David Brin - Heaven's Reach

“Me … personally?”

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 intervention 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 abstraction, 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.”

• • •

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!”

FOR ONCE I HAD THE BEST VIEW OF WHAT WAS going on. My pals — Ur-ronn, Huck, and Pincer — were all in other parts of the ship where they had to settle for what they could see on monitors. But I stood just a few arm’s lengths from Dr. Baskin, sharing 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 another 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 reality 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 strangeness, 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 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 scientific 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 blasting our atoms through the giant star’s whirling atmosphere.

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 hurtled 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 Earthling 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 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 arrangements … 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 beings, nearly bereft of speech.

But the Zang have long memories, and our glavers seemed instinctively — maybe at some genetically programmed level — to know how to yowl just one meaningful 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 off 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, 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 gathered 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.