a chilling image of
the qheuen's murderer, who had probably departed
Kazzkark by now, plotting more mischief.

"Indeed, Dwer went after Rety. I was monitoring
comm channels, moments ago, when an urgent mes-
sage came through from the boy."

Kaa thrashed his tail. "You didn't t-tell me!"

"Pilot, you seemed well occupied with pre-takeoff
checklists and such. Besides, I had it in mind to go now
and help the young human, myself! Generous, yes?
Would you care to come along, Scout-Major Harms?"

Harry squirmed. His launch window would be opti-
mum in a midura. Still, if the boy was in trouble . . .

"Did Dwer say what's the matter?"

The Synthian rubbed her belly—a nervous gesture.

"The message was unclear. Apparently, he feels ur-
gent action is needed, or the girl will not survive."

They tracked the young Jijoan to a nearby warehouse
chamber, crouching behind a pile of abandoned crates.
Wearing a dark cloak and a frustrated expression, he
gazed at a gathering of sapients, about forty meters
away.

Empty cargo containers had been festooned with blue
and gold draperies, a convivial backdrop for the big
Skiano missionary, who stood surrounded by about two
dozen acolytes from as many races. The Skiano's head
jutted above most followers, resembling a massive
ship's prow. One pair of eyes gleamed ceaselessly, as if
lighting the way into a warm night.

Most of the'proselytes had already dispersed to far
reaches of civilized space, spreading their exceptional
message of personal salvation, but this remnant group

Heaven's Reach  439

remained by their leader, chanting hymns that chilled
Harry's spine.

"What's up?" he asked Dwer, stepping past him.
Harry quickly spotted Rety, a small human figure, sitting
apart from the others, her face lit by the glow of a porta-
ble computer.

"Watch out!" Dwer snapped, seizing Harry's collar
and yanking him back hard.

"Hey!" Harry complained—till several small projec-
tiles pelted a nearby crate, sending splinters flying.

He blinked. "Someone's shooting at us!"

Dwer hazarded a glimpse back around the corner,
then motioned it was okay for Harry and Kiwei to rejoin
him. He pointed toward a pair of blue-clad acolytes—a
gello and a paba—standing protectively near the dais,
glaring with expressions of clear warning. Both races
had been uplifted to be warriors, with innate talents for
violent conflict. Though now dedicated to a religion of
peace, these individuals had been assigned a task wor-
thy of their gifts. While the gello brandished a metal-
tipped staff, the paha sported a simple device on one
arm—a wrist catapult, like the one Dwer was seen wear-
ing earlier.

"Interesting," Kiwei said. "Disallowed more sophisti-
cated weaponry, they swiftly caught on to the advan-
tages of wolfling arts. No doubt Rety taught them.
Perhaps their new faith disposes them to be more open-
minded than most."

Harry shrugged aside Kiwei's foolish commentary.

"They don't want us comin' any closer. Why?" he
asked Dwer.

"I was warned not to bother Rety anymore. They said
I was distracting her. They can't bring themselves to kill
a sacred Earthling. But since 'it is the Terran destiny to
suffer for us all,' they won't mind shattering a bone or
two. I'd be careful, if I were you."

Harry's frustration flared.

"Look, Dwer, we don't have much time. Rety's de-
cided to stay with folks who'll love an' take care of her.
That's a lot more than most folks have in this universe,

440  David Brin

and better odds than she'd have coming with us! It's
time to let her make her own choices."

Dwer nodded. "Normally, I'd agree. Rety's been a
pain. I'd like nothing better than to see her make it on
her own. There's just one problem. Things may not be
quite the way you just described 'em."

Harry's eyebrows arched.

"Oh? How's that?"

In reply, Dwer pointed.

"Look to the right, beyond the platform. See some-
thing there? Beyond that curtain?"

Blowing another sigh, Harry peered toward a flowing
veil of colorful fabric between two massive pillars, just
past the Skiano's meditating followers. "What're you
talkin' about? I don't get . . ."

He paused. Something moved back there. At first, the
outlines reminded him of an angular machine, with
sharp edges for cutting, slicing. Then an errant gust
blew the drapes harder against the object, revealing a
stark, mantislike outline.

"Ifni's boss . . . ," Harry murmured. "What's a
Tandu lurking back there for?"

Of one thing he felt sure—no Tandu would ever join
the Skiano's heresy! Immortality of some abstract "soul"
could not appeal like a chance to crush enemies, or
impose their racial will on a recalcitrant cosmos. Till
now, constraints of ritual and law kept such impulses in
check—Tandu seldom killed openly without a veneer of
Galactic legality. But what if civilization collapsed?
There were rumors of secret bases, filled with countless
warrior eggs, ready to hatch at a moment's notice.

"Why are the paha and gello just standing there?" he
wondered aloud. "They must not realize—"

Kiwei interrupted.

"They do realize. Note how they keep their backs
toward the curtain, as if to ignore what's beyond.
Clearly, they have orders. The Tandu is here for some
approved purpose!"

Purpose? Harry tugged nervously on his thumbs . . .
till he had an idea.

Heaven's Reach  441

"Kiwei, hand me your data plaque. I want to try
something."

The Synthian complied, and Harry started mumbling
commands into the handheld unit. Using his authority,
he ordered ferret programs to search for transmissions
emanating from Rety's computer. With luck, he would
soon—

"Got it!" he announced, while his companions
crowded close. On a split screen, the left side abruptly
revealed the young Jijoan woman, her visage smoothed
by recent surgery. On the right, they saw copies of the
charts that had her attention transfixed.

"what now?" Dwer asked. "Use this link to speak to
her? I guarantee she'll just get angry and cut us off."

Harry shrugged. "I was hopin' to spy a little first." He
studied the image on the right. "It looks like a list of
planets where their cult recently sent missionaries. Most
are trading worlds, with good spatial contacts and cos-
mopolitan cultures that don't oppress odd points of
view. These folks are clever. But I don't see what this
has to do with—"

He cut off as an expression of smug pleasure crossed
Rety's face. She spoke with clear satisfaction.

"This one's perfect!"

The picture jiggled as she stood, slinging the com-
puter under one arm. Harry caught blurry glimpses of
blue draperies, and the faces of squatting acolytes, star-
ing at some far horizon. The scene steadied when Rety
came to a halt and spoke loudly, to be heard above the
murmuring chant.

"Master, I've chosen my own place. See? I have it listed
right here!"

The camera view swung around to face upward,
briefly catching the image of a colorful Earthling parrot,
pacing on a massive shoulder. Then Rety corrected her
aim, facing the screen straight at the Skiano's imposing
head. Beyond the ramlike chin, its upper brace of eyes
shone like headlamps, aimed at posterity, while the
lower pair roved in search of final truth.

Rety continued. "It's Z'ornup! I'm sure you've heard

442   David Brin

of the place. It has just the right atmosphere and all that
stuff, so's I can stay healthy. There's also a human trad-
ing post, in case I ever need others of my kind—which
ain't likely, but I guess it's better not to close of f all my

options, right?

"Anyway, you already sent a small mission there, but
I see the planet sits in a good spot, with lots of space
trails leading in all directions, where we can send any
new converts we recruit. With all that going for it, 1
figure Z'ornup needs a higher-level apostle, right? That's
someone like me! I'll use the last commercial shuttle
headin' for Galaxy Three. It leaves in half a midura, so

with your permission—"

The Skiano's unwavering stare dimmed at last. The
bottom set of eyes turned down to regard Rety.

"Such a posting is beneath you, my dear wolfling
child. I will not have you sullied by mundane chores,
proselytizing and breathing the same air as unbeliev-
ers."

"But I—"

"There is a reward that awaits the worthy, " the mis-
sionary continued, intoning with a remote, pontifical
voice. "It was alluded to by your own saints and
prophets, long ago. By Jesus and Isaiah and Mohammed
and Buddha . . . in fact, by all the great sages of your
blessed-cursed race, whose suffering in darkness al-
lowed them to see what remained hidden to all those

living in the light."

"I know that, Master. So let me go forth and spread

the word to—"

"Of course those prophets made errors in recording
what they saw. How could they accurately chronicle
such glory with crude ink and paper, using languages
that were little more than animallike grunts? Neverthe-
less, destiny has spoken. The beacon they lit will ignite
other pyres, spreading the beat of truth everywhere, even
as ruins topple around us."

"I agree! So now let me—"

"But alas, I will not see that promised land, that apo-
theosis. Like Moses, I must halt before entering a mere

Heaven's II each  443

temporal Valhalla. My labors have exhausted this poor
flesh. It is time to seek the recompense that I was offered
in a dream. To bypass the routine of Purgatory, and
proceed directly to Paradise!"

Rety's response was quick and restless.
"That's great. Happy travelin'. Now about Z'ornup— "
"My reward beckons, " the Skiano went on, ponder-
ously. "A personal salvation much finer than the Em-
brace of Tides. And yet . . . I cannot shake an uneasy
premonition. Have I done everything required? WlJat if I
arrive only to learn the heavenly gatekeepers do not rec-
ognize my strange face and body? After all this time
devoted only to Earthlings, are they quite ready to re-
ceive nonhuman souls in Heaven?"

The prow-shaped head rocked from left to right.

"It occurs to me that the gatekeepers will be more ac-
commodating if I arrive escorted, with an entourage of
those who will testify on my behalf. ..."

The image on the screen wavered, as if the hands
holding it suddenly trembled from realization, even as
the rhythmic chanting reached its final climax and faded
into echoes. Rety's voice came hoarse and nervous.

"This 'trip' you've been talkin' about . . . it's not to
another preaching mission, is it? You're plannin' to
die!"

The answer made Harry shiver.

"To abandon this shell, yes. Accompanied by con-
verts, to demonstrate my worthiness . . . plus a hu-
man, a true wolfling from the martyr world, to vouch
for me in front of all the angels and saints."

Harry's shoulder was jogged, so hard that he nearly
fell over. Dwer clutched his arm, squeezing with great
force. He pointed.

"The curtain . . ."

Kiwei uttered a low moan as the shrouding drapes
fell, revealing a regal Tandu warrior, painted and accou-
tred for ritual slaughter, advancing toward the acolytes
with six arms upraised, brandishing glinting blades.

Instead of leaping to defense, both of the soldier-dis-
ciples—the gello and paha—joined their fellow converts

444  David Brin

in a crescent-shaped formation, waiting quietly with
their leader centered before them.

Rety, now struggling in the Skiano's adamant em-
brace, abruptly stiffened and let out a soft. cry, staring
upward in aghast awe while the parrot squawked, flap-
ping overhead.

"Summon police drones!" Kiwei urged. "This cere-
mony is not entirely voluntary. I will attest to it!"

As ifthat'd do any good, Harry mused as he ran for-
ward, following Dwer's more rapid footsteps. The law is
crumbling. Anyway, help would never get here in time.

In which case, a mighty good question would be ex-
actly what he and Dwer hoped to accomplish by rush-
ing toward the debacle, except to join the Tandu's
ceremonial mincing session!

The Jijoan youth slid to a halt just twenty meters from
the assembled devotees. Flinging his cloak aside, Dwer
lifted the compound bow he had brought from his far-
away home, with an arrow nocked and ready.

"Those are mine!" the Synthian shrieked from far be-
hind, more offended by theft than ritual murder-suicide.
"You stole them from my compartment. I demand they
be returned at once, or I shall file a complaint!"

In the time it took Kiwei to babble that absurd threat,
the Tandu finished approaching its scheduled victims,
lifting several blades high—and Dwer loosed three ar-
rows in rapid succession.

Harry reached out for the young hunter.

"You can't harm a Tandu that way! It has no single
weak spot to disable—"

He stopped as the little missiles seemed to veer off
course. Instead of hitting the executioner, they missed
by a wide margin and struck the Skiano instead! Two
dark eyes were extinguished by plunging bolts of wood
and stone. A third arrow vanished down the mission-   i
ary's throat, when he opened it to scream.

The Skiano's white arms convulsed. For an instant,
only one of the four clutched Rety—and she chomped
down on the remaining hand with her teeth. Slipping
free of his spasmodic grasp, she ducked down to avoid
being seized by the paha, then swerved in an unex-

Heaven's Reach  445

pected direction, under and between the Tandu's spiky
legs!

Harry waved his arms.

"Over here! Run!"

A terrifying noise escaped the Tandu. Hired under
certain conditions, it had come armed only with weap-
ons appropriate for a formally pious sacrifice. Resistance
was not part of the bargain. This amounted to breach of
contract!

Its bellow resonated down the hallways of Kazzkark,
calling for comrades to come avenge this insult. Mean-
while, one blade flicked to remove the paha's head.

The husky gello warrior reacted impulsively by
swinging its metal-edged staff, crushing one of the
Tandu's forelegs, then another, before its own turn
came for skewering upon a scalpellike edge. Mean-
while, two more acolytes—a flying glououvis and
claw-footed zyu8—also lost sight of the purpose of the
gathering. Responding to ancient loathings, they
launched themselves at the Tandu, to peck at it from
above and below while dodging its flailing knives.

Amid this pandemonium, Dwer kept firing arrows,
taking out the giant mantislike creature's sensory stalks,
one at a time.

Harry thought of telling Dwer to save his ammo. That
tactic seldom worked against Tandu. But then Rety fi-
nally broke free of the melee and bolted toward the
edge of the raised platform. Sensing freedom just ahead,
she took two long steps, making ready to leap.

Harry's throat caught as he saw the Tandu reach after
her. The razor-sharp sword already dripped with mul-
ticolored gore.

A new swarm of chaos waves struck. The floor
convulsed, bucking like a wounded animal. Dust clouds
poured from shuddering walls and gay banners bil-
lowed before a rising wind. In the distance, a siren
wailed.

Harry staggered, watching helplessly as Rety teetered
at the rim of the heaving platform, then sprawled over
the edge amid a flailing of frantic arms and legs.

446  David Brin

He tried rushing forward to catch her—knowing he
would be too late.

Till the moment her head struck pavement, Rety was
defiant. She neither cried out nor moaned, refusing to
give the universe any satisfaction—least of all by whim-
pering about bad luck.

Gitli

i man

LUCIFER MEANS "LIGHT BEARER."
The thought came unbeckoned, while shimmer-
ing luminance poured in through a nearby window,
playing across her face.
Angels are bright . . . though not always good.

The sight before her reminded Gillian how many
beautiful and terrifying sights she had witnessed during
recent months and years. And how many deep assump-
tions she'd been forced to revise.

For instance, she recalled that time, deep within a
twisty transfer point, when the Earthling crew had con-
fronted the Great Narrower as it sifted among countless
starcraft, choosing a fraction to aim toward transcen-
dence. That huge glowing specter had reminded Gillian
of some mighty seraph, culling the virtuous from the
wicked on Judgment Day. No one was more surprised
than she when the blinding ball of energy seemed to
identify Streaker amid a crowd of passing vessels,
plucking the Earthship and setting it aside for some pur-
pose the Harrower never bothered to explain.

Perhaps now we'll find out, she thought. Indeed,
there appeared to be a definite family resemblance be-
tween that earlier "angel" and the giant needle-gateway
now holding Streaker in thrall, spinning out radiant ten-
drils that snaked amorously around several dozen se-
lected spacecraft. The behavior reminded Gillian
unpleasantly of a spider, busy wrapping living morsels,
preserving them for later.

All the other ensnared ships parked nearby were vast
arks filled with merged hydro- and oxy-life-forms—true

Heaven's Reach  447

transcendence candidates—yanked from the maelstrom
surrounding the white dwarf. Streaker was minuscule
by comparison—a tiny caterpillar next to beach balls.
Yet, she now wore her own blanket of shiny, billowing
strands.

"The material is unknown," commented Hannes
Suessi. "I cannot even get a decent reading with my
instalments."

The Niss Machine hazarded a guess.

"Someone may have had this in mind for us all
along. Even back at the Fractal World. The coating we
received there could be meant to serve as a buffer-—or
perhaps glue—between our fragile metal hull and this
new substance . . . whatever it is."

Gillian shook her head.

"Perhaps it's another kind of protective armor."

Silence stretched for several seconds as they all
turned to look at the rearward-facing view screen. Ev-
eryone clearly shared the same dour thought.

Something was about to happen soon. Something that
called for "protection" on a scale formerly unimagin-
able.

At least the earlier orgy of destruction appeared to be
over, down below where millions of space vessels once
cruised in prim columns and well-ordered rows, like
polite pilgrims seeking redemption at a shrine. That pro-
cession had been smashed, crushed, pureed. Now, only
an occasional flash told of some surviving "candidate"
finally succumbing to forces that had already pulverized
millions of others, leaving a turbid stew of gas, dust, and
ions.

A roiling funnel now surrounded the ancient stellar
remnant, shrouding its small, white disk beneath black
streamers and turbulent haze.

According to Zub'daki, that whirling cloud had spe-
cial dynamical properties. It would not orbit for long, or
even spiral inward gradually, over the course of weeks
or years.

"The debris storm has almost no net angular momen-
tum, " the dolphin astronomer announced. "As colli-
sional mixing continues, all the varied tangential

448  David Brin

velocities will cancel out. When that happens, the whole
mass will collapse inward, nearly all at once!"

Asked when this infall might occur, the dolphin scien-
tist had predicted.

"Sssoon. And when it does, we'll be at ground zero for
the greatest show in all the cosmossss."

Staring at that murky tornado—comprising the pulver-
ized hopes of countless races and individual beings—
Gillian's crew mates knew the show would begin
shortly. Akeakemai whistled a dubious sigh, getting
back to Gillian's original question.

"Protective armor . . . againsssst what's coming?"
The dolphin switched languages to express his
doubts in Trinary.

* When the great gods,

* In their puissance,

* Start believing,

* Their own slogans—

* Or their wisdom,

* Omniscient,

* Or their power,

* Invincible—

* That's when nature,

* Wise and patient,

* Teaches deities,

* A lesson—

* That's when nature,

* Keen and knowing,

* Shows each god its

* Limitations—

* Great Dreamers must

* Ride Tsunami!

Heaven's Heacli  449

* For Transcendents?
* Supernova! *

Gillian nodded appreciatively. It was very good dolphin
imagery.

"Creideiki would be proud," she said.

Akeakemai slashed with his tail flukes, reticent to ac-
cept praise.

* Irony makes for easy poetry. *

Sara Koolhan commented, "Forgive my ignorance of
stellar physics, but I've been studying, so let me see if I
get this right.

"When that big, whirling cloud of dross and corpses
finally collapses, it's going to dump a tenth of a solar
mass onto the hot, dense surface of that white dwarf. A
dwarf that's already near its Chandrasekhar limit. Much
of the new material will compress to incredible density
and undergo superfast nuclear fusion, triggering—"

"What Eartblings used to call a 'type one' super-
nova, " the Niss Machine cut in, unable to resist an in-
built yen to interrupt.

"Normally, this happens when a large amount of
matter is tugged off a giant star, falling rapidly onto a
neighboring white dwarf. In this case, however, the sud-
den catalyzing agent will be the flesh of once living he-
ings! Their body substance will help light a pyre that
should briefly outshine this entire galaxy, and be visible
to the boundaries of the universe."

Gillian thought she detected hints of hysteria in the
voice of the Tymbrimi-built machine. Though originally
programmed to seek surprise and novelty, the Niss
might well have passed the limit of what it could stand.

"I agree, there doesn't seem much chance of surviv-
ing such an event, no matter how fancy a coating we are
given. And yet, the coincidence seems too perfect to
ignore."

"Coincidence?" Suessi asked.

