David Brin - Infinity's Shore

Anyway, it wasn’t his place to ponder destiny, or make sagelike decisions. Some things were obvious. He might not owe Rety anything. She may deserve to be abandoned to her fate. But he couldn’t do that.

So, despite misgivings, Dwer nodded to the girl, adding with emphatic hand motions that she had better not make a single sound. She replied with a happy shrug that seemed to say, Sure … until I decide otherwise.

Slinging his bow and quiver over one shoulder, he led the way forward, creeping from one grassy clump to the next, till they reached the crest of the dune. Cautiously they peered through a cluster of salty fronds to stare down at two sky vessels — the smaller a smoldering ruin, half-submerged in a murky swamp. The larger ship, nestled nearby, had not escaped the fracas unscarred. It bore a deep fissure along one flank that belched soot whenever the motors tried to start.

Two men lay prostrate on a marshy islet, barely moving. Kunn and Jass.

Dwer and Rety scratched a new hole to hide in, then settled down to see who — or what — would emerge next.

They did not wait long. A hatch split the large cylinder, baring a dark interior. Through it floated a single figure, startlingly familiar — an eight-sided pillar with dangling arms — close cousin to the damaged robot Dwer knew all too well. Only this one gleamed with stripes of alternating blue and pink, a pattern Dwer found painful to behold.

It also featured a hornlike projection on the bottom, aimed downward. That must be what lets it travel over water, he thought. If the robot is similar, could that mean Kunn’s enemies are human, too?

But no, Danel had said that machinery was standard among the half a million starfaring races, changing only slowly with each passing eon. This new drone might belong to anybody.

The automaton neared Kunn and Jass, a searchlight playing over their bodies, vivid even in bright sunshine. Their garments rippled, frisked by translucent fingers. Then the robot dropped down, arms outstretched. Kunn and Jass lay still as it poked, prodded, and lifted away with several objects in its pincers.

A signal must have been given, for a ramp then jutted from the open hatch, slanting to the bog. Who’s going to go traipsing around in that stuff? Dwer wondered. Are they going to launch a boat?

He girded for some weird alien race, one with thirteen legs perhaps, or slithering on trails of slime. Several great clans had been known as foes of humankind, — even in the Tabernacle’s day, such as the legendary Soro, or the insectlike Tandu. Dwer even nursed faint hope that the newcomers might be from Earth, come all this vast distance to rein in their criminal cousins. There were also relatives of hoons, urs, and qheuens out there, each with ships and vast resources at their command.

Figures appeared, twisting down the ramp into the open air.

Rety gasped. “Them’s traekis!”

Dwer stared at a trio of formidable-looking ring stacks, with bandoliers of tools hanging from their toroids-of-manipulation. The tapered cones reached muddy water and settled in. Abruptly, the flipper legs that seemed awkward on the ramp propelled them with uncanny speed toward the two survivors.

“But ain’t traekis s’posed to be peaceful?”

They are, Dwer thought, wishing he had paid more attention to the lessons his mother used to give Sara and Lark. Readings from obscure books that went beyond what you were taught in school. He reached back for a name, but came up empty. Yet he knew a name existed. One that inspired fear, once-upon-a-time.

“I don’t—” he whispered, then shook his head firmly. “I don’t think these are traeki. At least not like anyone’s seen here in a very long while.”

Alvin

THE SCENE WAS HARD TO INTERPRET AT FIRST. HAZY blue-green images jerked rapidly, sending shivers down my still-unsteady spine. Huck and Pincer seemed to catch on more quickly, pointing at various objects in the picture display, sharing knowing grunts. The experience reminded me of our trip on Wuphon’s Dream, when poor Alvin the Hoon was always the last one to grok what was going on.

Finally, I realized — we were viewing a faraway locale, back in the world of sunshine and rain!

(How many times have Huck and I read about some storybook character looking at a distant place by remote control? It’s funny. A concept can be familiar from novels, yet rouse awe when you finally encounter it in real life.)

Daylight streamed through watery shallows where green fronds waved in a gentle tide. Schools of flicking, silvery shapes darted past — species that our fishermen brought home in nets, destined for the drying racks and stewpots of hoonish khutas.

The spinning voice said there were sound “pickups” next to the moving camera lens, which explained the swishing, gurgling noises. Pincer shifted his carapace, whistling a homesick lament from all five vents, nostalgic for the tidal pens of his red qheuen rookery. But Ur-ronn soon had quite enough, turning her sleek head with a queasy whine, made ill by the sight of all that swishing water.

Slanting upward, the surf grew briefly violent. Then water fled the camera’s eye in foamy sheets as our viewpoint emerged onto a low sandscape. The remote unit scurried inland, low to the ground.

“Normally, we would send a drone ashore at night. But the matter is urgent. We must count on the land’s hot glare to mask its emergence.”

Ur-ronn let out a sigh, relieved to see no more liquid turbulence.

“It forces one to wonder,” she said, “why you have not sent sleuthy agents vefore.”

“In fact several were dispatched to seek signs of civilization. Two are long overdue, but others reported startling scenes.”

“Such as?” Huck asked.

“Such as hoon mariners, crewing wooden sailing ships on the high seas.”

“Hr-rr … What’s strange about that?”

“And red qheuens, living unsupervised by grays or blues, beholden to no one, trading peacefully with their hoonish neighbors.”

Pincer huffed and vented, but the voice continued.

“Intrigued, we sent a submarine expedition beyond the Rift. Our explorers followed one of your dross ships, collecting samples from its sacred discharge. Then, returning to base, our scout vessel happened on the urrish ‘cache’ you were sent to recover. Naturally, we assumed the original owners must be extinct.”

“Oh?” Ur-ronn asked, archly. “Why is that?”

“Because we had seen living hoon! Who would conceive of urs and hoon cohabiting peacefully within a shared volume less broad than a cubic parsec? If hoon lived, we assumed all urs on Jijo must have died.”

“Oh,” Ur-ronn commented, turning her long neck to glare at me.

“Imagine our surprise when a crude vessel plummeted toward our submarine. A hollowed-out tree trunk containing—”

The voice cut off. The remote unit was in motion again. We edged forward as the camera eye skittered across sand mixed with scrubby vegetation.

“Hey,” Ur-ronn objected. “I thought you couldn’t use radio or anything that can ve detected from sface!”

“Correct.”

“Then how are you getting these fictures in real tine?”

“An excellent question, coming from one with no direct experience in such matters. In this case, the drone needs only to travel a kilometer or so ashore. It can deploy a fiber cable, conveying images undetectably.”

I twitched. Something in the words just spoken jarred me, in an eerie-familiar way.

“Does it have to do with the exflosions?” Ur-ronn asked. “The recent attack on this site vy those who would destroy you?”

The spinning shape contracted, then expanded.

“You four truly are quick and imaginative. It has been an unusual experience conversing with you. And I was created to appreciate unusual experiences.”