Alongside anger, there arose a grudging appreciation.
A good one. He really got me.
Then again, this noor might have a surprise coming. Of all the humans on Jijo, perhaps only Dwer was qualified to find the beast and get even.
It would be a difficult chase. Maybe impossible.
Or else the hunt of a lifetime.
Sudden insight filled Dwer with wonder. Was that the noor’s gift? To offer Dwer-
Ahead of him, in the vague dimness, the corner of a shadow moved.
His unfocused eyes had been open to peripheral vision, habituated to a static scene. A reflex hunter’s trick that made one especially sensitive to motion-as when a “boulder” shifted to the left, then moved onward toward the Pass.
Ears snatched distant tickling scrapes, softer than the wind. Dwer’s eyebrows knotted as he started forward again, slowly at first, then stealthily faster.
When the blurry shadow stopped, he stopped, splaying his arms for balance.
Profiled against predawn gray, the silhouette waited a few duras more, then turned and continued on its way.
Trust your instincts, Fallon the Tracker used to teach. The old man was nobody’s fool.
Mudfoot had been the obvious suspect. Perhaps that was why it didn’t occur to Dwer, back at the campsite. He would have wasted valuable time blaming the logical culprit. His first impulse had been right, after all. The initial clue, a true one.
The shadow turned again. Dwer traced a human shape, alarmed now, fleeing with his purloined bow. This time he sprinted, forsaking stealth for speed. Pebbles flew, rattling the pass with echoes. The other swiveled too, leaping away like a striped gusul in flight.
Only three humans on Jijo could outrun Dwer, and none at all in rough terrain.
End game, he thought, bearing down for a final dash.
When his quarry turned, he was ready. When it drew a knife, he knew this was no joke. Dwer launched into a tackling dive, primed to hear shouts of anger and dismay.
Unexpected was the thief s face, looming as he hurtled forward.
Human.
Female.
Terribly young.
Above all—a complete and total stranger.
Asx
FATE HAD FALLEN FROM THE SKY.
To Jijo.
To the Slope.
To the Glade of Gathering.
To the nexus of our fears, much sooner than expected.
Across megaparsecs, a ship from the Five Galaxies had come! Such a vast distance . . . the least we poor exiles could do was march a short way to where it landed, and courteously greet it.
Vubben declined the honor of leading. Jijo’s gravity so hobbles our dear g’Kek, they must rely solely on wheels, using their stilt-legs for balance only, moving over rough ground almost as slowly as a traeki. So, Vubben and i hobbled along, urging our hoon, qheuenish, human, and urrish counterparts to forge ahead.
Do i/we sense a foul odor of envy fuming in our central core? Do some of you, my several selves, resent our awkward slowness compared to those long hoonish legs or nimble urrish feet? Things might have been different had our traeki exile-ship come equipped with the full menagerie of rings our kin were said to own. Legends tell of adroit running limbs-gifts of the mighty Oailie- limbs to make even a heavy stack like ours as speedy as a song jackal. Speedy as a Jophur.
But then, would we also have carried Oailie arrogance? Their madness? Would we have fought wars, the way qheuens and urs and hoons and men did for centuries here on Jijo, bickering until the Commons grew strong enough for peace? Those traeki who fled to Jijo had reasons to leave some rings behind. Or so we believe.
But again, digression thwarts our tale. Discipline, my rings! Give the fumes another spin. Stroke the waxy imprints, and remember—
Recall how we marched, each at ers own pace, toward the side valley where the intruder ship had set down. Along the way, Vubben recited from the Book of Exile, greatest of scrolls, the one least altered by quarrel, heresy, or waves of new arrivals.
“The right to live is tentative,” Vubben chanted in a voice that seemed to caress the soul.
“Material things are limited, though the mind is free.
“Of protein, phosphorus, nor even energy is there ever enough to slake all hungers. Therefore, show not affront when diverse beings vie over what physically exists. Only in thought can there be true generosity. So let thought be the focus of your world.”
Vubben’s voice had a calming way with our people. The slim-boled welpal trees seemed to resonate his words, tuned as they are to the music of the Egg.
And yet, while Vubben spoke of equanimity, my/our basal segment kept trying to stop, turn its feet around, and carry us away! Dimly, that bottommost ring realized that danger lay ahead, and sensibly voted to flee. Our upper tiers had to apply scent-throbs to urge it onward.
i/we find strange how fear functions in non-traeki. They say it infuses all parts of a body, and hence must be fought everywhere at once! Once, i/we asked Lester Cambel how humans keep calm in times of crisis. His answer was that generally they don’t!