"The cancellation of angular momentum is too per-

450  David Brin

left. The Tran.scenclent.s must have meant this to hap-
pen. They slaughtered the remaining candidates for a
purpose—in order to trigger the coming explosion."

"So. yes? Then (lie big question is—why aren't ire
down there now. mixing our atoms with all those other
poor bugs. heasties. and blighters?"

Gillian shrugged.

"I just don't know. Hannes. Obviously, we have a role
to play. But what role? Who can say?"

Zub'daki didn't expect mass collapse to occur for twenty
hours, at least. Possibly several days.

"The infall may be disssrupted by outward radiation
pressure, as (lie star heats up," the dolphin explained.
"It could make tile whole process of ignition messsssy.
I'nless they have a solution to that problem, as well."

He didn't have to explain who "they" were. The shim-
mering needle-gateway throbbed nearby, as long as
Earth's moon. spinning webs of mysterious, translucent
material near several dozen captive ships.

Assured that the crisis would not come for a while yet,
Gillian headed to her quarters for some rest. Upon en-
tering. she glanced across tlie dimly lit chamber at an
ancient cadaver, grinning away in a glass cabinet.

"It seems our torment won't go on much longer,
Her)"). The end is coming at last, in a way that should
erase all our troubles."

The gaunt corpse said nothing, of course. She sighed.
"All well. Tom had a favorite expression. If you've
really got to go. you might as well—"
Baritone words joined hers.
"You might as irell go out with a hang."
Gillian swiveled around, crouching slightly, her chest
pounding from surprise. Something—or someone—
stood in the shadows. The figure was tall, bipedal, with
the shoulders and stance of a well-built human male.
"Who . . . who's there?" she demanded.
The answering voice came eerily familiar.
•\\o one you should fear. Dr. Baskin. Let me move
into the light."

Heaven's Reach  451

As he did so, Gillian's heart sped instead of slowing
down. She stepped back with her right hand pressed
midway between throat and sternum. Her voice cracked
on the chisellike "wedge separating hope from dread.

"T-Tom . . . ?"

His ready smile was there. An eager grin, always a bit
like a little boy's. The stance, relaxed and yet ready for
anything. Those well-known hands, so capable at a
thousand tasks.

The head—black haired with a gray fringe—tilted
quizzically, as if just a little disappointed by her re-
sponse.

"Jill, are you so credulous, to believe what you see?"

Gillian struggled to clamp down her emotions, espe-
cially the wave of desperate loneliness that flooded as
brief hope crashed. If it really were Tom, she would
already know in several ways, even without visual sight.
And yet, the careworn face seemed so real—fatigued by
struggles that made her own trials pale by comparison.
Part of her yearned to reach out and hold him. To
soothe those worries for a little while.

Even knowing this was just a lie.

"I'm . . . not that naive. I guess it's pretty clear who
you really are. Tell me . . . did you take Tom's image
from my mind? Or else—"

She swiveled to glance at her desk, where a holo of
her husband glowed softly, next to a picture of
Creideiki, along with others she had known and loved
on Earth.

"A bit of each," came the answer while Gillian was
briefly turned away. "Along ivith many other inputs. It
seemed a useful approach, combining familiarity with
tension and regret. A bit cruel, perhaps. But conducive
of concentration.

"Are you alert now?"

"You have my attention," she replied, turning back to
face her visitor . . . only to be rocked by a new sur-
prise.

Tom had vanished! In his place stood Jacob Demiva,
elderly master spy of the Terragens Intelligence Service,
who had lobbied hard for the commissioning of a dol-

452   David Brin

phin-crewed ship. Streaker was just as much his doing
as Creideiki's. Dark, leathery skin showed the toll of
years cruising deep space, among Earth's many out-
posts, fighting to stave off the fate suffered by most
wolfling races.

"That's good," her visitor said, in a voice much like
old Jake's . . . though it lacked some overtones of
crusty humor. "Because I can spare only a small part of
my awareness for this conversation. There are many
other tasks requiring imminent completion."

Gillian nodded.

"I can well imagine. You Transcendents must be
frightfully busy, slaughtering trillions of sapient beings
in order to set off a brief cosmic torch. Tell me, what
purpose did all those poor creatures die for? Was it a
religious sacrifice? Or something more practical?"

"Must one choose? You might say a little of both. And
neither. The concepts are hard to express, using terms
available in your discursive-symbolic language."

For some reason, she had expected such an answer.

"I guess that's true. But thanks anyway, for not using
terms like 'crude' or 'primitive.' Others, before you,
made a point of reminding us how low we stand on

life's pyramid."

The image of Jake Demwa smiled, with wrinkles

creasing all the right places.

"You are bitter. After suffering through earlier con-
tacts with so-called Old Ones, I can hardly blame you.
Those creatures were scarcely older than you, and
hardly more knowledgeable. Such immature souls are
often arrogant far beyond their actual accomplish-
ments. They try to emphasize bow high they have risen
by denigrating those just below. In your own journal,
Dr. Baskin, you make comparisons to 'ants scurrying
under the feet of trampling gods.'

"In fact, though, any truly advanced mind should be
capable of empathy, even toward 'ants.' By deputizing a
small portion of myself, I can speak to you in this man-
ner. It costs little to be kind, when the effort seems appro-
priate. "

Heaven's fleacn  453

Gillian blinked, unable to decide whether to be grate-
ful or offended.

"Your notion of selective kindness . . . terrifies me."

The Demwa replica shrugged.

"Some things cannot be helped. Those composite be-
ings who died recently—whose stirred mass and other
attributes now form a dense cloud, hovering at the
brink of oblivion—they will serve vital goals much better
with their deaths than they would as junior Transcen-
dents. Here, and at many other sites across the known
cosmos, they will ignite beacons at just the right mo-
ment, when destiny opens a fleeting window, allowing
heavens to converse."

Her brow grew tense from concentration.

"Beacons? Aimed where? You Transcendents are al-
ready masters of everything within the Five—"

Abruptly, Gillian hazarded a guess.

"Outside? You want to contact others, beyond the Five
Galaxies?"

Demwa seemed to croon approvingly.

"Ah, you see? Simple reasoning is not so difficult, even
for an ant!

"Indeed, an aim of this vast enterprise is to shine brief
messages from one heavenly locus to another. A greeting
can be superimposed on the blaring eruption of light
that will soon burst from this place, briefly achieving
brightness greater than a whole galaxy."

"But—"

"But! You are about to object that we can do this
anytime/ It is trivial for beings like us simply to set off
supernovas, flashing them like blinking signal lights.

"True! Furthermore, that method is too slow, and too
noise-ridden, for complex conversation. It amounts to
little more than shouting 'Here I am!' at the universe.

"Anyway, the vast majority of other galactic nexi ap-
pear to be mysteriously silent, or else they emanate vi-
brations that are too cryptic or bizarre for us to parse,
even with our best simulations. Either way, the puzzle
cannot be solved by remote musing on mere sluggish
beams of light."

Avoiding the false Demwa's scrutinizing gaze, Gillian

454   David Brill

stared at a far wall, deep in thought. At last she mur-
mured.

"I bet all this has to do with the Great Rupture that
Sara predicted. Many of the old connective links—the
subspace channels and t-point threads—are snapping at
last. Galaxy Four may detach completely."

Her hands clenched.

"There must be some opportunity. One that only
takes place during a rupture, when all the hyperspace
levels are convulsing. A window of time when . . ."

Looking back at her visitor, Gillian winced to find it
transformed yet again. Now Jake Demwa was replaced
by the image of Tom's mother.

May Orley grinned back at her, bundled in thermal
gear against a Minnesota winter, with a ski pole in each
hand.

"Go on, my dear. What else do you surmise?"

Such rapid transfigurations might once have unnerved
Gillian, before she had departed on this long, eventful
space voyage. But after years spent dealing with the
Niss Machine, she had learned to ignore rude interrup-
tions, like rain off a duck's back.

"A window of time when spatial links are greater than
normal!" She stabbed a finger toward the Transcendent.
"When physical objects can be hurled across the un-
bridgeable gulf between galactic clusters, at some speed
much greater than light. Like tossing a message in a
bottle, taking advantage of a rare high tide."

"A perfectly lovely metaphor, " approved her ersatz
mother-in-law. "Indeed, the rupture is like a mighty, de-
vouring wave that can speedily traverse megaparsecs at
a single bound. The supernova we set off shall be the
arm that throws bottles into that wave."

Gillian inhaled deeply as the next implication struck
home.

"You want Streaker to be one of those bottles."

"Spot on!" The Transcendent clapped admiration.
"You validate our simulations and models, which lately
suggested a change in procedure. By adding wolflings
to the mixture, we may supply a much needed ingredi-
ent, this time. Perhaps it will prevent the failures that

Heaven's lleacn  455

plagued our past efforts—those other occasions when we
tried to send messages across the vast desert of flatness
between our nexus of galaxies and the myriad spiral
heavens we see floating past, tantalizingly out of
reach."

Gillian could no longer stand the unctuous pleasant-
ness of May Orley. She covered her eyes, in part to let
the Transcendent shift again . . . but also because she
felt rather woozy. A weakness spread to her knees as
realization sank in.

Instead of imminent death by fiery immolation, she
was being promised an adventure—a voyage of explo-
ration more exceptional than any other—and Gillian felt
as if she had been punched in the stomach.

"You've . . . been trying this a long time, have you?"

"Ever since recovering from the earliest recorded cri-
sis, just after the Progenitors departed, when our happy
community of seventeen linked galaxies was torn asun-
der. Across the ages since then, we have yearned to
recontact the brethren who were lost then."

The voice was changing, mutating as it spoke, becom-
ing more gruff. More gravelly.

"It is a pang that hurts more deeply than you may
know. For this reason, above all others, we made sure
that starfarers would abandon Galaxy Four, in order
for the loss to be less traumatic, this time."

Uncovering her eyes, Gillian saw that the transcen-
dent now resembled Charles Dart, the chimp scientist
who had vanished on Kithrup, along with Tom and
Hikahi and about a dozen others.

"You can truly remember that far back?"

"By dwelling deep within the Embrace of Tides—
skim-orbiting what you call 'black holes'—we accom-
plish several ends. In that gravity-stressed realm we can
perform quantum computing on a measureless scale,
combining the insights of every life order. With loving
care, we simulate past events, alternate realities, even
whole cosmic destinies."

Gillian quashed a manic surge of hysterical laughter.
It was awfully posh language to come from the mouth
of a chimp.

456  David Bfin

She fought for self-control, but the Transcendent did
not seem to notice, continuing with its explanation.

"There is yet another effect of living near an event
horizon, where spacetime curb 'so tightly that light can
barely struggle free. Time slows down for us, while the
rest of the universe spins on madly.

"Others plunge past us into the singularities, diving
headlong toward unseen realms, pursuing their own vi-
sions of destiny—but we remain, standing watch, im-
pervious to entropy, waiting, observing, experimenting."

"Others plunge past . . . ," Gillian repeated, blink-
ing rapidly. "Into the black holes? But who . . . ?"

A grim smile spread slowly, with her growing realiza-
tion.

"You're talking about other Transcendents! By God,
you aren't the only high ones, are you? All the life orders
merge next to black holes—hydros and oxies and ma-
chines and the rest—gathering near the greatest tides of
all. But that's not the end of the story for most of them,
is it? They keep going, into the singularities! Whether it
takes them to a better universe, or else eliminates them
as dross, they choose to keep going while you guys stay
behind.

"Why?" she asked," pursuing the point. "Because
you're afraid? Because you lack enough guts to face the
unknown?"

This time the transformation took place before her
eyes. A whirl of painful color that seemed somehow
vexed. An instant later it resolved in the shape of her
own father, long dead, but now restored to his appear-
ance at the end, lying in a hospital bed, emaciated and
bitter, regarding her with grim disapproval.

"/ would ponder, Dr. Baskin, whether it is wise or
justified to taunt powerful beings whose motives you can
scarcely comprehend."

She nodded.

"Fair enough. And I humbly apologize. Now will you
please choose another form? This one—"

In another flashy pirouette, the visitor reformed as a
Rotben, one of those scoundrels who claimed to be
Earth's patron race, gathering around themselves a cult

Heaven's Aeacft  457

of human thieves and cutpurses. Gillian winced. It
served as a reminder of the messy situation faced by all
her kind back home, where threats and dangers piled
up faster with each passing year, month, and day.

"Now that I have explained your role, there are fur-
ther matters to discuss, "continued the ersatz Rothen. "A
few details have been entered into your computer—
some precautions you should take, for comfort during
the coming transition. But the new coating we are spin-
ning around your ship is quite intelligent and capable.
It will protect you when the star explodes, escaping most
of the heat and shock as the gravitational backlash
throws you into a hyperlevel far beyond— "

Gillian cut in.

"But what if we don't want to go?"

The Rothen-shaped being smiled, a friendly gesture
that brought her only chill.

"Are glory and adventure insufficient motivations?
Then let's try another.

"Even now, the defenses surrounding Earth are col-
lapsing. Soon, enemies will own your bomeworld, then
all its colonies, and even the secret refuges where Ter-
rans stashed small outposts for desperate safety. Only
you, aboard Streaker, have an opportunity to carry
seeds of your species, your culture, beyond reach of the
scboolyard bullies who would kill or enslave every hu-
man and dolphin. Do you not owe this to your ances-
tors, and descendants? A chance to ensure survival of
your line, somewhere far from any known jeopardy?"

"But what chance is that?" she demanded. "You admit
this never worked before."

"Simulations show a much better chance now that
wolflings have been added to the recipe. I told you this
already."

Gillian shook her head.

"Sorry. It's tempting, but I have orders. A duty ..."

"To the Terragens Council?"

The Transcendent seemed dubious.

"Yes . . . but also to my civilization. The Civilization
of Five Galaxies. It may be an anthill to you. And yes, it's
in a nasty phase right now, dominated by those 'school-

458 Bavid Inn

yard bullies' you mentioned. But the Tymbrimi and
some others think that may change, if the right stimula-
tion is applied."

She nodded toward Herbie, the ancient relic of
Streaker's mission to the Shallow Cluster.

"Truth can have a tonic effect, even on those who are
lashing out out of fear."

The Rothen-figure nodded, even as its features began
melting in another transformation.

"A laudable position for a young and noble race.
Though, of course, our needs take higher priority than a
civilization of fractious starfaring primitives.

"In any event, the time is nearly upon us . . . as you
are about to find out."

The visitor's features remained murky, while Gillian
puzzled over the meaning of its last remark.

Abruptly, the comm line on her desk chimed. A small
holo image erupted. It was Zub'daki. The dolphin's gray
head looked agitated and worried. He did not seem to
realize Gillian had company.

"Dr. Bassskin!"

"Yes? What is it, Zub'daki."

"Events are accelerating in ways I hadn't anticipated.
You might want to come up and have a look-k!"

Gillian's guts churned. Normally, she would respond
quickly to such a summons. But right now, it was hard
to imagine anything in the universe more important than
this conversation she was having with a transcendent
deity who controlled all their lives.

"Can it wait a bit? I'm kind of busy right now."

The dolphin astronomer's dark eye widened, as if he
could not believe what he was hearing.

"Doctor ... let me explain. Earlier 1 said the infall
of the debris cloud might be delayed by light pressure.
As the white dwarf heats up, its increasing brightness
pushes back against the collapsing disk, slowing the ar-
rival of more matter. It could make for a sloppy, uneven
supernova. '

"But-t something's changing! The gas and sooty dust
are starting to clump\ All the mass is consolidating into

Heaven's Reich  459

little dense ballsssss! Trillions and gazillions of dense
marbles, all at once!"

"So?" Gillian shrugged. She was distracted by the sight
of her visitor, who now stood in front of the glass dis-
play case, gazing at Herbie. The Transcendent's outline
kept rippling as it tried adjusting its form. She realized
that it must be attempting to simulate Herbie's original
appearance, before the mummy spent a billion years in
desiccated preservation, back at the Shallow Cluster.

"So? You ask sssssso?" Zub'daki sputtered, aghast.
"This means the debris cloud will be effectively trans-
parent to light pressure! As it precipitates onto the star,
nothing impedes the acceleration. The whole great mass
plummets all at once, with tremendous speed!"

Gillian nodded.

"So the supernova will take place quickly and
smoothly."

"And with unprecedented power!"

While she conversed with Zub'daki, her visitor
seemed to be having trouble finding the right shape, as
if there was something slippery about Herbie's figure. Or
else the Transcendents were too busy with other matters
right now to apply much computing power for such an
unimportant task.

She shook her head.

"I expect we're just witnessing some more supercom-
petent technology at work, Zub'daki. Clearly, this was
all arranged. Perhaps long before we were born. Tell
me, do you have a new estimate for when infall-collapse
begins?"

Frustration filled the dolphin's voice.

"You missssunderstand me, Doctor! Infall has al-
ready—"

The astronomer's voice cut short, interrupted by a
shrill clamor of alarm bells. The dolphin's image swung
around as shadowy figures rushed back and forth be-
hind him, hurrying to emergency stations. Then
Zub'daki's image vanished completely.

It was replaced by the whirling tornado of the Niss
Machine.

460  David Brin

"What is it?" Gillian demanded. "What's happening

now?"

The Niss bent slightly, as if starting to note the pres-
ence of her visitor. Then the hologram shivered and
seemed to forget all about the Transcendent.

"I . . . must report that we are once again under
attack."

Gillian blinked.

"Attack? By whom?"

"Who do you think? By our old nemesis, the Jophur
battleship, Polkjhy. Though clearly mutated and trans-
formed, it is approaching rapidly, and has begun ema-
nating vibrations on D Space resonance frequencies,
once more turning our hull into a receiving antenna
for massive flows of heat—"

"Stop!" Gillian shouted, waving both hands in front of
her. "This is crazy! Do theJophur know what's going on
here? Or whose protection we're under?"

The Niss gave its old, familiar shrug.

"/ have no idea what the Jopbur know, or do not
know. Such persistence, in the face of overwhelming
power, would seem to verge on madness. And yet, the
fact remains. Our hull temperature has started to rise."

Gillian turned to her visitor, whose face was coalesc-
ing into a visage of humanoid-amphibian beauty, almost
luminous in its color and texture. At any other time, it
would have been one of the most transfixing sights of
Gillian's life—and she barely gave it a second glance.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Well what, Dr. Baskin?" the Transcendent asked,
turning toward her. There was still a tentative, uncertain
quality to the reconstruction, a near resurrection of her
longtime companion, the antediluvian cadaver.

"Well . . . are you going to protect us?"

"Do you ask for our protection?"

In amazement, she could hardly speak.

"I thought . . . you put so much effort into choosing
and preparing us . . ."

The Niss Machine whirled in perplexity.
"Are you talking to me? Is someone in there with you?
My sensors seem unable to— "

Heaven's Reach  461

With an irritated hand gesture, Gillian caused her arti-
ficial assistant to vanish from sight. She gazed in wonder
as the Transcendent seemed to shimmer, growing
brighter by the instant.

"Such investment merits confidence. Dr. Baskin. Can
wolflings survive the vast gulf between heavens? Have
you the fortitude to endure all the cryptic challenges
that await you? And the denizens you'll meet, when you
arrive at some distant galactic realm?"

Her guest became radiant, completing the transforma-
tion from cadaverous mummy into something truly like
a god.

"It occurs to us that one final test might be called for.
In the interest of verifying your mettle."

Gillian covered her eyes, and yet the glare soon grew
too bright to endure, outlining the bones of her hand.
The visitor's words pierced her skin, vibrating her soul.

