“And what function will this puzzle serve?”
“We will tell our children that if ever beings come from the sky who know the riddle’s answer, they must retrieve these items from sacred sites, handing them over to the star-lords-your own successors, Oh mighty Rothen. Naturally, if we Six retain detailed memory of your crime, we sages will prevent the hand-over, for it will be too soon. But that memory will not be taught to children, nor passed on with the same care as we teach the riddle. For to remember your crime is to hold on to a poison, one that can kill.
“We would rather forget how and why you ever came. Only then will we be safe from your wrath.”
It is an ornately elaborate bargain that Lester offers. In council he had been forced to explain its logic three times. Now the crowd mutters, parsing the idea element by element, sharing bits of understanding until a murmur of admiration flows like molten clarity around the circle of close-pressed beings. Indeed, the bargain contains inherent elegance.
“How shall we know that all the items will be accounted for in this way?” Ro-kenn asks.
“To some extent, you must trust to luck. You were gamblers coming on this mission in the first place, were you not, mighty Rothen? I can tell you this. We have no grand desire to have these images arrive across the ages for Institute lawyers to pore over, looking for reasons to punish our own species-cousins, still roaming the stars. In their hardness and durability, these plates are an insult to our own goal on this world, to be shriven down to innocence. To earn a second chance.”
Ro-kenn ponders this.
“It seems we may have come to Jijo a few thousand years too soon. If you succeed in following your Path, this world will be a treasure trove.”
His meaning is not clear at first, then a mutter passes through the crowd, from urrish snorts to qheuenish hisses and finally booming hoonish laughter. Some are impressed by Ro-kenn’s wit, others by the implied compliment-that the Rothen would wish to adopt any presentient races that we Six might become. But that reaction is not universal. Some of those assembled seethe angrily, rejecting any notion of adoption by Ro-kenn’s folk.
Don’t we/i find this anger silly, my rings? Have client races any control over who becomes their patron? Not according to lore we’ve read.
But those books will be dust long before any of this comes to pass.
“Shall we swear oaths?” Ro-kenn asks. “This time based on the most pragmatic assurance of all-mutual deterrence?
“By this new arrangement, we shall depart in our ship, waiting only till our scout craft returns from its final mission, choking back whatever bitterness we feel over the foul murder of our comrades. In return, you all vow to forget our intrusion and our foolish effort to speak through the voice of your Holy Egg.”
“It is agreed,” replies Knife-Bright Insight, clicking two claws. “Tonight we’ll confer and choose a riddle whose secret key will be told to you. When next your kind comes to Jijo, may it be to find a world of innocents. That key will guide you to the hiding place. You may then remove the dross images. Our deal will be done.”
Hope washes over the crowd, striking our rewq as a wave of soft green tremors.
Can we credit the possibility, my rings? That the Six might live to see a happy ending? To the zealots this seems all that they desired. Their young leader dances jubilation. Now there will be no punishment for their violent acts. Rather, they will be known as heroes of the Commons.
What do you say, my ring?
Our second cognition-torus reminds us that some heretics might prefer that angry fire and plagues rid Jijo of this infestation called the Six. And yes, there is yet another, even smaller heretical fringe. Eccentrics who foresee our destiny lying in a different direction-scarcely hinted by sacred scrolls. Why do you bring this up, my ‘ring? What possible relevance can such nonsense have, at this time and place?
Scribes write down details of the pact. Soon High Sages will be called to witness and assent. (Prepare, my lower rings!) Meanwhile, we ponder again the anomaly brought to our waxy notice by the rewq, which still conveys vexing colors from Ro-kenn. Could they be shades of deceit! Deceit and amusement! Eager gladness to accept our offer, but only in appearance, buying time until-
Stop it,’we command our second ring, which gets carried away all too easily. It has read too many novels. We do not know the Rothen well enough to read subtle, complex meanings in his alien visage.
Besides, don’t we have Ro-kenn trapped? Has he not reason to fear the images on those plates of hard metal? Logically, he dare not risk them being passed on to incriminate his race, his line.
Or does he know something we do not?
Ah-what a silly question to ask, when pondering a star-god!
