David Brin - Infinity's Shore

From far away, he heard Rann give an angry shout. The big Danik pounded the table, nearly toppling the fragile stones.

Cambel left to find out what Rann had learned. But Lark could not follow. He felt pinned by a rigor that spread from his fist on up his arm. It crossed his chest, then swarmed down his crouched legs.

“Uh-huhnnn…”

He tried to speak, but no words came. A kind of paralysis robbed him of the will to move.

Year after year he had striven to achieve what came easily to some pilgrims, when members of all Six Races sought communion with Jijo’s gift — the Egg, that enigmatic wonder. To some it gave a blessing — guidance patterns, profound and moving. Consolation for the predicament of exile.

But never to Lark. Never the sinner.

Until now.

But instead of transcendent peace, Lark tasted a bitter tang, like molten metal in his mouth. His eardrums scraped, as if some massive rock were being pushed through a tube much too narrow. Amid his confusion, gaps in the sensor array seemed like the vacuum abyss between planets. The gemstones were moons, brushing each other with ponderous grace.

Before his transfixed eyes, the silken flame grew a minuscule swelling, like a new shoot budding off a rosebush. The new bulge moved, detaching from its parent, creeping around the surface of one stone, crossing a gap, then moving gradually upward.

It was subtle. Without the heightened sensitivity of his seizure, Lark might not have noticed.

Something’s coming.

But he could only react with a cataleptic gurgle.

Behind Lark came more sounds of fury — Rann throwing a tantrum over some discovery. Figures moved around the outraged alien … Lester and the militia guards. No one paid Lark any mind.

Desperately, he sought the place where volition resides. The center of will. The part that commands a foot to step, an eye to shift, a voice to utter words. But his soul seemed captive to the discolored knob of fire, moving languidly this way.

Now that it had his attention, the flicker wasn’t about to let him go.

Is this your intent? he asked the Egg, half in prayer and half censure.

You alert me to danger … then won’t let me cry a warning?

Did another dura pass — or ten? — while the spark drifted around the next stone? With a soft crackle it crossed another gap. How many more must it traverse before reaching the top? What sky-filling shadow would pass above when that happened?

Suddenly, a huge silhouette did loom into Lark’s field of view. A giant, globelike shape, vast and blurry to his fixed, unfocused gaze.

The intruding object spoke to him.

“Uh … Sage Koolhan?… You all right, sir?”

Lark mutely urged the intruder closer. That’s it, Jimi. A bit more to the left…

With welcome abruptness, the flame vanished, eclipsed by the round face of Jimi the Blessed — Jimi the Simpleton — wearing a worried expression as he touched Lark’s sweat-soaked brow.

“Can I get ya somethin’, Sage? A drink o’ water mebbe?”

Freed of the hypnotic trap, Lark found volition at last … waiting in the same place he always kept it.

“Uhhhh …”

Stale air vented as he took gasping breath. Pain erupted up and down his crouched body, but he quashed it, forcing all his will into crafting two simple words.

“ … ever’body … out!”

EWasx

THEY ACT QUICKLY ON THEIR PROMISES, DO THEY not, my rings?

Do you see how soon the natives acquiesced to our demands?

You seem surprised that they moved so swiftly to appease us, but I expected it. What other decision was possible, now that their so-called sages understand the way things are?

Like you lesser rings, the purpose of other races is ultimately to obey.

• • •

HOW DID THIS COME ABOUT? you ask.

Yes, you have My permission to stroke old-fashioned wax drippings, tracing recent memory. But I shall also retell it in the more efficient Oailie way so that we may celebrate together an enterprise well concluded.

WE BEGIN with the arrival of emissaries — one from each of the savage tribes, entering this shattered valley on foot and wheel, shambling like animals over the jagged splinters that surround our proud Polkjhy.

Standing bravely beneath the overhanging curve of our gleaming hull, they took turns shouting at the nearest open hatch, making pretty speeches on behalf of their rustic Commons. With surprising eloquence, they cited relevant sections of Galactic law, accepting on behalf of their ancestors full responsibility for their presence on this world, and requesting courteously that we in turn explain our purpose coming here.

Are we official inspectors and judges from the Institute of Migration? they asked. And if not, what excuse have we for violating this world’s peace?

Audacity! Among the crew of the Polkjhy, it most upset our junior Priest-Stack, since now we seem obliged to justify ourselves to barbarians.

«Why Did We Not Simply Roast This Latest Embassy, Like The One Before It?»

To this, our gracious Captain-Leader replied:

«It Costs Us Little To Vent Informative Steam In The General Direction Of Half-Devolved Beings. And Do Not Forget That There Are Data Gleanings We Desire, As Well! Recall That The Scoundrel Entities Called Rothen Offered To Sell Us Valuable Knowledge, Before We Righteously Double-Crossed Them. Perhaps That Same Knowledge Might Be Wrung From The Locals At A Much Smaller Price, Saving Us The Time And Effort Of A Search.»

Did not the junior Priest-Stack then press its argument?

«Look Down At The Horrors! Abominations! They Comingle In The Shadow Of Our Great Ship — Urrish Forms Side By Side With Hoons? Poor Misguided Traeki Cousins Standing Close To Wolfling Humans? And There Among Them, Worst Of All … G’keks! What Can Be Gained By Talking With Miscegenists? Blast Them Now!»

• • •

AH, MY RINGS, would not things be simpler for us/Me, had the Captain-Leader given in, accepting the junior priest’s advice? Instead, our exalted commander bent toward the senior Priest-Stack for further consultation.

That august entity stretched upward, a tower of fifty glorious toruses, and declared—

«I/We Concede That It Is A Demeaning Task. But It Harms Us Little To Observe The Appropriate Forms And Rituals.

«So Let Us Leave The Chore To Ewasx. Let The Ewasx Stack Converse With These Devolved Savages. Let Ewasx Find Out What They Know About The Two Kinds Of Prey We Seek.»

So it was arranged. The job was assigned to this makeshift, hybrid stack. An appointment to be a lowly agent. To parley with half animals.

In this way, I/we learned the low esteem by which our Jophur peers regard us.

BUT NEVER MIND THAT NOW. Do you recall how we took on our apportioned task, with determined aplomb? By gravity plate, we dropped down to the demolished forest, where the six envoys waited. Our ring of association recognized two of them—Phwhoon-dau, stroking his white hoonish beard, and Vubben, wisest of the g’Kek. This pair shouted surprised gladness at first, believing they beheld a lost comrade—Asx.

Then, realizing their mistake, all six quailed, emitting varied noises of dismay. Especially the traeki in their midst — our/your replacement among the High Sages? — who seemed especially upset by our transformation. Oh, how that stack of aboriginal toruses trembled to perceive our Jophurication! Would its segmented union sunder on the spot? Without a master ring to bind and guide them, would the component rings tear their membranes and crawl their separate ways, returning to the feral habits of our ancestors?

Eventually the six representatives recovered enough to listen. In simple terms, I explained Polkjhy’s endeavor in this far-off system.

WE ARE NOT OF THE MIGRATION INSTITUTE, I/we told them, although we did invoke a clause of Galactic law to self-deputize and arrest the Rothen gene raiders. There will be few questions asked by an indifferent cosmos, if/ when we render judgment on them … or on criminal colonists.