"One more trial to pass . . . in the slim moments
that remain . . . before our universe changes."

an

|ESPITE OCCASIONAL GAPS, A DISTANT VOICE
came through clearly, resonating in his mind.

there are further matters to discuss . . . pre-
cautions you should take, for comfort during transi-
tion . . . the new coating will protect you as
backlash . . . throws you to a hyperlevel well beyond
those commonly used by starfaring races."

Working together with Ling and other members of the
Mother Consortium, he had labored hard to achieve this
—sifting through the incredible complexity of the Tran-
scendent Mesh for something simple enough for mere
organic life-forms to understand. After all their efforts,
this was the best result so far. An explanation, in plain

462   Dovid Brin

Anglic, of what the great ones hoped to accomplish
from all the recent violence and turmoil.

Apparently, they would take advantage of rare cosmic
conditions to launch specially modified ships, sending
messenger-envoys hurtling on one-way voyages across
the immense gulf separating clusters of galaxies.

"By adding wolflings to the mixture, we may . . . pre-
vent the failures that plagued past efforts . . . when we
tried to . . . cross the vast flat deserts between our ga-
lactic nexus and the myriad spiral heavens we see float-
ing past, tantalizingly out of reach. ..."

Lark felt growing agitation in the surrounding watery
medium, where he and Ling floated amid a jostling
throng of symbiotic organisms. "Mother" was clearly
both excited and worried by this news. He knew this, in
part, because his own fretful thoughts helped shape the
overall mood.

Ling's presence made itself known. Turning around,
he saw her swim toward him through the living murk,
reaching out to clasp his hand. At the instant of con-
tact, he felt her mind stroking his own, bringing dire
news.

Can you feel it? The master rings have decided to as-
sail and destroy Streaker, no matter what the repercus-
sions!

Lark blinked in surprise. Putting out his own mental
feelers to probe the data network of starship Polkjhy, he
tapped the Jophur command frequencies and soon con-
firmed the worst.

The priest-stack and the new captain-leader were in
complete accord. With stark decisiveness, they had sent
Polkjhy careening on a new, deadly course. Attacking,
heedless of the consequences.

What can they hope to accomplish? Interfering with
the Transcendents will only invite those mighty ones to
swat this ship—and all of us aboard—out of the sky like
annoying insects!

Heaven's Reach  463

Ling nodded, and Lark saw that he had just answered
his own question. From the Jophur leaders' point of
view, this offered a last chance to wipe out the hybrid
oxy-hydro superorganism that had taken over most of
their ship. Apparently, the Jophur would rather go out
in a blaze of glory than surrender.

The suicidal decision saddened Lark. If only they
would simply wait for the supernova! He had a hanker-
ing to watch the run-up to that gaudy event. To feel the
first hyperdense flux of neutrinos sleet through his
body, heralding a crackling dawn. One that would illu-
mine night on myriad worlds.

Of course. Mother wasn't about to take this lying
down. With approval of every sapient member, the
community launched an immediate, all-out assault
against the remaining vital strongholds held by uncon-
verted Jophur. Soon Lark began sensing the fractious
fury of combat, as both sides flung deadly bolts along
stained corridors, further melting Polkjhys already tor-
tured walls. Lark's nerve endings responded, turning
each injury or death into a pang, physically painful. Per-
sonally intense.

Mother is about to break into the engine compart-
ment, Ling noted. But we may not be able to cut power
in time to save the Earthlings . . . or to prevent anger-
ing the Transcendents.

Indeed, resistance was bitter as ring stacks and robots
stubbornly held their ground against the costly assault.
But Zang globules and other members of the Mother
Consortium kept up the pressure, storming Jophur de-
fenses with spendthrift courage.

We'd better go help, Lark thought, and Ling nodded.
They both had a sense of how drained Mother's reserves
were. This was no time to hang back.

And yet, even as they made ready to join the fray,
something restrained both of them. A resistance that
stopped Lark in his tracks.

Not a command, as such. More like a consensus deci-
sion—a general feeling among other components of the
symbiosis. An agreement that the two humans should
not be risked right now.

464  David Brin

They would better serve the whole with their intelli-
gence and knowledge, by probing through the Mesh,
trying once more to communicate.

With some reluctance, Lark accepted the wisdom of
this. Together with Ling, he went back to work, reopen-
ing the channels they had discovered before.

"It occurs to us that one final test might be called
for . . . verifying your mettle.

"One more trial . . . before our universe changes."

Lark exhaled a sigh that formed bubble trails in the
frothy medium.

So. The Transcendents were still tinkering, trying to
optimize their experiment till the very last moment. Or
else the "gods" were amusing themselves at the ex-
pense of those poor Earthlings. Either way, they weren't
about to defend Streaker with omnipotent power. In-
stead, they would let Polkjhy attack, evaluating the re-
sults.

There wasn't much time left for exploration. With one
part of his mind, Lark tracked the great mass-infal! of
collapsing debris.

Already the white dwarf surged and boiled as the
cloud's inner fringes struck its surface at high velocity.
Concentric waves of actinic blue fire crisscrossed the
ancient, tormented surface, spouting gaudy flares of
plasma back toward space, hinting at far greater fire-
works to come.

Meanwhile, uncoded insults hurled from Polkjhys
bridge, taunting Streaker's crew as their hull was turned
into a betraying antenna, forced to siphon heat from
other folded layers of space.

At that point a familiar voice joined in.

It was Lark's old friend, the traeki from Jijo who had
once been Asx, then Ewasx, and now was a wise, mui-
ticomponent being, simply called "X."

Heaven's Reacn  465

/ have finally made full contact with the Earthship's
computer, the hybrid creature announced.

Congratulations, Lark replied. Have you transmitted
the information you wanted to send?

With a sense of waxy satisfaction, X confirmed it was
done. Everything that had been learned about Jophur
master rings was now copied into Streaker's onboard
storage system, including the knack for growing red
toruses—the kind that had proved so potent against
egocentric dominance.

And yet, what good would the information do? Even if
Streaker survived the present attack, and the coming
stellar explosion, the Transcendents would only hurl it
away from the Five Galaxies, riding a cosmic tidal wave,
careening toward starscapes where no Jophur ever
lived.

X showed no sign of recognizing any inconsistency.

You might be interested in something else I have
learned. There is a passenger aboard the Earthship.
Someone now counted among its honored leaders. A
human person, familiar to us both.

Lark sensed anguished irony behind the words. Bend-
ing his will toward the indicated path, he finally gained
access to Streaker's housekeeping files and discovered
the datum X referred to.

Sara!

A spasm rocked him, from sheer surprise. Eddies
tugged Lark's body, while Ling grasped his right arm, to
help him get over the shock.

What is my sister doing out here . . . so far from
Jijo? How did she wind up in such a mess!

The blow was made worse when Mother came up
with an estimate of heating rates aboard Streaker. At this
pace, the influx would reach critical levels in less than
half a midura.

Soon after that, all the water aboard the dolphin-
crewed ship would start to boil.

merson

THE ALARM SEEMED TO TAKE EVERYONE IN
Streakers control center by surprise.

The others had been so intent and worried about
the engorged, enraged star—and about mysterious
actions of the nearby needle-gateway—that they
seemed to forget about danger from mundane enemies.

But he had not.

Emerson knew better. He had dealt with Jophur be-
fore and understood their tenacity—a singie-minded-
ness that had been grafted into their race by careless
Uplift consorts, who had failed to grasp the basic value
of moderation. When the assault came, he was ready.

Lacking speech or literacy, Emerson could not read
the flashing monitor screens or figure out the exact na-
ture of their weapon. Details did not matter. He under-
stood that it somehow had to do with making Streaker
hot. Already the walls and floor plates were emanating
uncomfortable warmth. Large amounts of energy
poured in, even though the small sun was still not ready
to explode.

Sara reached for his hand, and he felt guilty putting
her off with a mere loving squeeze, before dashing
away. But Emerson figured that a chance of saving her
life was worth more than staying by her side and roast-
ing together.

Running down a torrid hallway, he kept shouting, in
hopes that the automatic intercoms would pass on his
simple message.

"Suessi! . . . Karkaett! . . . Now, now, now!"

Would they come? So much labor had gone into mak-
ing his idea a reality, applying a two-hundred-year-old

Heaven's Beacli  467

technology to new problems in survival. And yet, he
worried. They might have simply been humoring him,
working together as a way to stay busy till the end. . . .

Clambering through a maintenance tube, Emerson
hurried till he reached the small chamber where his last,
triumphant encounter with the Old Ones had taken
place—and breathed relief when he saw that Hannes
and a couple of dolphin engineers were already there,
gathered around the big laser. They babbled to each
other in the sweet dialect of engineering, Emerson could
no longer parse the quick, efficient meanings, but their
speech sounded like music, nevertheless.

The graceful lyrics of competence.

Hannes turned his mirroriike dome to ask Emerson a
question. One that was simple enough for his frail re-
maining language centers to grasp.

"Yes!" He nodded vigorously. "Do . . . it!"

Hannes pushed a switch and the laser abruptly
bucked in its mounting brackets—hissing and straining
like some great beast, snorting as it sprang into action.

Emerson shifted position in order to sight along the
massive barrel, curious to see where massive amounts
of energy were now pouring.

He saw nothing but stars.

Sure enough, a nearby view screen showed a red dot,
representing the Jophur vessel Polkjhy, approaching
Streaker's other side.

Of course he had been lucky with the Old Ones. It
would have taken extreme luck for this enemy to be
within reach. Anyway, a battleship's defenses might de-
flect even such a potent beam.

He shrugged. It didn't matter. He and the others did
not have to smite the Jophur in order to defeat them.

Emerson felt a chill draft. He shivered, and soon no-
ticed a distinct fog begin to form above each dolphin's
blowhole, like individual fountains of frost. His own
breath began condensing, too. In moments, the small
chamber became noticeably colder, and Hannes
shouted for everyone to evacuate. It was time to leave,
allowing the machine to perform as planned.

Still, Emerson hung back, relishing a flow of icy air

468  livid Bfin

that gushed through ducts to far corners of the ship. He
visualized the laser beam acting as a great pump, suck-
ing heat as fast as other forces drew it in, then shooting
it forth toward the cosmos. Grinning, he took satisfac-
tion in the way an ancient Earthling technology
thwarted Galactic foes—as it had once before, a long
time ago, in the maw of a torrid sun.

7 ... still . . . have it. ... He pondered, glanc-
ing down at his hands.

When his grin became noisy—a chattering of
clenched teeth—Emerson finally let Hannes and the
others tug him back toward habitable areas.

Anyway, Sara was waiting for him.

Now at least they would have a few moments to-
gether.

Until the star exploded.

Gillian

SHE

OU NEVER ASKED FOR VOLUNTEERS,"
told her visitor accusingly.

V

The transcendent being returned to her office, as-
_ sembling itself out of dust motes and particles of air
—perhaps in order to resume their conversation, or else
to congratulate Gillian for the clever trick worked out by
Streaker's engineering crew—creating a refrigeration
laser, a device for dumping heat overboard, spraying it
garishly skyward as fast as energy flowed into the ship

from D Space.

Few Galactics had ever needed such a crude, gaudy,
wolfling device. It would seem preposterously primitive,
like rockets, or propeller-driven aircraft. But when hu-
mans began exploring the depths of their own sun two
centuries ago—going there out of pure curiosity—the
trick of laser-cooling had proved both useful and fateful,
in several Ways.

Shortly after reappearing, the visitor seemed to float
before Gillian, an entity with lustrous gray skin and a

Heaven's Reach  469

short, powerful tail whose flukes actually stirred a
breeze, kicking up midget whirlwinds, rustling the pa-
pers on her desk. Coalescing further, it started taking a
resemblance to Gillian's dearest dolphin friend, Lieuten-
ant Hikahi, one of those who had been left behind on
Kithrup, along with Tom and Charles Dart.

Before the Transcendent could speak, Gillian com-
pleted her accusation.

"You say you need wolflings, to add as ingredients
for your message-probes to other galaxies. Did it ever
occur to you to ask? I know my fellow Earthlings. You'd
have gotten thousands, millions of volunteers for such a
trip! Even knowing in advance that it would involve
merging with hydros and machines and other creepy
things. There have always been enough weirdos and
adventurers. People who'd pay any price, just to be the
first to see some far horizon."

The ersatz dolphin rolled on its side, almost languidly,
as if relishing a new experience.

"We shall make note of that-t, " crooned a close ap-
proximation of Hikahi's voice, causing Gillian a lonely
pang. "Perhaps we'll take your advice . . . next time
the question comes up."

She stared for a moment, then gave a low, dry laugh.
"Right. When another rupture comes, in a hundred
million years!"

"That's not so very long, for those of us who make our
true homes next to ssssingularities. We who you called
'cowards'for hiding our time in a black hole's stretched
borderline, rather than plunging into the unknown."

"Look," she raised a hand. "I already apologized for
that. Right now, though, I think we'd better cut to—"

"The chasssse?" Her visitor rolled the simulated body
in a loop.

Gillian raised an eyebrow. "Do you already know—"
"WJyat you are going to say? Your surface thoughts
are trivial to read. But even without using psi, we can
make good estimates, based on appraisal of your past
behavior under varied circumstances. These models
were recently revised. Would you like to know what our
latest simulations foretell?"

470  David Brin

She answered, guardedly.

"I'm listening."

The imitation Hikahi brought one dark eye toward

Gillian.

"You were 'about to decline the honor of being our
emissariessss. You would claim that urgent obligations
beckon you elsewhere. Obligations that cannot be ig-
nored. "

Gillian shrugged.

"Anyone could've guessed that, after our last conver-
sation. Assuming I did decline, how would you have

replied?"

"I would have said that you have no option. A con-
veyance and shield have already been woven around
your ship, ready to clasp the opportunity when a space-
time rift opens nearby. With luck, it might carry you
safely beyond the limits of known civilization. That kind
of investment is not given up lightly. Your request would

be refused."

With her next breath, Gillian exhaled a bitter sigh.
"I guess that answer's inevitable. So. How do your

simulations predict I'd respond next?"

The dolphin-shaped being sputtered laughter.

"With threatsssss!

"You would claim readiness to blow up your
ship ... or to interfere with the mission in some other

way."

Gillian felt her face grow warm. That really had been
her next move. A desperate ploy. But no other tactic
came to mind in the short time available.

"I guess it is a bit of a cliche."

"Naturally, all such possibilities have been taken into
account. In this case, our analyses show you would be
bluffing. Given a stark choice between adventure, on
the one hand, and assured extinction on the other, you
could be relied upon to choose adventure!"

Gillian's shoulders slumped. The Transcendents were
quick learners, and with awesome computational power
they could simulate whole alternate realities. Small won-
der they outmaneuvered any plan she came up with,
using her limited human brain.

Heaven's Reich  471

"Then that's it?" she asked. "We have no choice. We
head for some far galaxy, like it or not."

"Your linear guess is only partly correct. Indeed, you
have no choice. That part of it you have right. Dr.
Basssskin. We can compel you and your crew to depart,
and tbat-t would be that."

The visitor shook its sleek gray head as it began yet
another transfiguration. Hikahi's outlines grew blurry.
Her simulated body started stretching.

"But our simulations did not stop with your behavior
today. They scrutinized what you might do later . . .
during the weeks, months, and years that stretch ahead,
until your people arrive at some distant realm."
Gillian blinked. "You worked it out that far ahead?"

"To a high degree of probability. And that is where a
problem keeps cropping up in our models. Given
enough time, something else will occur to you. You will
realize that it is possible to have your adventure, plus
revenge as well/A way to visit far-off realms, and also
retaliate against those who thrust you on so great a voy-
age, against your will."

She could only stare, blinking in confusion as the
Transcendent finished converting to a different body
shape . . . another dolphin image, a bit longer and
stronger looking than Hikahi, with scar tissue covering a
savage wound near the left eye.
Creideiki, she realized, with a faint shiver.
"I ... don't ... I don't know what you mean. Un-
less ..." Gillian swallowed, and tried concentrating. It
was difficult, under that strangely powerful cetacean
gaze.

"Unless you're concerned about what we'd say about
you, to whatever high minds we meet on the other

side."

This time, the visitor did not respond in Anglic.
Rather, the facsimile of Streaker's old commander lifted
that tormented head and cast a spray of squealing clicks,
filling her office with couplets of ornate Trinary verse.

* What revenge is

more long-lasting

472   Oavil! Bfin

* Than the cruelty
of slander,

* Spoken by outraged
descendants,

* Defaming their

distant parents?

* Would you escape

time's death sentence?

* Or entropy's

cruel erosion?

* We know just one

surefire method

* To succeed and

be immortal—

* If you want to

live forever,

* First earn love and
fierce devotion

* From those who will
carry onward,

* They will speak your

name resounding

Even when the stars grow cold. *

Gillian squinted at the replica of her old comrade and
leader. The dolphin captain looked so genuine, so tan-
gible, as if she could reach out and stroke his warm gray
flank—battered, yet unbowed.

"That's . . . the first truly wise thing I've yet heard
from you gods," she said. "It's almost ... as if you
really are—"

The Transcendent interrupted. Its sleek form began
dissolving, folding inward toward a ball of light.

"Are you . . . entirely sure . . . that I am not?"
•    •    •

Heaven's Reacli  473

She blinked, unsure what to make of the non sequitur.

"Wait!" she cried out. "What's going to happen? What
are you going to—"

The visitor vanished silently. But in her mind a soft
presence lingered for another moment, whispering.
We have much to do . . . and very little time. . . .

A shrill whistle filled the air. A holo image of Akeakemai
burst in, calling from Streaker's bridge.

"Gillian! Zub'daki says that mass infall is speeding up!
The explosion's just minutes away!"

She nodded, feeling tired and altogether unready to
witness the end of the universe. Or any part of it.

"I'll be right up," she said, turning toward the door.
But the pilot's voice cut her short.

"That's not all!" he added, with frantic tones. "The big
needle-gateway . . . it's—"

There followed a noisy clatter. Gillian saw a blur of
motion on the bridge, as officers dashed in all direc-
tions, propelled by agitated tails.

"Niss!" she called out. "Show me what's going on "out

there!"

Abruptly, a new holo display opened, presenting a
view of nearby space.

The planet-sized Transcendent needle took up most of
the scene. One of its flanks was now almost too bright
to look at, reflecting angry light from the dwarf star—a

fuming conflagration, rapidly heating toward Armaged-
don.

Gillian quickly saw what had Akeakemai upset. The
needle was splitting open. Moreover, as it broke apart,
beams of light reached out to seize three nearby objects.

Flashing labels identified the targets.

Streaker was the first. Gillian felt its hull shudder as
the beam struck.

The Jophur battleship was next.

474  OdviH Brin

Finally—one of the globelike "candidate vessels,"
now wrapped in a fuzzy mass of special fabric.

All three were being drawn inward.

Then, as if with a surgeon's delicate lancet, the light
beams started carving all three vessels apart.

'X'

CAN YOU FEEL IT NOW, MY RINGS? AND MY
other little selves?
How about you, Lark?
And you, Ling?

Can you sense how Mother—the macro-entity we
all joined—writhes with uncertain fear as blades of force  j
cut through Polkjhy's hull? Can you sense distant walls  I
and bulkheads separate, spilling air, liquid, and crea-  1
tures into vacuum? For a few moments, it seems our
time of destruction has arrived.

Our/My/your end has come, at last.

BUT NOTE! CAN YOU SENSE A SUDDEN CHANGE IN

MOOD?

Mother rejoices, as we/I/all realize the truth.
These are scalpel rays, slicing rapidly, selectively.