While hope courses the crowd, i/we grow more nervous by the dura. What if they care nothing about the photographs? Then Ro-kenn might agree to anything, for it would not matter what vows were signed, once his almighty ship arrives. From that point on, with his personal safety assured . . .
. . .
we never get a chance to complete that dripping contemplation. For suddenly, something new happens! Far too quickly for wax to ooze.
. . .
It begins with a shrill human cry-
One of the sycophants, a devoted Rothen-follower, points behind the star-beings, toward the raised bier where their two dead comrades lie-
Silky cloths had been draped across the two who were slain in the explosion. But now we see those coverings are pulled back, exposing the late Rothen and the late sky-human-
Do we now perceive Bloorthe Portraitist, poised with his recording device, attempting to photograph the faces of the dead!
Bloor ignores growls of anger rising from those-who-follow-the-Rothen-as-patrons. Calmly, he-slides out one exposed plate and inserts another. He appears entranced, focused on his art, even as attention turns his way from Rann, then an outraged Ro-kenn, who screams in terse Galactic Six-
Bloor glimpses the swooping robot and has time to perform one last act of professionalism. With his fragile body, the portraitist shields his precious camera and dies.
Have patience, you lesser rings that lie farthest from the senses. You must wait to caress these memories with our inner breath. For those who squat higher up our tapered cone, events come as a flurry of muddled images.
Behold—the livid anger of the star-gods, apoplectic with affronted rage!
Observe—the futile cries of Lester, Vubben, and Phwhoon-dau, beseeching restraint!
Witness—Bloor’s crumpled ruin, a smoldering heap!
Note—how the crowd backs away from the violence, even as other dark-clad figures rush inward from the forest rim!
Quail—from the roaring robots, charging up to strike, ready to slay at command!
Above all, stare—at the scene right before us, the one Bloor was photographing when he died. . . .
An image to preserve as long as this tower of rings stands.
Two beings lie side by side.
One, a human female, seems composed in death, her newly washed face serene, apparently at peace.
The other figure had seemed equally tranquil when we saw it last, before dawn. Ro-poPs visage was like an idealized human, impressive in height and breadth of brow, in strong cheekbones and the set of her womanlike chin, which in life had sustained a winning smile.
That is not what we see now!
Rather, a quivering thing, suffering its own death tremors, creeps off of Ro-pol’s face . . . taking much of that face with it! The very same brow and cheek and chin we had been pondering-these make up the body of the creature, which must have ridden the Rothen as a rewq rides one of the Six, nestled so smoothly in place that no join or seam was visible before.
Does this explain the dissonance? The clashing colors conveyed by our veteran rewq? When some parts of Ro-kenn’s face relayed tart emotions, others always seemed cool, unperturbed, and friendly.
It crawls aside, and onlookers gasp at what remains- a sharply narrower face, chinless and spiny, with cranial edges totally unlike a human being’s.
Gone is the mirage of heavenly comeliness in Earth-ling terms. Oh, the basic shape remains humanoid, but in a tapered, predatory caricature of our youngest sept.
“Hr-rm ... I have seen this face before,” croons Phwhoon-dau, stroking his white beard. “In my readings at Biblos. An obscure race, with a reputation for—“
Rann whips the coverings back over the corpses, while Ro-kenn shrilly interrupts, “This is the final out—
Until now.
The Rothen points to Rann, commanding—“Break radio silence and recall Kunn, now!”
“The prey will be warned,” Rann objects, clearly shaken. “And the hunters. Dare we risk—“
“We’ll take that chance. Obey now! Recall Kunn, then clear all of these away.”
Ro-kenn motions at the crowd, the sycophants, and all six sages.
“No one leaves to speak of this.”
The robots start to rise, crackling with dire strength. A moan of dread escapes the crowd.
Then—as is sometimes said in Earthling tales—All Hell Breaks Loose.
Our rewq now clearly show Ro-kenn as two beings, one a living mask. Gone is the patient amusement, the pretense at giving in to blackmail. Until now, we had nothing to blackmail with.
