David Brin - Heaven's Reach

“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 computing,” 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 talking 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. 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 matter how hidebound and narrow-minded the majority were, some others must surely have come up with similar, 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 befriend the g’Kek?

The problem with thinking about plausible conspiracies was that the mind quickly gorged on every correlation, 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 — extending her theory far beyond available proof — it would end in paranoia.

“We have learned another thing, by tapping the Transcendent 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 homeworld 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” coating, Streaker was nowhere near as nimble as before. 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 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 Baskin. 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 astronomer, 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. I should spend them with Emerson, not wallowing in theories about ancient crimes, or analyzing cosmic calamities no one can do anything about.

Alas, Emerson was never around. Despite his handicap, the brain-damaged engineer had commandeered all the technicians that Hannes Suessi could spare. They had given up trying to scrape away Streaker’s dangerous, 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 paper, 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 Earthling art of calculus.

Prity came alongside carrying several sheets covered with perspective renderings — representing hyperspatial pathways, tormented and stretched almost to the breaking point. Sensing her mistress’s mood, the little chimp assistant put the papers aside and climbed into Sara’s lap.

Dear sweet Prity, Sara thought while stroking her. You are mute, while Earth’s chimps have 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 possible, 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 overcame the perpetual “smile” that neo-dolphins always seemed to wear.