Only a few small segments are being removed from

Polkjby\

Likewise, instruments tell us that just one or two prim
holes are being drilled in the Earthship Streaker.

But the third victim seems less lucky!

The nearest mighty globule-vessel—a giant candi-
date-craft, already prepared for its epic journey—has
been torn open and gutted! Horrified and awed at the
same time, all our rings and segments watch as the con-
tents are sacrificed . . . thousands of sapient-hybrid
beings, cast aside like the entrails of some fresh-caught
fish . . . leaving behind only a lambent shell of glim-
mering tendrils.

A living shell that now moves rapidly toward Polkjby\

Heaven's Beach  475

11                                                                                                                                                                                                                    •                                                                                                 •                                                                                                  •

AND NOW, ATTENTION TURNS TO THE LIVID SUN.

How long did it spin in peace? A remnant of this gal-
axy's earliest days, the dwarf star had long ago finished
its brief youth and settled down to placid retirement.
Left alone, it might have spent another twenty billion
years slowly shrinking as it eked out a flickering white
surface flame. Lacking a nearby stellar companion, it
would never obtain the sudden infusion of mass re-
quired for a more ecstatic death.

Only now that mass infusion comes!

Like pilgrims to a shrine, millions of starships recently
answered the Great Harrower's summons. They came to
this place, arranging themselves in polite, crisscrossing
spiral queues, seeking redemption and advance-
ment . . . only to find death on the very threshold of
transcendence. Their corpses, compressed into compact
balls, now rain upon the star, inciting new ferment, tak-
ing its matter/energy balance close to a special value.

An acute point of no return.

MY RINGS . . . MANY OF YOU ONCE WERE MEM-
BERS OF ASX, THAT WISE OLD TRAEKI SAGE.

Back on Jijo, you had no need to contemplate such
things. Instead of Chandrasekhar limits and radiative
opacities, we/you/I used to adjudge disputes among lo-
cal villages and tribes. We offered marriage counseling
to fractious urrish, human, and qheuen families. We
would squat for days on some aromatic mulch pile, hap-
pily arguing among ourselves.

Now, Mother obligingly makes available vast stores of
information, offering free access to Polkjhys onboard
Library, lately captured from the remnant Jophur.

So it is that I/we/you know all about critical thresh-
olds and the catastrophic collapse that will soon occur,
followed by a tremendous "bounce," expelling much of
the poor star at high fractions of light speed.

First will come a burst of neutrinos. Not so many as in
a "type two" supernova. But enough so that those phan-
tom particles will impart heat and momentum into any

476  David Brin

boAy Wi'i'mn ten yvpM\ ote&s. ^te •MS TOM^SI ctoaetS'hSSv
that!) X rays and gamma rays will follow . . . and then
other forms of light. So much that the wave-fronts will
carry their own palpable gravitational fields as they
plunge through this point in space with the brightness

of one trillion suns.

Finally, if anything remains of poor Polkjhy, it will be
struck by the shock wave of protons, neutrons, elec-
trons, and ions, imparting accelerations of one hundred

thousand gravities.

No wonder the Transcendents feel this event will rip
holes in the cosmic yiem. Apparently, that is their desire.
To kindle a pyre. One bright enough to propel seeds
across the greatest desert of all.

DO YOU HEAR THE LATEST, MY RINGS?

Lark and Ling report what they have learned by tap-
ping into the Transcendent Mesh.

An explanation of the recent violent surgery by flash-
ing scalpel rays!

Apparently, the high ones have decided on a last min-
ute change in plans.

Quick improvisation is not their normal habit, but
now they labor furiously, redesigning. Reconfiguring.

AND WE ARE OBJECTS OF THEIR SUDDEN INTENT!

Transfixed, we all watch as two slim plugs of matter
slide smoothly out of the Earthship and head. this way,
leaving holes that seal quickly behind them. These slen-
der tubes race toward Polkjhy . . . even as the gutted
shell of the third vessel approaches us from the other
side, shimmering and alive.

Dolphins, Ling says, identifying the contents of the
cylinders taken from Streaker. About a dozen of them.
Volunteers, coming to join us, along with some gene
stores, and cultural archives. . . .

With breakneck speed, the tubes slide into slots pre-
pared for them. Just in time, as the rippling shell wraps
around Polkjhy and seals shut with a blaze of energetic

union.

All of Mother's components—even the newly cap-

Heam's Reach 477

'saxs^'y^KQ;-. '^Kgsss—-sa^g^i ^Y^S^ \TOSi. ^fsyS^
shock as that mass of luminous tendrils takes hold of
our transformed vessel—bonding and penetrating—
turning it into a throbbing, vibrating whole.

Something eager. Coiled and ready for what comes"
next.

CAN YOU SENSE THE NEARBY AGONY OF DYING
GODS?

The needle-gateway writhes and flickers as it draws
Streaker toward it. Glowing and collapsing inward, the
transcendent nexus flexes, creating powerful fields,
causing space to warp straight through its innards, gen-
erating a tunnel. A lean passageway.

An improvised escape route for the Terrans to strive
for.

Will they make it in time?

AND NOW COMES IGNITION OF THE BRIGHTEST
COMPACT DETONATION IN THE UNIVERSE.

Perhaps it will not be our knell of extinction, after all.

A poll has been taken, among Mother's many mem-
bers. Nearly all agree.

This is what we would have chosen if the Transcen-
dents had asked. (Indeed, with their mighty simulations,
perhaps they did.)

Our merged union is a distillation. A combination of
life orders. A melange, filled with hybrid vigor. Laced
with special flavors from Jijo and Earth, our community
may have the right mix that it takes to succeed at last,
where so many others failed.

To bridge what was unbridgeable.

To help unite what was separate.

To bring the cosmos more diversity . . . and make it
one.

478  David Brin

We can feel Polkjhys new tendrils reaching out, clasp-
ing the fabric of space, awaiting the moment when a
chaos wave next strikes.

The biggest chaos wave of all.

The Great Rupture.

Have the Transcendents timed things right? Do they
really have the skill to trigger their explosion at precisely
the moment, so Polkjhy can catch that wave?

Yes, my rings and other selves.

I/we/I/you can hardly wait to find out.

THE WHITE DWARF TREMBLES.

It is just ten thousand kilometers across. Ignition will
flow at the speed of sound—a few thousand kilometers
per second. That means it should take less than a
dura. ...

STREAKER LABORS MIGHTILY, STRIVING TO REACH
THE ESCAPE TUNNEL.

Go, Sara!

You can make it.

Go!

Each passing second seems an eternity, as the Earth-
ship struggles toward that flickering sanctuary.

ABRUPTLY, OUR SUNWARD SENSORS CATCH A BRIL-
LIANT LIGHT!

A blinding flare that flows and ripples with mad
speed across the tormented stellar surface, like the sud-
den striking of a match.

Then—

CAN YOU FEEL THEM, MY RINGS?

Neutrinos in the wax.

What a strange sensation! Like remembering tomor-
row.

And now, here we go—

PflBT FIVE

THE TIME OF CHANGES

I SOME UFE ORDERS are more
' communicative than others.

\ MEMBERS of the Quantum Order
, have no sense of either place or time. /\t
, least/ none corresponding with the way we

view those properties, I hough willing to
| exchange information/ they generally make
; no sense of our queries/ nor do we
' comprehend most or their answers. I here

must be some commonality of context in
. order lor the word meaning to nave any
\ sfgnihcance. (compared to the Quantum

Order/ it is almost trivial to converse
' with hydrogen weathers/ machines, or even

the most coherent sapient memes.

\ Once/ however/ a memoer or the touvint
i client race presumptuously interrupted its
\ elders at a L'-Jpace rendezvous/ and
i confronted one of the quantals with a
\ naively simple question.

' Wn/xl can we expect'

THE answer has puwed scholars for a
million years. Without hesitation/ the
\ strange being replied——

"EVERYTHING;

Oalaxies

THE SUPERNOVA'S PHOTON FRONT CAUGHT
Streaker just short of a swirling black tunnel—the
escape path promised by cryptic Transcendents.
Alarms wailed and dolphins squalled as waves of
searing energy struck from behind, crushing the
normal protective fields, slamming each square meter
with more heat than a normal sun would over the
course of its lifespan. The blast would have evaporated
the Streaker of old almost instantly.

But the Earthship was like a whale whose skin was
coated with hard-shell barnacles, Streaker toiled under
layers of strange stuff—coatings that shimmered in the
heat, as if eager for the ruinous light.

Sara held Prity and Emerson. A rumbling vibration
rattled her bones and the marrow inside. Blinding tur-
moil swamped every outside camera, but sensors told of
staggering photon and neutrino fluxes as the star passed
its limits of endurance ... or perhaps ecstasy. In real
time, the eruption took milliseconds, but Streaker's du-

482   David BriR

ration-stretched field let the crew witness successive
stages, in slow motion.

"Our magic coating's impressive," commented Suessi.
"But these're just photons. No way it can handle what's
next. More than a solar mass of real matter , . . pro-
tons and heavy nuclei . . . leapin' this way at a good
share of lightspeed."

Sara had learned enough practical physics to know
what fist was about to smite them. Each atom of oxygen
and carbon in my body passed through a coniiilsion
like this one . . . cooked in a sun, then spewed into
great clouds, before condensing to form planets, critters,
people.

Now her own stardust might return to the cosmic mix-
ing bowl, perhaps joining the life cycle of a new world,
yet unborn. It seemed a dry consolation. But she knew
another.

Lark.

I got his message—just as that shell closed around the
Polkjhy, spreading its lambent tendrils, preparing to
catch waves of byperreality, the very moment when gal-
axies part company forever.

By now, his ship must already be punching through,
catching a great tide of recoiling metric. Outward
bound on a great adventure.

Ironies made her smile. Among Nelo's three children,
Lark alone never dreamed of leaving his beloved Jijo.
Yet now he would see more of the cosmos than even
the great Transcendents! An avowed celibate, he and his
mate could sire a whole nation of humanity in some far
galaxy.

Good-bye, brother. May Ifni's Boss keep an eye on
you.

Have fun.

Their escape tunnel loomed, a cave filled with eerie,
unnerving spirals. She looked up at Emerson. Moments
ago, as a final hail of crushed Old Ones fell on the white
dwarfs tormented surface, he had barked a single
word—

Heaven's Reach  483

"Dross!"

—and smiled, as if watching a deadly foe collapse in
failure.

Someone counted subjective seconds till the matter-
wave would hit. ". . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . .
twelve ..."

Meanwhile, Akeakemai crooned. "Almost there ..."
The pilot's flukes thrashed, urging Streaker along to the
refuge. "Almossssst . . ."

The suspense was so awful, Sara's mind reflexively
fled to a domain where she had some control. Mathe-
matics. To a problem she had discovered recently—
while Gillian dickered with the Transcendents to take
Polkjhy, and let Streaker go.

Amid a maze of transfinite tensors, Sara had found a
renormalization quandary that simply would not go
away. In fact, it seemed essential to describe the chaos
waves they had seen. Yet, according to the Transcen-
dents' own models, it made no sense!

I thought I knew the whole truth when I foresaw the
galactic breakup, arising from the expansion of the uni-
verse. But now I can tell—some added force is driving
things faster than expected.

It only made sense if she made a peculiar conjecture.

Something is coming in. Something titanic.

Details were vague, but she knew one thing about the
intruding presence.

It won't be found in any gravity well. We must look
elsewhere, in flat space. Far from the Embrace of—

Streaker shook suddenly. Vibrations leaped in force
and volume, shuddering her spine. Someone screamed.

"Matter wave!"

For an instant, time seemed to flicker—

Then, across the span of an eyeblink, Sara was sur-
rounded by leaping, yelling figures. Emerson squeezed
her as if it were the end of the world. And briefly, she
thought it was.

Then she knew Prity's gleeful screech, the dolphins'
whistled raspberries of joy, and her lover's gasping
laughter. Amid the tumult and confusion, Sara noticed—

484   David Brin

all the ominous rumblings were gone. Vanished! Re-
placed by a happy roar of unleashed engines.

The view screens were back on, showing vistas of
strangely distorted yiem—the walls of a weirdly benefi-
cent tunnel, sweeping them along.

"We made it!" Suessi's amplified voice exulted.

We . . . did?

Sara realized with some chagrin that her math-trance
had kept her from witnessing the moment of triumph
and salvation.

Well, damn me for a distracted nerd, she thought,
and threw herself into kissing Emerson with all her
might.

ES,

>ace

IARRY'S PROFESSION ALWAYS SEEMED A LONELY

lone.

Now I know why Wer'Q'quinn sent solitary scouts

\ on missions to E Space. Too many minds can be

\ dangerous here. And embarrassing.

During earlier trips to the kingdom of living ideas, he
sometimes had entered a new territory only to find the
local matrix crystallizing around symbols that leaked
from his own mind. Since there was seldom anyone else
around but herds of local memoids, it hardly mattered
what the shapes revealed about his subconscious.

This time, the station carried five strong-willed per-
sonalities, from four different races. Harry worried from
the moment his vessel emerged through a drifting pur-
ple haze, striding on long, spidery legs.

The initial fog shredded, as if blown aside by his pas-
sengers' curious scrutiny. Dwer and Kaa and Kiwei
Ha'aoulin pressed the windows rimming the control
chamber. Dwer had been in E Space before. The others
were transfixed by their first visit to this famous, mythi-
cal province.

You wouldn 'tpeer about so eagerly if you 'd seen what
I have.

Heaven's Heacn  485

Still Harry refrained from closing the louvered blinds.
This would be the last chance of their lives to see
E Space.

And maybe my last trip, as well.

Soon, the mist cleared to reveal a vast landscape of
cubes, pyramids, tilted planes, and other more complex
geometric forms. At least, that was how the objects be-
gan.

The first time he looked closely at one, it started melt-
ing, congealing, taking on new, rounded contours. Soon
he saw protrusions on both sides that resembled . . .
ears! Then a flared nose. Moments later, a mouth full of
yellowed teeth grimaced back at him, both unappealing
and familiar.

He checked instruments. The memic-monolith stood
over thirty pseudokilometers away! Apparently, he had
just triggered the manifestation of a gigantic sculpture
representing his own head, towering higher than the
largest structures on Earth. Glancing left and right, he
saw that Synthian, dolphin, and human-shaped statuary
were coagulating in all directions. Replications of Kaa,
Dwer, and Kiwei soon stretched as far as the eye could
see.

"Well, well," commented the delighted Synthian
trader, with both hands folded across her belly. "Should
someone wake Rety, so she might also partake in this
opportunity for megascale immortalization?"

Harry shook his head while a mammoth sculpture
mimicked his expression of piqued irritation.

"The poor kid is sleeping off a concussion, for Ifni's
sake. Anyway, this sort of thing generally doesn't last.
Most of these gross memes.just fade back into the yiem,
soon as the stimulating host mind leaves."

"But occasionally they don't fade? There is a chance
this will be permanent?"

Harry shrugged, wondering why Kiwei cared.

"I've seen things—crypto-shapes and frozen images
from the distant past. Wer'Q'quinn says reified meme-
stuff can sometimes get more rigid than anything made
of true matter, like the ideas that become permanently
fixed in some living brains. I guess there are concept-

486  David Irin

objects in E Space that may outlast all the protons an'
quarks, an' the whole sidereal universe."

Kiwei gazed at a range of hillocks and mountains,
most of them wearing her own smug, rounded counte-
nance.

"Really?" Her sigh was wistfully hopeful.

Dwer and Kaa both chuckled. But Harry shook his
head.

"Let's get moving," he said. "Before something else
goes wrong."

So far, little had gone according to plan.

First came that riotous muddle at the Kazzkark ware-
house. While Dwer covered their retreat with a hail of
arrows, Harry and Kiwei had managed to grab the un-
conscious Rety and carry her off without being ripped to
shreds by the angry Tandu warrior. Nearby hallways
clamored with sounds of reinforcements—more of the
vicious creatures—charging to help their comrade
wreak havoc while chaos waves shook the little planet-
oid from end to end.

With a backward glance, Harry caught the final mo-
ments of the Skiano missionary—hurled into an explod-
ing globe-icon of Earth, the blue "martyr planet."

Troubles followed them to the Institute Docks, where
slabs of rock wall were already coming loose, toppling
to crush vehicles parked at nearby wharves. Screeching
alarms warned that a vacuum breach was imminent.
Harry hurried everyone aboard and got his station under
way—with Kaa's little corvette towed just behind—just
before the ceiling started collapsing. By the time he
reached the main airlock, there wasn't much point going
through emigration protocols. The obstructing wall dis-
solved, revealing fields of weirdly twinkling stars.

It took a while to dodge swarms of hazardous debris
before they could make even a simple, short-range
hyperjump. Meanwhile, chaos waves rocked the planet-
oid. Even if I make it back from this mission, there'd be
no sense reporting here.

There are other Institute bases.

Heaven's fleach  487

Anyway, they say it's safer to be on a planet these
days.

Finally, the chaos waves ebbed, though he knew
worse was to come. As Kazzkark vanished from sight,
Harry hoped Wer'Q'quinn, the old squid, would make it
somehow.

Things got kind of blurry then. He gave coordinates
to Kaa and let the expert space pilot take them through
a dozen B-Level jumps, then into a small t-point that
was already declared dangerously unstable.

Kaa's innovative thread-jumping maneuvers some-
how kept them from being torn, sliced, roasted, or
vaporized. Still, it was a wild, nerve-racking ride. Harry
spent half the time cursing cetaceans and their ances-
tors, all the way back to the Miocene.

At last, they reached his assigned entry point—a spe-
cial place, darker than black, where the walls between
reality levels were thin enough to pierce—and it was
Harry's turn to take over. Soon, materiality shimmered
and they underwent transition to a realm whose physics
let ideas have a life of their own.

It gladdened Harry to depart the province of giant statu-
ary, entering a terrain covered by endless swaths of un-
dulating orange "grass"—each blade consisting of some
basic concept that thrived free of any language or host
mind.

On close inspection, the prairie looked eroded, dis-
colored. Large patches seemed broken or seared, as if
raked by quake and fire. Apparently, E Space wasn't
immune to the tumult shaking five linked galaxies. Even
the memoid herds were affected. He witnessed several
great flocks darting to and fro, stampeding as both
ground and sky rippled threateningly.

While his passengers stared in wonder, Harry set
course for the Cosmic Path. He must find a portion that
peered into Galaxy Four and set his instruments, as
soon as possible. Fortunately, these new devices were
disposable. He could leave them in place till they were
destroyed. Their death cries would give Wer'Q'quinn's

488   David Drill

people vital data about the Great Rupture. This time, his
boss promised, the information would be broadcast
widely, not kept in secret files for use by elder races and
star gods.

That was the main reason Harry agreed to this mis-
sion. It might seem odd to worry about events a hun-
dred million years from now. But for some reason he
identified with people in that distant era. Maybe his ef-
forts would spare those folks some of the ignorant terror
now sweeping Five Galaxies. Even if, by then, the
"gods" were distant heirs of chimpanzees, and the Navi-
gation Institute of that future age was staffed by descen-
dants of today's lice. The kind infesting his fur right
now, making him constantly yearn to scratch his—

"Captain Harms, " said a whirling circular shape that
appeared uncomfortably near his nose. "I have news!
Your goal should now lie in vieiv. Congratulations! And
may I add that it has been a real— "

Harry cut off observer mode holo with a curt head-
shake. Hustling to a bank of windows, he peered past
the ever-present E Space haze . . . and caught sight of
a thin, sinuous glow, twisting across the countryside just
ahead. "Well, something's going right, for a change," he
murmured.