The Stranger
He strums the dulcimer slowly, plucking one low note at a time, feeling nervous over what he plans to attempt, yet also pleased by how much he is remembering.
About urs, for instance. Ever since first regaining consciousness aboard the little riverboat, he had tried to pin down why he felt so friendly toward the four-footed beings, despite their prickly, short-tempered natures. Back at the desert oasis, before the bloody ambush, he had listened to the ballad recited by the traitor Ulgor, without understanding more than a few click-phrases, here and there. Yet the rhythmic chant had seemed strangely familiar, tugging at associations within his battered brain.
Then, all at once, he recalled where he heard the tale before. In a bar, on faraway—
on faraway—
Names are still hard to come by. But now at least he has an image, rescued from imprisoned memory. A scene in a tavern catering to low-class sapient races like his own, frequented by star travelers sharing certain tastes in food, music, and entertainment. Often, songs were accepted as currency in such places. You could buy rounds of drinks with a good one, and he seldom had to pay cash, so desired were the tunes warbled by his talented crewmates.
. . . crewmates . . .
Now he confronts another barrier. The tallest, harshest wall across his mind. He tries once more but fails to come up with a melody to break it down.
Back to the bar, then. With that recollection had come things he once knew about urs. Especially a trick he used to pull on urrish companions when they dozed off, after a hard evening’s revelry. Sometimes he would take a peanut, aim carefully, and—
The Stranger’s train of thought breaks as he realizes he is being watched. UrKachu glares at him, clearly irritated by the increasing loudness of the thrumming dulcimer. He quickly mollifies the leader of the urrish ambushers by plucking at the string more softly. Still, he does not quite stop. At a lower, quieter level, the rhythm is mildly hypnotic, just as he intended it to be.
The other raiders-both urs and men-lie down or snooze through the broiling middle of the day. So does Sara, along with Prity and the other captives. The Stranger knows he should rest, too, but he feels too keyed up.
He misses Pzora, though it does seem strange to long for the healing touch of a Jophur—
No, that is the wrong word. Pzora is not one of those fearsome, cruel beings, but a traeki—something quite different. As he grows a little better at names, he is going to have to remember that.
Anyway, he has work to do. In the time remaining, he must learn to use the rewq that Sara bought for him—a strange creature whose filmy body covers his eyes, causing soft colors to waft around every urs and human, turning the shabby tent into a pavilion of revealing hues. He finds unnerving the way the rewq quivers over his flesh, using a sucker to feed from veins near the gaping wound in his head. Yet he cannot turn down a chance to explore yet another kind of communication. Sometimes the confusing colors coalesce to remind him of the last time he communed with Pzora, back at the oasis. There had been a moment of strange clarity when their cojoined rewqs seemed to help convey exactly what he wanted.
Pzora’s answering gift lies inside the hole in his head—the one place the raiders would never think to search.
He resists an urge to slip his hand inside, to check if it’s still there. All in good time.
While he sits and strums, the oppressive heat slowly mounts. Urrish and human heads sink lower to the ground, where night’s lingering coolness can still be dimly felt. He waits and tries to remember a little more.
His biggest blank zone-other than the loss of language-covers the recent past. If ten fingers represent the span of his life up to now, most of the final two digits are missing. All he has are the shreds that cling whenever he wakes from a dream. Enough to know he once roamed the linked galaxies and witnessed things none of his kind ever saw before. The seals holding back those memories have resisted everything he’s tried so far- drawing sketches, playing math games with Prity, wallowing in Pzora’s library of smells. He remains fairly certain the key will be found in music. But what music?
Sara snores softly nearby, and he feels a swelling of grateful fondness in his heart . . . combined with a nagging sense that there is someone else he should be thinking about. Another who had his devotion before searing fate swatted him out of the sky. A woman’s face flickers at a sharp angle to his thoughts, passing too swiftly to recognize-except for the wave of strong feelings it evokes.
He misses her . . . though he can’t imagine that she feels the same, wherever she may be.
Whoever she may be.
More than anything else, he wishes he could put his feelings into words, as he never did during all the dangerous times they spent together . . . times when she was pining for another . . . for a better man than he.