David Brin - Infinity's Shore

Or else he was involved all along, and now sees denial as his best defense.

Ling sat miserably on a stalagmite stump, unable to meet her erstwhile leader in the eye. They had come seeking Rann’s help only after she failed to read the reclaimed archives with her own data plaque.

“All right,” Lark resumed. “If justice and mercy won’t persuade you, maybe threats will!”

Harsh laughter from the big man.

“How many hostages can you spare, young barbarian? You have just three of us to stave off fire from above. Your intimidation lacks conviction.”

Lark felt like a bush lemming confronting a ligger. Still, he leaned closer.

“Things have changed, Rann. Before, we hoped to trade you back to the Rothen ship for concessions. Now, that ship and your mates are sealed in a bubble. It’s the Jophur we’ll negotiate with. I suspect they’ll care less about visible wear and tear on your person, when we hand you over.”

Rann’s face was utterly blank. Lark found it an improvement.

Ling broke in.

“Please. This approach is pointless.” She stood and approached her Danik colleague. “Rann, we may have to spend the rest of our lives with these people, or share whatever fate the Jophur dish out. A cure may help square things with the Six. Their sages promise to absolve us, if we find a treatment soon.”

Rann’s silent grimace required no rewq interpretation. He did not savor the absolution of savages.

“Then there are the photograms,” Ling said. “You are of the Danik Inner Circle, so you may have seen the true Rothen face before. But I found it a shock. Clearly, those photographic images give Jijo’s natives some leverage. In loyalty to our mast … to the Rothen, you must consider that.”

“And who would they show their pictures to?” Rann chuckled. Then he glanced at Lark and his expression changed. “You would not actually—”

“Hand them over to the Jophur? Why bother? They can crack open your starship any time they wish, and dissect your masters down to their nucleic acids. Face it, Rann, the disguise is no good anymore. The Jophur have their mulch rings wrapped tightly around your overlords.”

“Around the beloved patrons of all humanity!”

Lark shrugged. “True or not, that changes nothing. If the Jophur choose, they can have the Rothen declared anathema across the Five Galaxies. The fines may be calamitous.”

“And what of your Six Races?” Rann answered hotly.

“Each of you are criminals, as well. You all face punishment — not just the humans and others living here, but the home branches of each species, elsewhere in space!”

“Ah.” Lark nodded. “But this we have always known. We grow up discussing the dour odds. The guilt. It colors our distinctly pleasant outlook on life.” He smiled sardonically. “But I wonder if an optimistic fellow like yourself, seeing himself part of a grand destiny, can be as resigned to losing all he knows and loves.”

At last, the Danik’s expression turned dark.

“Rann,” Ling urged. “We have to make common cause.”

He glared at her archly. “Without Ro-kenn’s approval?”

“They’ve taken him far away from here. Even Lark doesn’t know where. Anyway, I’m now convinced we must consider what’s best for humanity … for Earth … independent of the Rothen.”

“There cannot be one without the other!”

She shrugged. “Pragmatism, then. If we help these people, perhaps they can do the same for us.”

The big man snorted skepticism. But after several duras, he brushed the stack of data lozenges with his toe. “Well, I am curious. These aren’t from the station Library. I’d recognize the color glyphs. You already tried to gain access?”

Ling nodded.

“Then maybe I had better have a crack at it.”

He looked at Lark again.

“You know the risk, as soon as I turn my reader on?”

Lark nodded. Lester Cambel had already explained. In all probability, the digital cognizance given off by a tiny info unit would be masked by the geysers and micro-quakes forever popping under the Rimmers.

Yet, to be safe, every founding colony, from g’Keks and glavers to urs and humans, sent their sneakships down to the Midden. Not a single computer was kept. Our ancestors must have thought the danger very real.

“You needn’t lecture a sooner about risk,” he told the big man. “Our lives are the floating tumble of Ifni’s dice. We know it’s not a matter of winning.

“Our aim is to put off losing for as long as we can.”

They were brought meals by Jimi, one of the blessed who dwelled in the redemption sanctuary — a cheerful young man, nearly as large as Rann but with a far gentler manner. Jimi also delivered a note from Sage Cambel. The embassy to the Jophur had arrived at Festival Glade, hoping to contact the latest intruders.

The handwritten letter had a coda:

Any progress?

Lark grimaced. He had no way of telling what “progress” meant in this case, though he doubted much was being made.

Ling helped load beige slabs into Rann’s data plaque — returned for this purpose. Together, the Daniks puzzled over a maze of sparkling symbols.

Books from pre-Tabernacle days described what it was like to range the digital world — a realm of countless dimensions, capabilities, and correlations, where any simulation might take on palpable reality. Of course mere descriptions could not make up for lack of experience. But I’m not like some fabled islander, befuddled by Captain Cook’s rifle and compass. I have concepts, some math, a notion of what’s possible.

At least, he hoped so.

Then he worried — might the Daniks be putting on an act? Pretending to have difficulty while they stalled for time?

There wasn’t much left. Soon Uthen would die, then other chitinous friends. Worse, new rumors from the coast told of hoonish villagers snuffling and wheezing, their throat sacs cracking from some strange ailment.

Come on! he urged silently. What’s so hard about using a fancy computer index to look something up?

Rann threw down a data slab, cursing guttural phonemes of alien argot.

“It’s encrypted!”

“I thought so,” Ling said. “But I figured you, as a member of the Inner—”

“Even we of the circle are not told everything. Still, I know the outlines of a Rothen code, and this is different.” He frowned. “Yet familiar somehow.”

“Can you break it?” Lark asked, peering at a maze of floating symbols.

“Not using this crude reader. We’d need something bigger. A real computer.”

Ling straightened, looking knowingly at Lark. But she left the decision up to him.

Lark blew air through his cheeks.

“Hr-rm. I think that might be arranged.”

A mixed company of militia drilled under nearby trees, looking brave in their fog-striped war paint. Lark saw only a few burly qheuens, though — the five-clawed heavy armor of Jijoan military might.

As one of the few living Jijoans ever to fly aboard an alien aircraft and see their tools firsthand, Lark knew what a fluke the Battle of the Glade had been — where spears, arbalests, and rifles prevailed against star-roaming gods. That freak chance would not be repeated. Still, there were reasons to continue training. It keeps the volunteers busy, and helps prevent a rekindling of old-time feuds. Whatever happens — whether we submit with bowed heads to final judgment, or go down fighting — we can’t afford disunion.

Lester Cambel greeted them under a tent beside a bubbling hot spring.

“We’re taking a risk doing this,” the elderly sage said.

“What choice do we have?”

In Lester’s eyes, Lark read his answer.

We can let Uthen and countless qheuens die, if that’s the price it takes for others to live.