While laying his instruments, he would find an appro-
priate site along the Path, put Kaa and the others in the
corvette, and shove the little vessel into normal space—
hopefully within reach of their destination. Harry might
then have barely enough time to get back home to civili-
zation before the whole place rocked and rolled.

Rety was adamant.

From the moment she got up—stumbling into the
control chamber with a hand pressed to her head and
the other stroking her little urrish "husband"—Rety
made one fact abundantly clear.

She was not returning to Jijo with Dwer and the oth-
ers.

" You may be homesick for filth an' a bunch of low-

Heaven's Reach  489

tech barbarians, but if I never hear o' that place again,
it'll be too soon! I'm going back with Harry."

That was it. No gratitude for saving her life. No men-
tion of her erstwhile religion, or inquiries about her late
guru. Just a fierce determination that defied all opposi-
tion.

Even so young, she is formidable. I've met some hu-
mans with personalities this strong. All were world-shift-
ers—for well or ill.

But most had one trait Rety lacked. They knew the
pragmatic value of tact. Of course, she'd been raised by
savages. In civilization, she might learn social skills,
forge alliances, achieve aspirations, and possibly even
be liked.

There was just one problem with her plan.

"I'll be honest, miss. There's a good chance I can get
you all to the right quadrant of Galaxy Four. Maybe
even the sector. But my own odds of survival after—"

Rety laughed. "Don't tell me odds' I ain't worried
'bout odds since I was gored by a gallaiter, and given up
by my own tribe for dead. Yee an' I are gonna stick right
by your furry side, if you don't mind. And even if you
do."

The others were no help. Kaa used a spectral analyzer
to peer into the Path—filled with dark nebulae and glit-
tering stellar clusters—searching for the telltale blush of
a particular stormy star. Kiwei occupied herself staring
at the plain of memes, apparently trying to impose her
will again, causing more shapes to appear.

Dwer's sole response was a rolling of eyes. He had no
aim to intervene in Rety's life again.

"Oh, all right." Harry sighed. "Just promise you'll stay
out of the way. And no whining about where you finally
wind up!"

Rety nodded. "So long as it ain't Jijo."

A buzzer announced the dropping of another instru-
ment package along the curving Path. With luck,
Wer'Q'quinn's devices would be positioned well before
the biggest chaos wave of all. Then it would be a matter
of dropping Kaa and the others off near a mapped
t-point and wishing them luck.

490  David arm

He offered Kiwei a chance to withdraw.

"You don't have to enter Galaxy Four. After the links
snap, there'll be no more travel between—"

She raised a meaty hand, chuckling. "Not more fairy
tales about a permanent 'rupture' please! Scout-Major,
you've been misled. The Five Galaxies have always
been—"                                             ^

The station abruptly jolted to a halt. A shrill squeal
made everyone turn as Kaa used his tail flukes to thump
the pad of his walker.

"C-come!" the dolphin urged. "Come and see
thisssss!"

Harry and Kiwei hurried to join him at a bank of win-
dows. Kaa used his neural tap to create a pointer ray,
aimed toward the glittering Path.

"There it isss!" The pilot hissed clear, moist satisfac-
tion. "I found it!"

Dwer asked—"Izmunuti?"                          i'

"Yesss! Just past that oblong cloud of ionized hydro-
gen. The spectral match is perfect. So are surrounding
star fonnationssss."                                    '

"Wow," Dwer said. "I think I can even make out a
familiar constellation or two. All twisted, of course."

Kaa raised a sleek gray head, chattering happily,   j
And though Harry's Trinary was rusty, he caught the   ;

gist.

* It would be enough to do my duty,              \

* having helped the cause ofEarthclan.

\

*It would be enough to rescue Pee/we,

* and to spend a lifetime with her.

i

* It would be enough to help saveJijo,

* and to taste those silky waters.            ,

* All those things and many others,               \

* would have let me face death happy.

Heaven's Reach  491

* But among those counted pleasures,

* this means I reclaim my nickname! *

Kiwei peered toward the vast sprawl of pinpoints.

"Then Jijo's sun . . . ?"

"Is right th-there!" Kaa turned a dark eye toward
Harry. "Major Harms, if you insert us here, how many
paktaars would that leave us from—"

A sudden jab on the shoulder diverted Harry's atten-
tion. He swiveled to see Rety, holding her urrish com-
panion in the crook of one arm. The little creature—her
"husband"—craned its long neck, peering at the Path.

"Uh, Major Harms, could we ask you a question?"

"Not right now, Rety. We're making an important de-
cision."

She nodded. "I know. But yee just saw something you
oughta look at." She pointed along the sinuous tube,
back the way they'd just come. "There's stuff goin' on in
there."

Harry straightened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean in the last few duras there's been three or
four really bright . . . There goes another one!" She
winced as a sudden glare hit her eye. "Is that normal?
Can stars get so shiny, all of a sudden? I figure you'd
want to—"

"Observer mode!" Harry shouted. "Scan the Path for
sudden stellar bursts. Are they E-Space illusions, or is
something real happening in Galaxy Four?"

The hovering symbol whirled for only a moment.

"The outbursts have spectra and brightness profiles of
unusually energetic, type SNIa supernova. Such explo-
sions are known to affect the interfacial membrane that
you call the Path."

"I can see that!" Harry snapped. The mammoth tube's
stable sinuosity had started to move. It shivered and
heaved near each sudden point of aching brightness.

"Safety parameters deem it prudent to retreat now
from the boundary."

Kiwei protested. "But supernovas do not happen this
way! Each is an isolated astrophysical event!"

492   OBVio Brin

"I don't like this," Dwer added.

"Maybe we oughta do what the voice says," Rety sug-
gested. "Back off. Head for civilized space. Take shelter
on some planet till all this blows ov—"

"Forget it-t!" Kaa squalled. "Harms, keep your
promissss!"

Harry nodded. "Okay. Everone who's going to Jijo,
move through the airlock to the corvette. We'll need a
few duras—"

His sentence cut off as another little blue star abruptly
flared—this time just to their left, almost adjacent to the
boundary—expanding its effulgence a billionfold, filling
the cabin with blinding glare.

Lightspeed was no impediment to the causality dis-
ruption that followed. Some kind of metric wave ham-
mered the fleshy inner surface of the Path, making it
buck and heave like a tortured snake. The perimeter
warped into E Space, discoloring horribly as new bulges
formed, flailing like agonized pseudopods. Several of
these curled around the station, lashing spasmodically.

It seemed a rather personal way to be assailed by a
supernova. But Harry had no time to dwell on ironies of
scale. "Prepare for transition!" he croaked in a terrified
voice.

All at once, the entire Path seemed to shimmer, and
Harry knew that the estimates had been wrong.

The rupture is coming.

His passengers had just moments to grab some
nearby object before the sidereal universe grabbed
Harry's vessel with a horrid moan, yanking them all
back into a realm .of atoms.

Jol System

ILLIAN KNEW JUST TWO LIVING PILOTS WHO
might stand a chance of maneuvering swiftly
through spacial conditions like these.

G

Keepiru, and Kaa. Both had started out three
years ago with Creideiki's carefully picked crew.

leaven's Reach  493

Now, both were gone. Each to where he was needed
most.

Each to where he belonged.

Fly true, Keepiru. She cast the wish outward, past
myriad random glimmering stars. Wherever Tom and
Creideiki decide to go, please guide them through to safe
harbors.

As for Kaa, she had felt guilty since pulling him away
from Jijo, where Peepoe needed him. According to
Sara's calculations, the route back to Galaxy Four would
be perilous, demanding all his skill, as well as a gener-
ous helping of his famous luck.

/ know you'll make it, Kaa. May you swim with Pee-
poe soon, and remain Ifni's favorite all your life.

Conditions elsewhere weren't quite as bad as in Gal-
axy Four. Yet, the remainder of civilized space was rau-
cous and high-strung. The Navigation Institute kept
posting detours till it ran out of buoys, then stationed
gallant volunteers along every known route, shouting
themselves hoarse over subspace frequencies, diverting
traffic to a few safe paths. Flotillas set out from countless
planets on daring mercy missions, braving maelstroms
to rescue lost ships and stranded crews.

It was Galactic Civilization at its best—the reason it
would almost certainly survive this chaos, and possibly
emerge stronger than ever. After things settled down,
that is. In a few thousand years.

Meanwhile, the four remaining galaxies were a mess.
While many clans and races dropped their petty squab-
bles to lend a hand, others took advantage of the disor-
der to loot, extort, or settle old grudges. Religious
schisms spread like poisonous ripples, amplifying an-
cient animosities.

And where is Streaker heading, right now? Straight
for the worst site of fanatical warfare, praying we get
there before the fighting's over. Talk about jumping
from the frying pan into the fire.

At least Gillian had no complaints about Streaker's
rate of speed. Right now, she probably had the fastest
ship in all of oxygen-breathing civilization.

Not to put down Akeakemai, but without Keepiru or

494  David Brin

Kaa, this trip would have taken months, following the
marked detours. We'd arrive at our destination only to

find ashes.

So it's a good thing we bad outside help.
That "help" embraced the Earthship's bristly cylinder
like a second skin—a blanket of shimmering tendrils
that reached out to stroke the varied metric textures of
the cosmic continuum, sensing and choosing course,
speed, and level of subspace in order to make the best
possible headway. Undaunted by warning buoys and
danger signs, the semisapient coating steered Streaker
along routes that flamed and whirled with tempests of
unresolved hypergeometry, making snap transitions that
would tax Keepiru at his best.

The great Transcendents might hate leaving their
comfortable Embrace of Tides, seldom venturing from
their black-hole event horizons to meddle in the destiny
of lesser races. But their servants certainly knew how to
fly. Perhaps this special treatment balanced some of
Streaker's awful luck during the last three years. But
after narrowly escaping a supernova explosion, Gillian
gave up tallying miracles—good, bad . . . and simply

weird.

Just get us home in time, she thought, whether or not
a Transcendent might still be listening.

By the time Streaker passed the triple beacons of
Tanith, Gillian knew the impossible was about to hap-

pen.

We're going to see Earth again
only from afar.

When golden Sol filled the view screen, they began en-
countering new warning buoys, laid down by a different
bureaucracy.

BEWARE TRAVELERS!
YOU, ARE ENTERING A CONFLICT ZONE
DULY REGISTERED UNDER THE RULES
OF WAR!

though perhaps

Reiven's Reach  493

YOU ARE ADVISED: RETURN TO

TANTTH AT ONCE!
IF YOU HAVE BUSINESS HERE,
INQUIRE WITH REPRESENTATIVES OF
THE INSTITUTE FOR CIVILIZED

WARFARE

ABOUT A SAFE-CONDUCT PASS,
OR ELSE REGISTER AS YET ANOTHER
CO-BELLIGERENT FORCE
EITHER ALIGNED AGAINST THE
TERRAN DEFENDERS
OR FOR THEM.

THE FOLLOWING RACES/NATIONS/
CLANS/ALLIANCES

HAVE DECLARED VENDETTA-
ENFORCEMENT CAMPAIGNS

AGAINST THE OXY-UNEAGE KNOWN

AS EARTHCLAN . . .

It went on like that for a while, listing some of the
factions who had laid siege to Gillian's homeworld—a
long, intimidating roll call. Apparently, after years of
bickering over who should get the privilege of conquer-
ing Earth, the Soro, Tandu, Jophur, and others had
agreed to join forces and divide the spoils.

On the defending side, a tally of humanity's allies re-
mained depressingly sparse. The Tymbrimi had re-
mained true, at great cost. And the doughty Thennanin.
Material aid—arms, but not fighters—had been smug-
gled in by p'ort'ls, zuhgs, and Synthians, as well as a
faction of the Awaiter Alliance. And a new group, calling
itself the Acolytes, had lately sent shiploads of volun-
teers.

The War Institute message went on to describe a long
chain of protests, filed by the Soro and others, com-
plaining about "wolfling tricks" that had stymied several
successive attempts to bring their warships within firing
range of Earth, resulting in massive casualities and the
loss of several dozen major capital vessels, all caused by
weapons and tactics not found in the Galactic Library,

496   David Brill

and therefore suspiciously improper ways for folks to
slay their own would-be murderers!

That part made Gillian chuckle proudly . . . though
apparently the Terragens Council was running out of
"tricks." In fact, their forces were now reduced to a fiery
ring, marked by Luna's orbit.

The Institute buoy finished by officially attesting that
the rules of war had largely been adhered to as this
conflict wound down to its inevitable conclusion.

"Some rules!" sniffed Suessi. In other eras, the War
Institute had formalized combat, to a relatively harmless
sport, pitting professional champions against each other
for privilege or honor. But under today's loose strictures
—made almost unenforceable by recent chaos—the bat-
tle fleets infesting Earth could do almost anything. Gas
its cities. Capture and "adopt" its citizens. Anything ex-
cept harm the planet's fragile biosphere. And even that
might be overlooked as society unraveled.

There was some good news. Apparently, the so-called
Coalition of Moderate Races had finally declared open
opposition to the siege, gathering forces to compel a
cease-fire. The first units might arrive in a few weeks, if
they weren't held up by traffic snarls.

We've heard such promises before, Gillian thought bit-
terly.

The Niss reported that oddsmakers and bookies (who
hardly paused doing business, despite the Great Rup-
ture) gave Terrans little hope of lasting that long.

"Well, a lot has changed lately," she told Streakers
crew as they plunged toward the shell-of-battle sur-
rounding their home star. "Let's see if we can make a
difference."

Her plans remained flexible, depending on what condi-
tions were like near Earth.

Perhaps it might be possible to break the siege by
causing a distraction. After all, her ship was the great
prize everyone had been chasing for so long. Word of
Streaker's discoveries in the Shallow Cluster had set off
all this frenzy in the first place. Nor would that passion

Heaven's Reach  497

have abated, with the Great Rupture fresh in memory
and apocalyptic prophecies crisscrossing civilization,
more disruptive than chaos waves. While tumult still rat-
tled every sector and quadrant, each dogmatic alliance
would feel more anxious than ever to solve the Progeni-
tors' Riddle before its rivals.

What if Streaker suddenly appeared before the be-
sieging forces,- confronting the attackers, taunting them,
and then turning to flee across a turbulent galaxy? Might
that draw the battle fleets away, buying Earth much-
needed time? With luck, it could reignite strife between
the Tandu and other radical factions, winnowing their
ranks so the timid "moderates" might at last intervene.

Such a move might seem to conflict with Gillian's or-
ders from the Terragens Council. Those instructions had
been to hide. Above all, not to let Creideiki's data fall
into the wrong hands. Streaker should surrender the in-
formation only to qualified impartial agencies, or else
when the people of the Five . . . rather, Four Galaxies,
could agree how to share it.

Well, I've taken care of that! What agency could be
more "qualified and neutral" than the merged commu-
nity that took over the former Jophur battleship, Polkjhy?
A consortium of emissaries from several life orders,
picked by the transcendents to represent our entire
macroculture to some far-distant realm?

All the Ghost Fleet samples, including Herbie the
enigmatic cadaver, were now aboard that transformed
starship, racing far beyond reach of even the most dog-
ged zealot. Perhaps some far-distant alien civilization
would be suitably impressed, or even be able to answer
questions about the enigma.

All that remains from the Shallow Cluster is a set of
coordinates. And those are in a safe place.

Heady sensations filled Gillian's chest. She recognized
the source.

Freedom.

Along with Streaker's remaining crew, she now felt
liberated of an awful burden. A weight of importance
that used to hang on them all like a shroud, requiring

498  David Brin

that they slink and hide, like prey. Too valuable to be

brave.

But that had changed.

We are soldiers now. That is all.

Soldiers of Earth clan.

H

yperspace

'VERYTHING UNRAVELED AFTER THE GREAT RUP-
ture. all the wonderful structure—the many-layered
textures of spacetime—began coming apart.

E

Wer'Q'quinn's experts had warned Harry. Recoil effects
would be far worse in Galaxy Four, when all its ancient
links to other spirals snapped and most transfer points
collapsed. Additionally, all the known levels of hyper-
space—A through E—would come more or less unfas-
tened, like skins sloughing off a snake, and largely go

their own way.

Not only have I lost any hope of going home, he
thought during the wild ride that followed. We may all
be stuck forever in some pathetic corner of a single spi-
ral arm. Perhaps even a solar system!

That assumed they even made it safely back to nor-
mal space.

Harry's station shuddered and moaned. All the
louvered blinds rattled in their frames, while unnerving
cracks began working their way through the thick crys-
tal panes. Just outside, a maze of transfer threads
churned like tormented worms, whipping in terminal
agony, Spaciogeometric links, robbed of their moorings,
now snapped violently, slicing and shredding each

other to bits.

This seemed a frightfully bad time to try evading the
speed of light with shortcuts that had been routine for
aeons. Cheating Einstein had become a perilous felony.

It might have been safer simply to drop to normal
space and ride out the aftershocks near some star with a

Heaven's Reach  499

habitable fallow planet. Worst case—if FTL travel be-
came impossible—at least they might have a place to
land. But Kaa would have none of that. Almost from the
moment they dropped out of E Space, the dolphin took
over control, ditching the now useless corvette, and sent
Harry's station careening through a nearby transfer
point—a dying maelstrom—desperately scouring for a
route to the one place he called home.

Harry had never seen piloting so brilliant—or half so
mad. His stubby station was hardly a sport-skimmer, yet
Kaa threw the vessel into swooping turns, hopping
among the radiant threads like some doped-up gibbon,
brachiating through a burning forest, throwing its
weight from one flaming vine to the next. Kaa's tail re-
peatedly slapped the flotation pad. The dolphin's eyes
were sunken and glazed while floods of information
poured through his neural tap. A ratchet of sonar clicks
sprayed from the high-domed skull, sometimes merging
to form individual words.

Peepoe was one Harry heard often. Having done his
duty for Streaker and Earth, Kaa had just one priority—
to reach his beloved.

Harry sympathized. I just wish he asked me before
taking us on this insane ride!

No one dared break Kaa's concentration. Even Rety
kept silent, nervously stroking her little urrish husband.
Kiwei Ha'aoulin crouched, muttering to herself in a Syn-
thian dialect, perhaps wishing she had listened to the
inner voice of caution rather than greed.

Only Dwer seemed indifferent to fear. The young
hunter braced his back against the control console, and
one foot on a nearby window, leaving both hands free
to polish his bow while a Gordian knot of cosmic strings
unraveled spectacularly outside.

Well, I guess anything can seem anticlimactic, Harry
thought. After watching a whole chain of supernovas go
off at once—and having the Path seize you like some
agonized monster—one might get jaded with something
as mundane as a conflagration in byperspace.

Kaa pealed a yammering cry, sending the station
plunging toward a huge thread whose loose end lashed,

500  David Brin

shuddering and spraying torrents of horrid sparks! Rety
shouted. Vertigo roiled Harry's guts, threatening to void
his bowels. He covered his eyes, bracing for im-
pact . . .

. . . and swayed when nothing happened.
Not even a vibration. Around him stirred only a low
chucker of engines, gently turning over.

Both fearful and curious, Harry lowered his hands.
Stars shone, beyond the pitted glass. Patterns of soft

lights. Stable. Permanent.

Well, almost. One patch twinkled oddly, as a wave of
warped metric rippled past. Tapering chaos distur-
bances, still causing the vacuum to shiver. Still, how
much better this seemed than that awful pit of sparking

serpents!

Behind the station, receding rapidly, lay the transfer
point they had just exited, marked by flashing red sym-
bols.

