Heaven's Reach (10 page)

The prominence lay quite some distance away—several miduras of subjective duration, at least. Meanwhile, the surrounding tableland appeared placid. The few allaphorical beings he did spy moved quickly out of the way. Most types of predatory memes disliked the simplistic scents of metal and other hard stuff intruding from other levels of reality.

Harry deemed it safe to go below and take a shower. Then, while combing knots out of his fur, he ordered something to eat from the autochef. He considered taking a nap, but found he was still too keyed up. Sleep, under such conditions, would be dream-racked and hardly restful. Anyway, it might be wiser to supervise while the ship was in motion. Pilot mode could not be counted on to notice everything.

The decision proved fortuitous. He returned upstairs to find his trusty vessel already much closer to its destination than expected.
That's quick progress. We're already halfway up the hill
, he thought, surveying the view from each window.
This should offer an ideal surveillance site.

Several instruments on Harry's console suddenly began whirring and chirping excitedly. Checking the telltales, he saw that something made mostly of solid matter lay just ahead, over the ridge top. It did not seem to be from any of the other sapiency orders, but showed all the suspicious-familiar signs he was trained to look for in a ship from the Civilization of Five Galaxies.

Oxies
, he realized.

Gotcha!

Harry felt a thrill while checking his weapon systems. This was what he had trained for. An encounter with his own kind of life, moving through a realm of space where protoplasmic beings did not belong. He relished the prospect of stopping and inspecting a ship from some highfalutin clan, like the Soro or Tandu. They might even gag on the disgrace of being caught and fined by a mere chimpanzee from the wolfling clan of Terra.

You aren't really here to fight
, Harry reminded
himself as the station's armaments reported primed and ready.

Your primary mission is to observe and report.

Still, he was an officer of the law, empowered to question oxy-beings who passed this way. Anyway, preparing weapons seemed a wise precaution. Scouts often disappeared during missions to E Level. Being attacked by some band of criminals might seem mundane, compared to getting gobbled by a rampant, self-propagating idea … but it could get you just as dead.

The bogey's not moving
, Harry noted with some surprise.
It's just sitting there, a little beyond the hillcrest. Perhaps they've broken down, or run into trouble. Or else …

Among the worries flashing through his mind was the thought of ambush. The bogey might be lying in wait.

In fact, though, Harry's sensors were specially designed for E-Level use, while the interlopers, whoever they were, probably had a starship's generalized instruments. There was a good chance they hadn't even detected him yet!

I might take 'em by surprise.

And yet, he began rethinking how good an idea that was, as more duras passed and pseudodistance to the target shrank. This' continuum made most oxy-types edgy. Perhaps trigger-happy. Surprise might be an overrated virtue. Too late, he recalled that the station was still formatted like an arachnite! Spindle-legged and fierce looking as it took giant footsteps. The design offered a good view of his surroundings … and exposed him to crippling fire if things came down to a firefight.

Well, it's too late to change now. Ready or not, here we go!

As he crested the metaphorical hill, Harry triggered the recognition transponder, boldly beaming symbolic references to his official status, commissioned by one of the high institutes of Galactic culture.

The intruder entered line-of-sight, filling a forward viewing panel—a squat oblong shape, resembling a fierce armored beetle, with formidable claws. Those
tearing pincers swiveled toward Harry. Spindly emitter arrays waved like antenna-feelers above the beetle's browridge, hurling aggressive symbolic replies to Harry's challenge. Those writhing blobs of corporeal meaning sped rapidly across the narrowing gap between the two vessels. When the first one struck his forward pane, it made a splatting sound that resonated loudly, smearing and transforming into a shout that filled the little chamber.

“S
URRENDER
, E
ARTHLING
! R
ESISTANCE IS USELESS
! C
APITULATE OR DIE
!”

Harry blinked. He stared for two or three duras, hand poised over the weapons panel while new threats pounded the window in quick succession.

“H
EAVE TO AND SUBMIT
! P
REPARE TO MEET THY MAKER
! D
ROP YOUR SHORTS
! C
RY
U
NCLE
! G
IVE UP, IN THE NAME OF THE LAW
!”

Abruptly, Harry let out a low moan.

It must be Zasusazu … my replacement. Can it be time already?

Besides, who else would squat on a hillock in E Level, just hanging around in the open, but another damn fool recruit of Wer'Q'quinn?

More horrid clichés smacked against his windshield, making the cupola resound painfully until he answered with volleys of his own, serving Zasusazu salvo after salvo of rich Terran curses, satisfying his colleague's appetite for colorful wolfling invective.

“Laugh while you can, frog face! Take that, you overgrown slimeball! Moldy Jack cheese!” He laughed, half out of relief, and half because Zasusazu's obsession seemed so silly.

Well, everyone who works for Wer'Q'quinn is more than a little weird
, Harry thought, trying to feel charitable.
Zasusazu's not as bad as some. At least he likes a little surprise now and then.

Still, even after he exchanged reports with his replacement, then left Zasusazu in command over the realm of ideas, Harry wondered about his own reaction to being relieved. After all, this had been a wearying mission and he certainly deserved time off. Yet, despite the frustration, danger, and loneliness of E Space, it
always came as a bit of a letdown for a mission to end. To head back home.