DO NOT ENTER, blazoned one computer-generated icon.

NEXUS TERMINALLY DISRUPTED.
CONDITIONS LETHAL WITHIN.

I can believe that, Harry thought, vowing to embrace
Kaa, the first chance he got . . . and to shoot the pilot
if he tried to enter another t-point like that one.

In the opposite direction, growing ever larger, stood
the red disk of a giant star.

"Izmunuti?" Harry guessed.

Kaa was still chattering to himself. But Dwer gave an

emphatic nod.

"I'd know it anywhere. Though the storms seem to've
settled since the last time we passed this way."

Rety reacted badly to this news.

"No!" Her fists clenched toward Harry. "You prom-
ised I wouldn't have to go back! Turn this ship around.
Take me back to civilization!"

"I don't think you grasp the problem," he replied. "At
this rate, we'd be lucky to reach any habitable world.
Clearly, the nearest one is—"

The young woman covered her ears. "I won't listen. I

won't!"

He looked to Dwer, who shrugged. Rety's aggrieved

Heaven's Reocli  501

rejection of reality reminded Harry of a race called epi-
siarchs, clients of the mighty Tandu, who could some-
how use psi—plus sheer force of ego—to change small
portions of the universe around them, transforming
nearby conditions more to their liking. Some savants
theorized that all it took was a strong enough will, plus
a high opinion of yourself. If so, Rety might hurl them
megaparsecs from this place, so desperate was she not
to see the world of her birth.

Kaa lifted his bottle-nosed head. The pilot's black eye
cleared as he made an announcement. "We c-can't stay
here. Jijo is still over a light-year away. That'll take at
least a dozen jumps through A Space. Or fifffty ... if
we use Level B."

Harry recalled predictions made by the Kazzkark Nav-
igation staff—that the rupture would make all
hyperlevels much harder to use. In Galaxy Four, they
might detach completely and flutter away, leaving be-
hind the glittering blackness of normal space, an Ein-
steinian cosmos, where cause and effect were ruled
strictly by the crawling speed of light.

But that peeling transition would not come instantly.
Perhaps the rapid layers could still be used, for a while
at least.

"Try B Space," he suggested. "I have a hunch we may
need to drop out quickly and often along the way."

Kaa tossed his great head.

"Okay. It's your ship-p. B Space it issss. ..."

With that hiss of finality, the pilot turned his attention
back through the neural tap, to a realm where his un-
canny cetacean knack might be their only hope.

Harry felt the station power up for the first jump.

I'd pray, he thought. I/creation itself weren't already
moaning in pain.

Almost from the start, they saw disturbing signs of ruin
—debris of numerous space vessels, wrecked as they
had tried following exactly the same course, flicker-
jumping from Izmunuti toward Jijo.

502   Oaviil Brin

"Some folks passed this way before us," Dwer com-
mented.

"And quite recently, by all appearances." Kiwei's
voice was awed. "It seems that an entire fleet of large
vessels came through. They must have been caught in
hyperspace when the Rupture struck."

The results were devastating. As Izmunuti fell away
behind them, and Jijo's sun grew steadily brighter,
Harry's instruments showed appalling remnants of a
shattered armada, some of the hulks still glowing from
fiery dismemberment.

"I make out at least two basic ship types," he diag-
nosed, peering into the analytical scope. "One of 'em
might be Jophur. The other ... I can't tell."

In fact, it was hard to get a fix on anything, because
their own vessel kept heaving and shuddering. Kaa
yanked the station back into normal space whenever his
fey instincts told him that a new chaos wave was com-
ing, or when a flapping crease in B Level threatened to
fold over itself and smash anything caught between.

Crossing this unstable zone of hyperreality—a rather
short span by earlier standards—became a treacherous
series of mad sprints that got worse, dura by dura. Each
flicker seemed to take greater concentration than the
last, demanding more from the gasping engines. And
yet, there could be no pause for rest. It was essential to
reenter hyperspace as soon as possible, for at any mo-
ment B Level might detach completely, leaving them
stranded, many light months from any refuge. Food and
air would give out long before Harry's small .group
might traverse such a vast distance of flat metric.

Too bad we Earthlings never pursued our early knack
at impulse rocketry, after making contact with the Civi-
lization of Five Galaxies. It seemed the most ridiculous
of all wolfling technologies, to make ships capable of
brute-force acceleration toward lightspeed. With so
many cheap shortcuts available from the Great Library,
who needed such a tool kit of outlandishly extravagant
tricks?
The answer was apparent.

Heaven's Beach.  503

We do. Anyone who wants to travel around Galaxy
Four may need them, from now till the end of time.

At least there were clear signs of progress. Each jump-
brought them visibly closer to that warm, sturdy sun.
Yet, the tense moments passed with aching slowness, as
they followed a rubble-strewn trail of devastated star-
craft.

"I guess that Jophur battleship must have got word to
their headquarters, while it was off chasing Streaker,"
Dwer concluded. "Their reinforcements arrived at the
worst moment, just in time to be smashed by the Rup-
ture."

"We should rejoice," mused Kiwei. "I have no wish to
live in a Jophur satrapy."

"Hmph," Harry commented. "That assumes all of
their fleet was caught in hyperspace during the worst of
it. For all we know, a whole squadron may have made it
safely. They could be waiting for us atJijo."

It was a dismal prospect—to have endured so much,
only to face capture at the end by humorless stacks of
uncompromising sap-rings.

"Well," Dwer said, after a few more edgy jumps,
when the yellow star was already looking quite sunlike.
"We won't have long to wait now."

He pressed close to the forwardmost window, as ea-
ger to spy Jijo as Rety was to evade the verdict of
destiny.

Earth

THE SOLAR SYSTEM WAS LITTERED WITH WRECK-
age from more than two years of seesaw fighting—
shattered reminders of stiff wolfling resistance that
surely came as a rude shock to invaders expecting
easy conquest. Fourthhand tales of that savage
struggle had reached Streaker's crew, even at the re-
mote Fractal World. Apparently, the defense was already
the stuff of legends.

Ion clouds and rubble traced the inward path of that

504  David Brin

fighting retreat . . . vaporized swathes in the cometary
ice belt . . . still-smoldering craters on Triton and Ne-
reid . . . and several asteroid-sized clumps of twisted
metal, tumbling in orbit beyond Uranus.

/( must have been quite a show. Sony I missed it.
More debris was added recently, when the Great Rup-
ture struck. Ships that tried any kind of FTL maneuver-
ing during the causality storm had been lucky to reach
normal space again with more consistency than an ice
slurpie. Saturn's orbit was now a glittering junkyard,
soon to become a vast ring around the sun.

Unfortunately, long-range scans showed more than
enough big vessels left to finish the job. Scores of great
dreadnoughts—several of them titans compared to the
enormous Polkjby—gathered in martial formations
along the new battlefront, all too near Earth's shimmer-
ing blue spark.

The first picket boats hailed Streaker well beyond the
orbit of Ceres. A bizarre, mixed squadron consisting of
corvettes and frigates from the Tandu, Soro, and
gorouph navies, joined in uneasy federation. They were
alert, despite the havoc that residual chaos waves still
played on instruments. When Streaker ignored their
challenge and kept plunging rapidly sunward, the
nearest ships raced closer to open fire with deadly ac-
curacy.

Blades of razorlike force scythed at the Earthship—

only to glance off its transmuted hull. Heat beams were
absorbed quietly, with no observable effect, dissipating
harmlessly into another level of spacetime.

If these failures fazed the enemy, they did not show it
openly. Rushing closer, several lead vessels launched
volleys of powerful, intelligent missiles, hurtling toward
Streaker^ great speed. According to Suessi, this was the
worst threat. Direct energy weapons had little effect on
the Transcendent's coating. But physical shock could
disrupt anything made of matter, if it came hard and fast
enough,'in a well-timed sequence of shaped concus-
sions.

As if aware of that danger, Streaker's sapient outer

Heaven's Reach  505

layer suddenly became active. Tendrils fluttered, like
cilia surrounding a bacterium. Swarms of tiny objects
flew off their waving tips, darting to meet the incoming
barrage. Under extreme magnification, the strange in-
terceptors looked like tiny pockets of writhing proto-
plasm, jet-black, but disconcertingly alive.

"Reified concepts," explained the disembodied Niss
Machine, sounding awed and unnerved. "Destructive
programs, capable of making a machine terminally
self-hostile. They don't even have to enter computers as
data, but can do so by physical contact."

"You're talking about freestanding memes!" Gillian re-
plied. "I thought they can't exist here in real space, with-
out a host to carry—"

"Apparently, we're wrong about that." The Niss
shrugged with its runnel of spinning lines. "Remember,
Transcendents are a melding of life orders. They are
part meme, themselves."

She nodded, willing to accept the incredible.

The expanding memic swarm collided with the in-
coming barrage, but effects and outcomes weren't evi-
dent at first. Tension filled Streaker's bridge, as the
missiles continued on course for several more sec-
onds . . .

. . . only to veer abruptly aside, missing the Earth-
ship and spiraling off manically before igniting in flashy
torrents of brilliance, lighting up the asteroid belt.

The dolphins exulted, but Gillian quashed any cele-
bratory thoughts as premature. She recalled a warn-
ing, from the Transcendent being who had visited her
office.

"Do not be deceived by illusions of invulnerability.
You have been given advantages. But they are limited.

"It would be wise to recall that you are not gods.

"Not yet, that is. . . ."

Indeed, Gillian wasn't counting on a thing. Soon, the
enemy would learn not to send mere robots against a
ship defended by hordes of predatory ideas. Or else
they would attack with overwhelming numbers.

Still, I guess the ends justify the memes, she thought,

506   Blind Bfifl

raising a brief, ironic smile. Tom would have liked the
pun—a real groaner.

Right now, in the heat of battle, she missed him with a
pang that felt fresh, as if years and kiloparsecs meant
nothing, and their parting had been yesterday.

The next line of ships—destroyers—had little more ef-
fect. A few of their missiles managed to detonate
nearby, but not in a coordinated spread. Streaker's pro-
tective layers dealt with the flux.

When Akeakemai asked for permission to fire back,
Gillian refused.

"We might damage a few," she said. "But they'd no-
tice our offensive capacity is tiny, compared to defense.
I'd rather leave them guessing we're equally formidable,
both ways. So formidable, we can afford to ignore

them."

Of course it was all part of a bluff she had worked
out. Her greatest one yet.

Heaven's Reich  507

onds ahead of a supernova's fist. It was inspired partly
by her own interview with the transcendent being.

More than one can play games of illusion, she had
thought. Of all the tricks pulled by her godlike visitor,
the one that impressed her least had been that showy
series of visual poses, mimicking everyone from Tom
and Jake Demwa to Hikahi and Creideiki.

Mirages are a dime a dozen.

If Earthlings possessed any craft that was equal to the
best Galactic technology, it lay in the art of manipulating
optic images.

The play began with one of her oldest disguises—one
she routinely used to fool Streaker's stolen Library unit.

Appearing suddenly in the holo tank, a stern Then-
nanin admiral strode forth, preening his elbow and
shoulder spikes, puffing up his extravagant head-crest,.
and clearing his vents with a deep harrrumph, before
commencing to speak in stately, formal Galactic Six, ad-
dressing his remarks to those besieging Earth.

A new force rose to meet Streaker—this time consisting
of sleek, powerful cruisers. Meanwhile, the giant dread-
noughts near Earth began changing formation, arrang-
ing themselves into a hollow shell, its cusp aimed
toward Gillian's ship. Loudspeakers groaned, twittered
and beeped in several formal languages, as com-
manders of the united fleet beamed a final warning.

IDENTIFY YOUSELF, OR BE DESTROYED.

She wondered.

After all this time, hounding us to every far corner of
the Five Galaxies, have we really changed so much that
you don't recognize your intended prey—coming now
to beard you in your den?

Gillian decided.

It's time to end the silence. Answer their beamed chal-
lenge with one of our own.

Pressing a lever, she unleashed her prerecorded mes-
sage—one that had drawn her entire concentration ever
since Streaker dived into that cool black tunnel millisec-

"Brethren/Fellow high patrons of star faring civilization
and descendants of the Great Progenitors! I come before
you now at a crucial juncture of choice. You, along
with all your clients and clan mates, may profit or suffer
because of decisions made during this nexus of opportu-
nity.

"The time has come to look past blinders of false be-
lief. Your presence here (which my clan had the great
wisdom to resist) is anathema to destiny. It brings you
nothing but cascading sorrow, replenished from an in-
exhaustible supply of hardship that the universe will-
ingly provides the obstinate!"

It really was a very good Thennanin, quite pompous
and credible. But credibility—even plausibility—wasn't
the point here.

No, it was the sheer effronteryof this ruse that should
gall them.

Her ersatz admiral continued.

508 Duid Brin

•     •     •

"Consider the/acts, misguided brethren.

"Number one.

"To whom did the Progenitors reveal relics of great-
and-profound value?

"To you? Or even to the Old Ones you revere?"

While speaking those words, the Thennanin started to
melt, shifting and reconfiguring in a much more gaudy
and disturbing manner than the Transcendent had. (Her
visitor's intent had been to focus Gillian's thoughts,
while her aim right now was to frighten . . . then en-
rage.)

The big admiral finished transforming into a quite dif-
ferent entity that now floated in midair, glossy and gray,
resembling Captain Creideiki at his most handsome and
charismatic, before an accident permanently scarred his
handsome sleek head.

"No they did not! The Progenitors did not disclose bid-
den truths to you, or to any noble clan or alliance!

"In fact, the Ghost Fleet was revealed to one such as
this!"

Creideiki's image thrashed its tail flukes for emphasis.

"A member of the youngest of all client races. A race
whose talents would have made any senior patron eager
to adopt them, yet who proudly call themselves members
of wolfling Earthclan!

"Next, consider yet another fact. The way the Earth-
ship, Streaker, evaded all your searches and clever
schemes to capture it! Even when you bribed and sub-
orned the Great Institutes, did such acts of treasonous
cheating avail you at all?"

Heaven's Beach  509

The figure began shifting again, continuing, sotto voce,
with teasing GalSix undertones.

("Tell me, brethren. Have you begun to guess the iden-
tity of the vessel now plummeting toward you, laugh-
ingly defiant of your vaunted power?

"Do you need more clues? You shall have them!")

A male human shape replaced Creideiki. She had tried
using Tom as a model, but that proved too hard. So she
settled on old Jake Demwa . . . which was probably a
good idea anyway. The Soro would instantly recognize
him from two centuries of frustration, when he had
proved their bane on numerous occasions.

"Fact three: Despite great wealth and innumerable lives
spent subduing the Terrans' homeworld, what have you
accomplished here, except to make their legend grow?
Even on the verge of apparent success, can you be cer-
tain this is not yet another ruse? A trick, meant to draw
in your reserves? To make their unexpected triumph
seem all the greater in others' eyes?

"Even if you win, and the last human lies dead—with
every dolphin and chimp readopted by some humorless
clan—will you withstand the vengeance others may
then take upon you, in the name of martyred Earth?

"Ask yourselves this. Might these wolflings rise even
stronger, out of death? Either in fact, or else in a flood of
new ideas? Ideas that will span the New Era to come,
diverting Galactic culture down paths you can't imag-
ine?"

Streaker shuddered. The lights flickered. On other
screens, Gillian glimpsed a brief, violent, one-sided bat-
tle, as the cruiser flotilla fired volleys while sweeping
past. Either they were getting a knack for using
dumbed-down brains in their missiles or there were sim-

510  Dovid Irin

ply too many, this time. For whatever reason, about a
dozen got through, detonating uncomfortably close.

Suessi gave a thumbs-up sign, indicating the pattern
wasn't focused enough to be dangerous. But it showed
the limits of their defense.

Just so long as the enemy can't tell. Let them think
we're just shrugging it all off, for a bit longer.

In the holo tank, Jake Demwa faded into another
shape—one of the elder races Streaker encountered at
the vast, chilly habitat called the Fractal World. "Without
pause, that stark visage continued the soliloquy.

"Or take fact number four: Did any of you foretell the
Great Rupture? So conservative were you all, so trusting
of your own elders, that you bad no idea the Old Ones
were manipulating the Great Library, and the other In-
stitutes! For their own reasons, they kept the Civilization
of Five Galaxies ignorant. We had no inkling to pre-
pare, or that this sort of massive spatiotemporal breakup
has happened before!

"Yet, a warning did come. Even while beset by attack-
ers, the Terrans did their citizenly duty, broadcasting
an alert based upon their alternative mathematics.

"Is it a coincidence that great harm befell those who
ignored the warning? Those blinded by their contempt
for wolfling science, who chose obstinate ideology over
pragmatism?"

("Have you guessed yet, brethren? Have ye figured out
who streaks toward you now? Insolent. Heedless of the
reverence you feel yourselves due? Can you sniff/sense/
feel/grok the very thing you covet ... and secretly
fear?")

Cruisers fell ,in behind Streaker, cutting off retreat.
Looming just ahead, the unified armada of capital ships
left their siege positions to meet this challenge, spread-

Heaven's (leach   511

ing to envelop and enclose the impudent newcomer in
an inescapable mesh of fire.

"They're talking to each other, "informed the Niss Ma-
chine. "From battleship to battleship. A lot more discus-
sion than you'd expect for warships going into a fight.
It's coded, but I can tell it is pretty heated.

"Is it possible they don't understand your bints and
clues. Dr. Baskin? Perhaps you've been too coy. Shall we
go ahead and tell them who we are?"

She shook her head.

"Relax. They're probably just arguing over how best
to kill us."

Streaker had one hope. This kind of envelopment
pattern meant the enemy must concentrate their volleys
into a very narrow zone, or else risk damaging each
other. If the Earthship could create uncertainty over its
exact position, that might result in a focused blast that
was offset just enough, so their Transcendent-shell
would not be overwhelmed. Then, amid the blinding
aftermath, Streaker would swerve away and run for it!
With any luck, this amazing survival would make the
enemy pause long enough for a good head start . . .
before the entire fleet came baying after her.

The aim was simple: to buy time, giving Earth a brief
respite—a chance to quickly rearm the Luna fortresses
—and possibly get a few mothers and children away
before the end.

"They are p-preparing to fire!" announced the detec-
tion officer, who then squealed a warning in Primal Del-
phin. "Here come sharkssss!"

Gillian felt palpable twinges go off in her mind as
several hundred speedy missiles leaped from launching
tubes, arming themselves as they raced toward Streaker.
At this range, many would carry psi and probability war-
heads, as well as annihilation charges.

Streaker's protective shell cast forth swarms of
countermemes, but this time the effort would clearly be
inadequate.

"You know what to do," she told Akeakcmai, trusting
her life to his skill. This was not a job for a pilot but for a
gifted geometrodynamics engineer.

512   David Brin

Lacking anything else to do while waiting for oblitera-
tion, Gillian turned back to the scene playing out within
the holo tank—the same message being watched on the
command deck of every battleship.

The last of her simulated Old Ones started to dissolve.
And yet—(copying tricks she had learned from the
Transcendent)—the voice went on, using tones that
were intentionally infuriating, patronizing, and serenely
confident.

"Can you see the symbol on this vessel's prow? Is it the
familiar emblem of five spiral rays? Or has something
else taken its place? Can you recognize the nature of our
new shell?

"And yet, by now your scans also show the ancient,
mundane hull within. The Earthling figures of our
crew.

"Well? Can your minds resolve this anomaly? This dis-
sonance? Is there an explanation?"'

The image in the tank reformed at last, taking a shape
she had recorded during her interview with the Tran-
scendent. A form that was sure to spoil the enemy's
composure.

If just one glimpse of Herbie—a billion-year-old
mummy—had thrown half the fanatics in five galaxies
into a tizzy, what would the mummy's reconstructed
likeness do? Emulated in apparently living flesh, the
faintly amphibian humanoid now offered an enigmatic
smile that broadened to uncanny width, conveying a
touch of cruel empathy.

"Come now, foolish youngsters. Surely you can draw
conclusions from what lies before your very—"

Akeakemai interrupted with a squeal.

"Impact in ninety secondsss! Let's do it-t!"

(leavers Reach  513

Gillian blinked as Streaker's engines let out a wail of
exertion, yanking the ship out of normal space.

Too bad, she thought, regretting that it had happened
quite so soon.

/ wanted to watch the show once through, all the way
to the end.

In theory, you could dodge enemies by jumping into
hyperspace.

Unfortunately, that idea was older than a lot of stars.
The arts of war had long ago adapted to such tactics.
When Streaker jumped, so did the pack of onrushing
missiles, which had no trouble sensing which way she
headed.

Akeakemai played the engines swiftly, sending their
old Snark-class survey ship leaping laterally among the
known strata that still overlay Galaxy Two.

Unlike Galaxy Four, the varied levels of hyperspace
were still accessible here, though with greater difficulty
than before. Gillian was counting on that difference
now to disrupt the timing of the incoming barrage. With
any luck, there might also be chaos waves—aftershocks
from the Great Rupture—to warp space and confuse the
death machines.

Alas, it did not take long to realize—she had commit-
ted the worst sin of any commander. Assuming her ene-
mies were stupid.

In B Space, where all stars turned into midget rain-
bows, the detection officer yelled dismay.

"Mines! They've filled the place with—"

Akeakemai was swift, triggering a second jump, but
not before several nearby objects detonated, slamming
Streaker with shock waves, even as the ship flickered
over to A Space.

The strange-familiar sensations of that speedy realm
crowded around Gillian, as if each direction she turned
became a tunnel, offering a shortcut beyond some far
horizon. Down each of those tubes, there glowed the
disk of a single majestic, spinning sun.

514. David Bfin

"Fifty seconds," murmured Hannes Suessi, mostly to
himself.

"More mines'" came the rapid cry . . . unneeded, as
a drumbeat of savage thuds rocked the ship, straining
the energy-absorbing power of Streaker's new shell. Ex-
cess heat brought sweat popping from Gillian's skin.

In our old form, we'd be vapor by now, she thought
during the agonized moment it took to flick into
D Space.

It was a lousy place to look for shortcuts. Everything
looked far away, as if you were peering through the
wrong end of a telescope.

Unfortunately, D Space was also inhabited, by mem-
bers of the Quantum life order—glimmering half-shapes
whose outlines grew more vague the closer you looked
at them. A multitude of these amorphous beings sud-
denly converged on Streaker the moment she appeared.

"Our enemies must have hired local allies to guard
this back door. "The Niss Machine sounded bemused by
such clever thoroughness.

Gillian saw chunks of the transcendent coating evap-
orate under this new attack.

"Get us out of—"

Anticipating  her wishes,  Akeakemai yanked
Streaker's laboring engines one more time . . . the
same moment the converging missiles struck.

Jijo

HAA EKED OUT ONE LAST JUMP BEFORE B SPACE
disappeared.

The wrenching leap peeled every nerve in
Harry's body, forcing air from his lungs in an ago-
nized scream.

Even when transition finished—-and the shuddering
passengers of Harry's station found themselves miracu-
lously back in the normal continuum—a plague of
scraping irritations kept their skins twitching. Rubbing
tears from his eyes with quivering hands, Harry knew,

Heaven's Beach  515

with vivid certainty, the exact moment that B Space fin-
ished detaching completely from Galaxy Four, to float
away on its own, leaving the domain of atoms to spin
on, bereft and alone.

It felt as if something had been amputated. A pres-
ence that had been in the background, unnoticed, for
his entire life. Now it was gone forever.

We got out just in time, he thought as vision cleared.
Then he turned to marvel at what Kaa had accom-
plished with that final display of piloting skill.

There, glowing just ahead, lay a blue globe, wearing a
slender skin of moist air. Continents—mottled brown
and green—bulged between arcs of ocean. Along the
sweeping terminator, lightning could be seen dancing
atop clouds and mountain peaks.

"Jijo, I presume," Harry murmured, silently adding—
my new borne.

"Yeah," answered Dwer. "Welcome. It's good to be
back."

Judging by his taut stance, the young man was eager
to reclaim the forest trails he loved. Apparently, there
were two women waiting for him down there, in a feral
forest, who considered themselves his "wives." Dwer
seemed loath to explain the situation, but he felt anx-
ious to get back. That much was clear.

And what about me? Harry pondered. A career with
the Navigation Institute doesn't offer much promise
now. Even if Galaxy Four retains a few byperspatial
links, nobody's gonna want to hire an E Space scout.

He eyed the blue world, which crept closer at a snail's
gait—the relative velocity determined solely by hard
momentum and kinetic energy. Without microjumping
to fine-tune the approach, landing could be difficult and
dangerous.

They had a pretty good pilot, of course. So that part
didn't worry Harry, much. But once the station was
down, it might never leave again. Antigravity relied on
tricks that involved balancing forces from several layers
of hyperspace. With most of those layers gone, the field
generators would probably never be able to push hard
enough to climb free of Jijo's heavy pull.

516  David Bfin .

Most likely, it's a planet-bound life from now on.

Heck, at least it's a life.

Jijo sure looked a whole lot better than dusty Horst.
Even prettier than Terra, in fact.

And there are neo-chimps here . . . though of an
earlier breed that couldn't talk yet. Other than that,
Dwer says they're pretty civilized.

He sighed.

I guess being the "ape that speaks" should set me
apart.

That . . . and my white fur ...

. . . and my . . . tail.                         ':

It was enough to make him chuff dry laughter. What
an ironic reversal of his time on Earth, where the chatty,
sophisticated chims found him taciturn and slow. Here,
his mates and grooming partners would scarcely bug
him with irritating gossip.

For conversation, I'll have six other sapient races in
the "Commons of Jijo"—or eight, if you include dol-
phins and tytlal. And soon, chimps will make nine.

He glanced at Kaa, whose brilliant piloting had
brought them here, safe and mostly sound. So anxious
was the dolphin for those warm coastal waters—and to
find his Peepoe—that it might take some persuasion to
get him to land ashore first and let everyone else de-
bark.

"Well, well. It is a winsome little place," commented
Kiwei Ha'aoulin. "I suppose it should do for a spell,
while I assess the commercial possibilities,"

Harry shook his head. The Synthian had apparently
retreated into her former madness, assuming that every-
thing would soon return to normal. For her sake, Harry
hoped Kiwei remained cheerful and crazy for the rest of
her life, because she would spend it all here, in a small
corner of Galaxy Four.

Kaa tossed his dark gray head, emitting a worried
sputter.

"I'm detecting shipssss!"

Harry rushed to his instruments.

"I see 'em. They're mostly behind us. Your last couple

Imen's Beacti   517

of crazy jumps took us past 'em! We'll reach Jijo weeks
before they do."

Peering closer at the readout, he went on.

"They're mostly small craft—lifeboats, scouts, shut-
tles. Survivors, I guess, from those fleets who got torn
up in B Space, during the Rupture." He paused, pulling
nervously on both thumbs. "They're headin' for the only
refuge in sight. The same place we are."

Dwer blew a long sigh. "So, even if the Commons
managed to get rid of the Jophur garrison while we
were away, the danger isn't over."

Harry nodded. By standards of his former civilization,
the oncoming forces were pathetic and weak. Some of
the lifeboats would not make it. Others would bum in
Jijo's atmosphere. Still, the remnant would be far more
than his little station could stave off. Soon, the Jijoans
would face real troubles.

And, he realized, the coming confrontation could
have long-lasting repercussions.

Unless there were other sooner outposts, hidden on
fallow planets elsewhere in Galaxy Four, this may be the
one place where oxygen breathers exist with knowledge
and experience of star faring.

Even ifhyperspace is completely cut off, a culture will
someday expand outward from Jijo. That culture may
fill this entire galaxy, starting a new tradition of Uplift
when it comes across promising species along the way.

The implications chilled Harry.

WlJoerer wins control of Jijo, this year, may establish
the morality—the whole social ethos—of that star-span-
ning civilization to come.

Harry had already been willing to give his life for one
communitv. Now, it seemed there would be no rest.
Before even partaking of Jijo's food and air, he must
decide to become part of this new world and take on its
troubles as his own.

From ivhat I've beard, this Commons of Six Races was
a pretty impressive bunch. If Dwer and Rety—andAlvin
and Ur-ronn—are any indication, the Jijoans will put
up a stiff fight.

518  David Bfin

He patted the console of his trusty old station.
Maybe we can help just a bit, eh?

Their approach spiral took them over Jijo's dark side,
below a big moon that Dwer identified as "Loocen."
Harry exclaimed when he spied a line of bright sparkles
along the day-night boundary. Glistening cities shone in
a long crescent across the airless surface. Then he real-
ized.

Reflections. Sunlight, that's all it is, caught at an an-
gle as dawn creeps across the lunar surface. The domes
are silent, lifeless. They have been ever since the fabled
Buyur departed—how long ago? Half a million years?

Still, he admitted. It is a pretty sight. And maybe

someday—

A piping cry made Harry turn around.

Rety was standing by a far window, obstinately refus-
ing to look at the soft beauty of her homeworld. Sullen,
with arms crossed, she ignored repeated calls from her
"husband," the miniature male urs called yee. The little
centauroid stood on the windowsill, prancing with all
four delicate feet, reaching out with his long neck to nip
Rety's shoulder, then gesture at the view outside.

"look, wife! look at this sight!"

"I seen it before," she muttered sourly. "Scenery.
Mountains an' bushes an' dirt. Lots of dirt. No 'lectricity
or computers, but all the dirt you could ever want to—"

"not scenery!" yee interrupted, "turn and see fire-
works!"

Rety stayed obdurate. But others hurried to find out
what the little fellow meant. "Douse interior lights,"
Harry ordered so glare from the observation deck would
not drown the view outside.

Jijo's night stretched below, a dark coverlet that might
come ablaze with city lights within a few generations,
no matter who won the coming battle. Now, though, the
expanse showed no visible sign of sapience that Harry
could detect, even with instruments. Well, the Six Races
have been hiding for a long time, he thought. They must
be good at it by now.

Heaven's Reach  519

It was interesting to imagine what kind of starfaring
civilization might arise out of the Jijoan Commons, with
its fervent traditions of environmental protection and
tolerance, and yet an easygoing individualism when it
came to endeavor and new ideas. Something pretty in-
teresting, assuming it survived the coming crisis.

At first, Harry saw nothing to justify yee's excitement.
Then Dwer nudged him, pointing to the right.

"Look. A spark."

"How pretty," Kiwei commented.

It did look like a flickering ember, blown upward
from a campfire, wafting—gently and very slowly—out
from that thin film of atmosphere into the black sky
above.

"Observer mode," Harry commanded. "Zero in on the
anomaly I'm looking at, and magnify."

The computer scanned his eyes, judged the focus of
his attention, and complied. A holo image erupted,
showing the strangest object Harry had ever seen, de-
spite years spent exploring the weird memic comers of
E Space.

A long, slender tube hurtled upward pointy-end
first . . . and from its tail poured gouts of white-hot
fire.

"It . . . looks like a burning tree\" Kiwei murmured
in amazement.

"Not a tree," Dwer corrected. "It's boo!"

Curiosity finally overcame Rety, who turned around at
last—barely in time to see the flame go out. While the
slim missile coasted for several seconds, Harry's instru-
ments measured its size, which was many times bigger
than his station!

Abruptly, the pencil-shaped object split in half. The
rear portion tumbled away, still smoldering, while the
front part erupted anew from its aft end.

Kiwei uttered hushed perplexity.

"But, what natural phenomenon could—"

"not natural, silly raccoon!" yee cried, "boo rocket
made by iirs-hooman-traekis! shoot rocket high to wel-
come Rety-yee home!"

Harry blinked, twice. Then he grinned.

520  David Bfin

"Well, I'll be. That's what it is, all right. A multistage
rocket made of hollowed-out tree trunks ... or what-
ever you call 'em, Dwer."

He called again to the computer. "Zoom in at the
front terminus. The part that's farthest from the flames."

Like the tip of a spear, that end flared a bit before
tapering to a point. It rotated slowly, along with the rest
of the crude rocket.

A brief glint told them everything. A pane of some
kind of glass. A pale light shining from within. And a
pair of brief silhouettes. A snakelike neck. A crablike
claw.

Then Harry's station swerved, making everyone stum-
ble. Kaa reported they were entering the planet's atmo-
sphere.

"T-time to buckle up-p!" the pilot commanded. Soon,
a different kind of flame would surround them. If they
survived the coming plummet, it would not be long be-
fore their feet stood on solid ground.

Yet, Harry and the others remained transfixed for a
moment longer, watching the rocket as long as possible.
The computer calculated its estimated trajectory, and re-
ported that it seemed aimed at Jijo's biggest moon.

At last, Rety commented. She stomped her feet on the
deck, but this time it was no tantrum—only an expres-
sion of pure joy.

"Uttergloss!" she cried. "Do you know what this
means?"

Harry and Dwer both shook their heads.

"It means I'm not trapped on Jijo! It means there's a
way Q^that miserable dirtball. And you can bet your
grampa's dross barrel that I'm gonna use it."

Her eyes seemed to shine with the same light as that
of the flickering ember, till their orbital descent took it
out of sight. Even when Harry ushered her to a seat and
belted her in for landing, Rety's wiry frame throbbed
with longing, and the grim inexorability of her ambition.

"I'll dp whatever it takes.

"I'm headin' out again, just as fast an' as far as this
grubby ol' universe lets me."

Heaven's Reach  521

Harry nodded agreeably. One of the last things he
ever wanted to be was someone standing in Rety's way.

"I'm sure you will," he said without the slightest
doubt or patronizing tone of voice.

Soon the windows licked with fire as Jijo reached out
to welcome them.

H

ome

TERRIBLE WOUNDS MARRED THE HAGGARD VES-
sel as it prepared to drop back into normal space.
Most of Streaker's, stasis flanges hung loose, or had
vaporized. The rotating gravity wheel was half
melted into the hull.

As for the protective sheathing which had safe-
guarded the crew—that gift of the Transcendents now
sparked and unraveled, writhing away its last, like some
dying creature with a brave soul.

Gillian mourned for its lost friendship. As she had
mourned other misfortunes. And now, for the loss of
hope.

Our plan was to avoid destruction, leading the enemy
on a wild chase away from Earth.

Our foes planned to thwart and destroy us.

It looks like we each got half of what we wanted.

Suessi was down in the engine room, working along-
side Emerson and the rest of their weary team, trying to
restore power. As things stood, the ship had barely
enough reserve energy to reach the one level of space
where there weren't swarms of mines—or other deadly
things—converging from all sides.

No, we're beaded back to face living enemies. Oxy-
beings, just like us.

At least it should be possible to surrender to the bat-
tleships, and see her crew treated as prisoners of war.
Assuming the victors did not instantly start fighting over
the spoils.

Of course, Gillian couldn't let herself be captured.

522  livid Brin

The information in her head must not fall into enemy

hands.

She let out a deep sigh. The ninety-second battle had
been awfully close. Her tactics had almost worked. Each
time a mine went off, or a quantum horde attacked, or a
chaos aftershock passed through, it disrupted the neat
volley of converging missiles, shoving their careful for-
mations, reducing their numbers, until the detonation—
when it occurred—was off center. Inefficient.

Even so, it was bad enough.

As Streaker finished its last, groaning transition into
the normal vacuum of home space, surrounded by
clouds of blinding debris, she knew the grand old vessel
could not defeat a corvette, or an armed lifeboat, let
alone the armada awaiting them.

"Please transmit the truce signal," she ordered. "Tell
them we'll discuss terms for surrender."

The Niss Machine's dark funnel bowed, a gesture of
solemn respect.

"As you wish, Dr. Baskin. It will be done."

While the hardworking bridge crew worked to re-
place burned-out modules, all the monitors were
blinded by a haze of ionized detritus and radiation. The
first objects to emerge from the fog were a pair of large
gravity wells—modest dimples in spacetime.

Earth and Luna . . . she realized. We came so close.

Soon other things would show up on the gravity dis-
play, objects rivaling moons, majestic in power.

The tense moment harkened Gillian back across the
years to the discovery of the Ghost Fleet, so long ago,
when she and Tom had been so young and thrilled to
be exploring on behalf of Earthclan, in company with
their friend Creideiki. It had looked a bit like this. A
haze surrounded them as Streaker worked its way
slowly through a dense molecular cloud, in that far-off
place called the Shallow Cluster.

An interstellar backwater.

A, place where there should not have been anything
to interest starfaring beings.

Yet, the captain had a hunch.

Beam's Beich 52:

And soon, emerging through the mist, the'
glimpsed . . .

Nothing.

Gillian blinked as stark, astonishing reality yanked he
back to the present. A nervous murmur crossed th<
bridge as crew members stared in disbelief at emptiness

Laboring mightily, Streaker's wounded engines man
aged to pull the ship free of its own dross cloud, clear
ing the haze far enough to reveal more of nearby space

There was no sign of any vast, enclosing formation.

No fleet of mighty battleships.

"But ... I ..."

Gillian stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Some
one else had to complete the thought.

"Where did everybody go?" asked Sara Koolhan
whose hand clutched Prity's with a grip that lookec
white and sweaty.

No one answered. How could they? What was there
to say?

Silence reigned for several minutes while sensors
probed gradually farther.

"There's a lot of debris, but I don't see any big vessels
within a cubic astron of here," ventured the detection
officer at last. "Though I guess they could be hiding
behind Luna, getting ready to pounce!"

Gillian shook her head. That armada of giant dread-
noughts would scarcely fit behind the moon's disk. Be-
sides, why set a trap for prey that lies helpless, already
in your grasp? Streaker could not run, and a puppy
would beat her in a fair fight.

"I'm detecting a lot of fresh hyper-ripples in the ambi-
ent background field," added Akeakemai. "Engine
wakes. Some really big ships churned things up here-
abouts just a little while ago. I'm guessing they tore
outta here awful damn fasssst!"

While Streaker's crew continued laboring to repair
sensors, the Niss Machine remanifested its whirlpool
shape near Gillian.

"Would you care for a conjecture. Dr. Baskin?"

524   Bavid Brin

"Conject away!"

"It occurs to me that your little holographic message
might have had unexpected consequences. It was meant
to enrage our enemies, but please allow me to submit
another possibility.

"That it scared the living hell out of them."

Gillian snorted.

"That crock of bull-dross I cooked up? It was sheer
bluff and bluster. A child could see through it! Are you
saying that a bunch of advanced Galactics, with all their
onboard libraries and sophisticated intelligence systems,
couldn't penetrate to the truth?"

The Niss spiral turned, regaining a bit of its former

insouciance.

"No, Dr. Baskin. That is not what I am saying.
Rather, I am insinuating that a primitive wolfling like
yourself, caught up in the emotions of a transitory crisis,
cannot see the essential truth underlying all your 'bluff

and bluster.'

"The Galactics did perceive it, however. Perhaps only
instants after they fired upon Streaker. Or else later,
when they sensed we were returning, having survived
the unsurvivable . . . and began broadcasting a sim-
ple offer to discuss surrender."