Home?
Maybe the problem lay in that term.

He mused on the word, as if it were a conceptual creature, wandering the purple plain.

It can't mean Horst, since I hated nearly every minute there. Or Earth, where I spent just a year, lonely and confused.

Can Kazzkark Base be “home,” if it lacks any others of my kind?

Does the Navigation Institute fill that role, now that I've given it the same loyalty others devote to kin and country?

Harry realized he didn't really know how to define the word.

All the superficial landmarks and reference points had changed since he first set out from Kazzkark. Still, there was an underlying familiarity to the main route. He never worried about getting lost.

Harry wasn't much surprised when the red-blue sky overhead gradually angled downward to meet “ground,” like a vast, descending wall. He took over from the autopilot. Gingerly, maneuvering by hand, he sent the station striding daintily through a convenient perforation in heaven.

Sara

T
HE HIGH SAGES TELL US THAT A SPECIAL KIND OF
peace comes with
resignation.

With letting go of life's struggles.

With releasing hope.

Now, for the first time, Sara understood that ancient teaching as she watched Gillian Baskin decide whether to live or die.

No one doubted that the blond Terragens Agent had the right, duty, and wisdom to make that choice, for herself and everyone aboard. Not the dolphin crew, nor Hannes Suessi, nor the Niss Machine. Sara's mute friend
Emerson seemed to agree—though she wondered how much the crippled former engineer comprehended from those manic lights in the holo display, glimmering frantically near Izmunuti's roiling flame.

Even the kids from Wuphon Port—Alvin, Huck, Urronn, and Pincer—accepted the commander's authority. If Gillian thought it best to send
Streaker
diving toward an unripe t-point—in order to lure the enemy after them in an attempt to save Jijo—few aboard this battered ship would curse the decision. At least it would bring an end to ceaseless troubles.

We were resigned. I was at peace, and so was Dr. Baskin.

Only now things aren't so simple anymore. She sees a possible alternative … and it's painful as hell.

Sara found most of the crew's activities confusing, in both the water-filled bridge and the dry Plotting Room nearby, where dolphins moved about on wheeled or six-legged contraptions.

Of course, Sara's knowledge about Galactic technology was two centuries out of date, acquired by reading Jijo's sparse collection of paper books. Despite that, her theoretical underpinnings worked surprisingly well when it came to grasping conditions in local spacetime. But she remained utterly dazed by the way crew members dealt with practical matters—conveying status reports along brain-linked cables, or sending each other info-packets consisting of tiny self-contained gobbets of semi-intelligent light. When dolphins spoke aloud, it was often in a terse argot of clicks and overlapping cries that had nothing in common with any standard Galactic tongue. Still, nothing awed Sara quite as much as when Dr. Baskin invited her along to watch an attempt to pry information from a captured unit of the Galactic Library.

The big cube lay in its own chamber, swaddled by a chill fog, one face emblazoned with a rayed-spiral sign that was notorious even to Jijo's savage tribes. Within its twelve edges and six boundary planes lay an amassment of knowledge so huge that comparing it to the Biblos
archive was like matching the great sea against a single teardrop.

Gillian Baskin approached the Library unit clothed in a ghostlike mantle of illusion, her slim human form cloaked behind the computer-generated image of a monstrous, leathery creature called a “Thennanin.” Observing from nearby shadows, Sara could only blink in apprehensive awe as the older woman used this uncanny ruse, speaking a guttural dialect of Galactic Six, making urgent inquiries about enigmatic creatures known as Zang.

The topic was not well received.

“Beware mixing the orders of life,”
droned the cube's frigid voice, in what Sara took to be a ritualized warning.

“Prudent contact is best achieved in the depths of the Majestic Bowl, where those who were born separated may safely combine.

“In that deep place, differences merge and unity is born.

“But here in black vacuum—where space is flat and light rays cut straight trails—young races should not readily mingle with other orders. In this outer realm, they behave like hostile gases. Fraternization can lead to conflagration.”

Impressed by the archive's vatic tone, Sara pondered how its parabolic language resembled the Sacred Scrolls that devout folks read aloud on shobb holidays, back home on Jijo. The same obliqueness could be found in many other priestly works she had sampled in the Biblos archive, inherited from Earth's long night of isolation. Those ancient tomes, differing in many ways, all shared that trait of allegorical obscurity.

In science—real science—there was always a way to improve a good question, making it harder to dismiss with prevarication. Nature might not give explicit answers right away, but you could tell when someone gave you the old runaround. In contrast, mystical ambiguity sounded grand and striking—it could send chills
down your spine. But in the end it boiled down to evasion.

Ah, but ancient Earthlings—and early Jijoan sages—had an excuse. Ignorance. Vagueness and parables are only natural among people who know no other way. I just never expected it from the Galactic Library.

From an early age, Sara had dreamed of facing a unit like this one, posing all the riddles that baffled her, diving into clouds of distilled acumen collected by the great thinkers of a million races for over a billion years. Now she felt like Dorothy, betrayed by a charlatan in the chamber of Oz.