"But that was—" she stammered. "I didn't mean

their—"

"Either way, the alliance shattered—it flash-evapo-
rated—as each squadron fled for home."

She stared. "You're guessing. I don't believe it."
The Niss shrugged, a twisting of its dark funnel.
"Fortunately, the universe doesn't much care whether
we believe. The chief question now is whether our foes
were sufficiently terrified to completely abandon their
goals, or if they have merely withdrawn to reassess—to
consult their own auguries and prepare fresh on-
slaughts.

"Frankly, I suspect the latter. Nevertheless, it seems
that something noteworthy happened here, Dr. Baskin.
"By any standard, you must accept history's verdict.
"The word has a strange flavor, spoken aboard this

Heaven's Reach  525

ragged vessel. So I can understand if you have trouble
speaking it aloud.

"Let me coax you, then.

"It is called Victory."

The forces of Terra emerged, climbing slowly, tenta-
tively from their last redoubts, as if suspecting some
deadly trick. Out of seared mountain peaks and blasted
lunar craters, stubby ships nosed skyward, bearing scars
from countless prior battles. Together they cast beams of
inquiry toward every dark corner of the solar system.
Distrustfully, they threw intense scrutiny toward the one
remaining intruder, whose tattered outlines were not at
first familiar.

"Keep well back," Gillian ordered her pilot. "Make no
sudden moves. Let's be patient. Let them get used to
us."

Akeakemai agreed. "We're emitting Streaker's tran-
sponder code. But it'll take a while to get other mes-
sages out. Till then, I'd rather not make those guys
nervoussss!"

It was an understatement. Those tattered-looking
units had managed to keep the terrifying Tandu, and
many other allied warrior clans, at bay for two years. All
told, Gillian would rather not be fried by her own peo-
ple, just because they had jittery trigger fingers.

After all this time, she could wait just a little while
longer.

Jake Demwa isn 't going to be happy with the condi-
tion I'm bringing Streaker home in, she mused. Without
two-thirds of its crew, or the Shallow Cluster samples.
He'll grill me for weeks, trying to figure out where
Creideiki and Tom went off to, and what strange mat-
ters may have kept them busy all this time.

On the other hand, she did come back to Earth bear-
ing gifts.

The secret of overcoming Jophur master rings, for in-
stance.

And information about the Kiqui of Kithrup, whom
we may claim as new clients for our growing clan.

526  David Bfin

And the rewq symbionts of Jijo, which help species
understand each other. Plus everything the Niss and I
learned by interrogating our captured Galactic Library
branch.

And there was more.

The Terragens Council will want to know about the
lost colony on Jijo and the Polkjhy expedition. Both
groups face great dangers, and yet they seem to offer
something the council long sought to achieve—offshoots
ofEartbclan that might survive beyond reach of Galac-
tic Civilization, even if Terra someday falls.

There were plenty of other things to talk about,
enough to keep Gillian in debriefing for years.

Everything we discovered about other life orders, for
instance. Especially the high Transcendents.

As powerful and knowing as those godlike beings ap-
peared, Gillian had come away from her encounters
with a strange sensation not unlike pity. They were, af-
ter all, not the eldest or greatest of life's children, only
the ones who stayed behind when everyone else dived
into one-way singularities, seeking better realms be-
yond.

Cowards, she had called them in a moment of pique.
Not a fair characterization, she admitted -now, though it
held a grain of truth.

They seem trapped by the. Embrace of Tides. And yet
they are unwilling to follow its pull all the way—
whether to a higher place or to some universal recycling
system. So they sit instead, thinking and planning while
time wafts gently by- Except when it seems convenient to
sacrifice myriad lesser life-forms in order to accomplish
some goal.

All told, they weren't company she'd look forward to
inviting over for dinner.

As the haze of battle cleared, Gillian ordered
Streaker's cracked and fused blast armor sloughed away
from the viewing ports for the first time since Kithrup,
allowing hey to stand before the glittering Milky Way—a
spray of constellations so familiar, they would have
reassured even some cavewoman ancestor whose life

Heaven's Deacli   527

was spent in hardship, grubbing for roots, a mere ten
thousand years ago.

Lightspeed is slow, but inexorable, she thought, gaz-
ing at the galaxy's bright lanes. During the next few
millennia, this starscape will flare with extravagance.
Supernovas, blaring across heaven, carrying the first
part of the transcendents' message.

A simple message, but an important one that even she
could understand.

Greetings. Here we are. Is anybody out there?

Gillian noticed Emerson—whose duties down in En-
gineering were finished at last—hurry in to embrace
Sara. The couple stood nearby with their silent chimp
companion, regarding the same great vista, sharing pri-
vate thoughts.

Of course the young woman from Jijo was another
gift to Earth, a treasure who, using only mathematical
insight, had independently predicted the Great Rupture.
That alone was an impressive accomplishment—but
now Sara was making further, startling claims, sug-
gesting that the Rupture was only a symptom. Not of the
expanding universe, as Earth's savants claimed, but of
something more complex and strange. Something "com-
ing in from outside our contextual framework" . . .
whatever that meant.

Sara thought the mystery might revolve somehow
around a race called the "Buyur."

Gillian shook her head. At last, there would be others
to pass such problems on to. Skilled professionals from
all across Earth—and dozens of friendly races—who
could deal with arcane matters while she went back to
being a simple doctor, a healer, the role she had trained
for.

I'll never order anyone else to their death. Not ever
again. No matter what they say we accomplished during
this wretched mission, I won't accept another com-
mand.

From now on, I'll work to save individual lives. The
cosmos can be somebody else's quandary.

In fact, she had already chosen her first patient.

As soon as the spymasters let me go, I'll focus on help-

528  Bavid Brin

mg Emerson. Try to help restore some of his power of
speech. We can hope researchers on Earth have already
made useful breakthroughs, but if not, I'll bend heaven
in half to find it.

Was guilt driving this ambition? To repair some of the
damage her commands had caused? Or was it to have
the pleasure of watching the two of them—Sara and
Emerson—speak to each other's minds, as well as their
hearts.

"watching them hold hands, Gillian relaxed a bit.
The heart can be enough. It can sustain.

Akeakemai called.

"We're back in two-way holo mode, Dr. Baskin. And
there's a transmission coming in."

The big visual display erupted with light, showing the
control room of an approaching warship. It had the
blunt outlines of Thennanin manufacture. The crew was
mostly human, but the face in front of the camera had
the sharp cheekbones and angular beauty of a male
Tymbrimi, with empathy-sensitive tendrils wafting near
the ears.

". . . that we must find your claims improbable. Please
provide evidence that you are, indeed, TAASF Streaker. /
repeat ..."

It seemed a simple enough request to satisfy. She had
spent hard, bitter years striving for this very moment of
restored contact. And yet, Gillian felt reluctant to com-
ply.

After a moment's reflection, she knew why.
To any human, there are two realms— "Earth" and
"out there."

As long as I'm in space, I can imagine that I'm some-
how near Tom. We were both lost. Both hounded across
the Five Galaxies. Despite the megaparsecs dividing us,
it only seemed a matter of time till we bumped into each
other.

Heaven's Reacli  529

But once I set foot on Old Terra, I'll be home. Earth
will surround me, and outer space ivill become a sepa-
rate place. A vast wilderness where he's gone missing—
along with Creideiki and Hikahi and the others—wan-
dering amid awful dangers, while I can only try to stay
busy and not feel alone.

Gillian tried to answer the Tymbrimi. She wished
someone else would, just to take this final burden off
her shoulders. The ordeal of ending bittersweet exile.

She was rescued by an unlikely voice. Emerson
D'Anite, who faced the hologram with a smile, and ex-
pressed himself in operatic song.

"Let us savor our folly!
Man is born to be jolly!

"His idle pretenses,
and vain defenses,

trouble his senses, and baffle his
mind.

"Leaner or fatter,
we cavort and natter,

so let us be cheerful and let us
pretend.

"Fun is the triumph
of mind over matter,
we'll all get home if we laugh in
the end!"

Destiny

Heaven's Reach  531

higher-level computer, perhaps at another plane of exis-
tence—or else at the Omega Point, when the end of time
brings all things to ultimate fruition.

Either way, it makes little sense to get caught up in
feelings of self-importance. This cosmic pattern we par-
ticipate in is but one of countless many being run, in
parallel, with only minute differences from each to the
next. Like a chess program, working out every move,
and all possible consequences, in extreme detail.

THE ZANG COMPONENTS WERE BETTER PRE-
pared to take all this in their philosophical stride. So
were the machine entities who helped make up the
macrocommunity called Mother.
In both hydro- and silicon-based civilizations,
there existed a widespread conviction that so-called "re-
ality" was a fiction. Everything from the biggest galaxy
down to the smallest microbe was simply part of a grand
simulation. A "model" being run in order to solve some
great problem or puzzle.

Of course, it was only natural for both of these life
orders to reach the same conclusion. The Zang had
evolved to perform analog emulations organically,
within their own bodies. Machines did it with prim soft-
ware models, carried out by digital cognizance. But ulti-
mately, it amounted to the same thing. Joined at last,
they found a shared outlook on life.

•We—and everything we see around ourselves, includ-
ing the mighty Transcendents—exist merely as part of a
grand scenario, a simulacrum being played out in some

That was how some of the other Mother-components
explained it to Lark and Ling. Even the Jophur-traeki
converts seemed to have no trouble with this notion,
since their mental lives involved multiple thought exper-
iments, flowing through the dribbling wax that lined
their inner cores.

Only the human and dolphin members of the consor-
tium had trouble reconciling this image—for different
reasons.

Why? Lark asked.

Why would anyone expend vast resources doing such
a thing? To calculate the best of all possible worlds?

Once they find it . . . what would they do with the
result?

And what will they do with all the myriad models they
have created along the way?

What will they do with us?

That question seemed to startle the Zang compo-
nents, but not the machines, who answered Lark with
strangely earnest complacency.

You oxies are so obsessed with self-importance!

Of course, all the models have already been run, eval-
uated, and discarded. Our feelings of existence are only
an illusion. A manifestation of simulated time.

To Lark, this attitude seemed appalling. But Ling only
chuckled, agreeing with the dolphins who had recently
joined the onboard community, and who clearly consid-
ered this whole metaphysical argument ridiculous.

Olelo, a leader among that group of former Streaker

532   David Brill

crew members, summed up their viewpoint with a burst

of Trinary haiku.

* Listen to the crash

* Of breakers on yonder reef,

* And. tell me this ain 't real! *

Lark felt glad to have the newcomers aboard, in several
ways. They seemed like interesting folks, with a refresh-
ing outlook. And they helped keep up the oxy side of
the ongoing debate. There would be plenty of time for
give-and-take discussions over the course of many sub-
jective years, until the transformed Polkjhy finally

reached journey's end.

With a flicker of awareness, he cast his remote senses
through one of the external viewers, taking another
look at the cosmos. Or what passed for one.

It was a perspective few others had ever witnessed. A
blankness that was quite distinct from the vivid color,
black. None of the great spiral or elliptical galaxies were
visible in their normal forms—as gaudy displays of
dusty white pinpoints. From this high standpoint, no
stars could be seen, except as mere ripples, brief inden-
tations that he could barely make out, if he tried.

Everything seemed flattened, ephemeral, tentative—
almost like a crudely drawn rough draft of the real thing.

In fact, Polkjhy was no longer quite part of that uni-
verse. Gliding along just outside the yiem, the modified
vessel rode atop a surging swell that was composed not
of matter, or energy, or even raw metric. The best he
could figure—having discussed it with others, and con-
sulted the onboard Library—Polkjhy was riding upon a
swaying fold of context. A background of basic law,
from which the universe had formed long ago, when a
perturbation in Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle al-
lowed the sudden eruption called the Big Bang.

An emergence of Something from Nothing.

What he saw now was not things or objects but a vast
swirl of causal connections, linking one set of potentiali-
ties to another.

Behind the hurtling ship, diminishing rapidly with

Heaven's Beach  533

each passing dura, several of these junctions could be
glimpsed twisting away from a recent, shattering separa-
tion. A splitting apart of ancient ties.

He felt Ling's mind slip alongside his own, sharing the
view. But after a while, she nudged him.

All of that lies behind us. Come. Look ahead, toward
our destiny.

Though nothing tangible existed on this plane—not
matter, or memes, or even directionality—Lark never-
theless got a sense of "forward" . . . the way they
were headed. According to the Transcendents, it was a
large cluster of galaxies, lying almost half a billion par-
sees away from Galaxy Two. A place where enigmatic
signals had been emanating for a long time, hinting at
sapient activity. Perhaps another great civilization to
contact. To share with. To say hello.

Its sole manifestation—to Lark's subjective gaze—was
a swirl of faintly glowing curves and spirals. Vague hints
that another domain existed where hyperdrive and
transfer points and all the conveniences of spacefaring
might be found in abundance.

We'll live to see that. Ling pondered. And much else.
Are you glad we came?

Unlike the dolphins, no transcendent had ever asked
Lark about his wishes. Yet, he felt pretty good.

Yeah, I'm glad.

I'll miss some people. And Jijo. But who could turn
down an opportunity like this?

In fact, some already had. Gillian Baskin, striving to
remain where her duty lay. And Sara, whose love he
would carry always. In sending a dozen dolphin volun-
teers, Baskin had included other gifts to accompany
Polkjhys voyage—Streaker's archives, the genetic sam-
ples accumulated during a long exploration mission.

Plus another item.

Lark glanced at the most unique member of the
Mother Consortium, encapsulated in a golden cocoon of
toporgic frozen time. An archaic cadaver, possibly a bil-
lion years old, that had traveled with Streaker's luckless
crew ever since their fateful visit to a place called the
Shallow Cluster.

534  David Bfin

Herbie was its name.

The mummy's enigmatic smile seemed all-knowing.
All-confident.

"Isn't this your most precious relic?" Lark had asked
during those frenetic moments leading up to the super-
nova explosion, as the Streaker samples were stowed
and Polkfhys protective shell closed around it.

"Herb and I have been through a lot together, "Gillian
answered. "But I figure it's more important that be ride
with you folks. He may tell some distant civilization
more about us than a whole Library full of records."

The Earthling woman had looked tired, yet unbowed,
as if she felt certain that her trials would soon end.

"Besides, even if Streaker somehow survives what's
about to come, I figure old Herbie's not irreplaceable.

"I know where we can get lots more, just like him."

That cryptic remark clung to Lark as he and his mate
let their senses roam, watching a soft luminance sweep
by—the loose threads and stitching that always lay hid-
den, behind the backdrop of life's great tragicomedy.
For some reason, it seemed to impi^ a story still un-
folding. One in which he kept playing a part, despite an
end to all links of cause or communication.

Someone could be felt sliding alongside the two float-
ing humans. A dolphin—long, sleek, and scarred from
many travails—jostled their bodies slightly with back-
wash from its fins, slipping a strong mental presence
near theirs, sharing their view of the austere scenery
beyond Polkjhys glimmering hull.

Soon, their new companion sang a lilting commen-
tary.

* Even when you have left

* Old Ones, Transcendents,

* and gods far behind,

* Who can truly say they are

* beyond Heaven's Reach? *

Heaven's Aeach  535

Ling sighed appreciatively and Lark nodded. He turned
to congratulate the cetacean for summing up matters so
beautifully.

Only then he blinked, for his eyes were staring at an
empty patch in Mother's rich, organic stew.

He could have sworn that a big gray shape had
drifted right next to him, just moments before—glossy,
warm, and close enough to touch! A dolphin he had not
met, among the newcomers.

But no one was there.

It would be many years before he heard that voice
again.

I feel it's a bad practice for a writer to get stuck in a
particular "universe," writing about the same characters
or situations over and over again. To keep from getting
stale, I try never to write two "universe" books in a row.
But clearly, the Uplift Storm Trilogy (Brightness Reef,
Infinity's Shore, and Heaven's Reach) is an exception. I
never deliberately set out to "go the trilogy route," but
this work took off, gaining complexity and texture as I
went. Life can be that way. If you drop one stone into a
pond, the pattern of ripples may seem clear. But start
tossing in more than a few at a time, and the patterns
take off in ways you never imagined. A realistic story is
much the same. Implications and ramifications spread in
all directions.

Many people have asked questions about my Uplift
series. This is certainly not the first time an author spec-
ulated about the possibility of genetically altering non-
sapient animals. Examples include The Island of Dr.
Moreau, Planet of the Apes, and the Instrumentality se-
ries of Cordwainer Smith. I grew up admiring these
works, and many spin-offs. But I also noticed that nearly
all these tales assume that human "masters" will always
do the maximally stupid/evil thing. In other words, if we
meddle with animals to raise their intelligence, it will be
in order to enslave and abuse them.

Don't get me wrong! Those morality tales helped
tweak our collective conscience toward empathy and
tolerance. Yet, ironically, I feel it is now unlikely our
civilization would behave in a deliberately vile way
toward newly sapient creatures, because the morality
tales did their job!

The Uplift series tries to take things to the next level.

538   flfteruioril

Suppose we genetically enhance chimps, dolphins, and
others, with the best of motives, offering them voices
and citizenship in our diverse culture. Won't there still
be problems? Interesting ones worth a story or two? In
fact, I expect we'll travel that road someday. Loneliness
ensures that someone will attempt Uplift, sooner or
later. And once an ape talks, who will dare say "put him
back the way he was"?

It's about time to start thinking about the dilemmas
we'll face, even if we're wise.

As Glory Season let me explore a range of relationships
that might emerge from self-cloning, the Uplift Universe
gives me a chance to experiment with all sorts of no-
tions about starfaring civilization. And since it is unapol-
ogetic space opera, those notions can be stacked
together and piled high! For instance, since we're posit-
ing Faster Than Light Travel (FTLT) I went ahead and
threw in dozens of ways to cheat Einstein. The more the
merrier!

. One problem in many science fictional universes is
the assumption that things just happen to be ripe for
adventure when we hit the space lanes. (For instance,
the villains, while dangerous, are always just barely
beatable, with some help from the plucky hero.) In fact,
the normal state of any part of the universe, at any given
moment, is equilibrium. Things are as they have been
for a very long time. An equilibrium of law perhaps, or
one of death. We may be the First Race, as I discuss in
my story "Crystal Spheres." Or we could be very late
arrivals, as depicted in the Uplift books. But we're very
unlikely to meet aliens as equals.

Another theme of this series is environmentalism.
What we're doing to Earth makes me worry there may
have already been "brushfire" ecological holocausts
across the galaxy, set off by previous starfaring races
who heedlessly used up life-bearing planets as their
"Galactic Empire" burned out during its brief reign of a
few ten thousand years. (Note how often science fiction
tales ring with the shout, "Let's go fill the galaxy!" If this

Hpeniiodi   539

already happened a few times, it might help explain the
apparent emptiness out there, for the galaxy seems, at
this moment, to have few, if any, other voices.)

A galaxy might "burn out" all too easily, unless some-
thing regulates how colonists treat their planets, forcing
them to think about the long run, beyond short-term
self-interest. The Uplift Universe shows one way this
might occur. For all the nasty traits displayed by some of
my Galactics—their past-fixation and prim fanaticism,
for instance—they do give high priority to preserving
planets, habitats, and potential sapient life. The result is
a noisy, vibrant, bickering universe. One filled with
more life than there might have been otherwise.

For the record, I don't think we live in a place like the
wild, extravagant Uplift Universe. But it's a fun realm to
play in, between more serious stuff.

Pile on those marvels!

Hang on. There's more to come.