How strange. Humans always seem so much in control. Is it just a grand act, to fool both others and themselves?
Do not digress, Oh Asx. Stroke the wax. Go on. Go on toward the ship.
Sara
HENRIK SEEMED RELUCTANT TO SET OFF HIS charges. At first this surprised Sara. Wasn’t this crisis what an exploser always dreamed of? A chance to make things go boom? To destroy works that others spent their lives building?
In fact, Henrik seemed less avid than many of the citizens crowding the Meeting Tree in panic that night, after witnessing a fireball rattle the forest to its ancient roots. Two gardeners and a worker chimp had fallen from high branches to their deaths, and scores of others had had narrow escapes. The farmers were in a state.
Carved from the spacious heart knot of a grandfather garu, the great hall was crammed with nearly every sapient adult within a rapid day’s hike. Like a steaming minnow pie, the room seemed stuffed with perspiring humanity.
A cluster of other folk were also present-hoon sailors mostly, their pale scaly skins and shaggy white leg fur offset by dark green cloaks, cinched with wooden brooches below their puffing throat sacs. Some also wore trembling rewq over their eyes, to help interpret this stew of human emotions.
Near the north entrance, where it was less humid, a few urrish tinkers chafed and stamped, uneasily switching their braided tails. Sara even spied one forlorn g’Kek pilgrim, anxious green sweat dripping from a single eye-stalk, while the other three lay curled like socks in a drawer, hiding from the raucous ferment.
Doctor Lorrek had been wise, it seemed, volunteering to spend the evening watching the wounded Stranger.
Pzora, the town pharmacist, had a defense against having ers lower rings trampled. If pressed too closely, the traeki just vented a little pungent steam, and even the most agitated citizen gave er room.
No doubt it was like this wherever folk had seen the dread specter in the sky. Right now human visitors were attending qheuen or hoon assemblies and even urrish tribal conclaves, beside roaring fires on the open plains.
The Great Peace is our finest accomplishment, Sara thought. Maybe it will weigh in our favor, when we’re judged. We’ve come far since the days of war and slaughter.
Alas, from the rancor of tonight’s meeting, the Commons still had a long way to go.
“Minor repairs?”
Chaz Langmur, the master carpenter, protested from the stage, normally used for concerts and theatricals. “We’re talking about losing everything below the flood line, and that don’t count the dam itself! You ask how many years to rebuild, if this turns out to be a false alarm? Let’s talk lifetimes’.”
Merchants and craft workers supported Langmur with shouts but were opposed by cries of “Shame!” from many wearing the gray garb of farmers. Overhead, excited apelike shrieks joined in. Though not voting citizens, tradition let local chimps clamber up the wall tapestries to observe from slit vents high above. How much they understood was debatable. Some screamed lustily for whichever speaker seemed most impassioned, while others were as partisan as Sara’s father, who clapped the carpenter’s back with encouragement.
It had gone this way for hours. Angry men and women taking turns citing scripture or bemoaning costs, each side waxing ever louder as their fear and irritation grew. Nor were humans the sole partisans. Log Biter, matriarch of the local qheuenish hive, had spoken urgently for preserving Dolo Dam, while her cousin from Logjam Pond proclaimed it a “gaudy monstrosity.” Sara feared a melee would ensue between two huge armored matrons, until the chief elder, Fru Nestor, interposed her small human form, the rewq on her brow flashing soothing colors until both qheuens finally backed down.
The audience was no better. A woman stepped on Sara’s foot. Someone else must not have bathed this week, comparing badly to Pzora’s worst secretions. Sara envied Prity, a tiny figure perched high on a windowsill next to several human kids too young to vote. Unlike other chimps, she seemed to find her notebook more engaging than the shouting speakers, tugging at her lower lip while she studied lines of complex mathematics.
Sara envied Prity’s escape into abstraction.
One of the tree farmers rose to speak-a dark man named Jop, whose pale yellow hair curled around his ears. He clenched two large hands, knotty with lifelong calluses.
“Penny pinching and farsightedness!” Jop dismissed the carpenter’s plea. “What would you preserve? A few workshops and docks? Passing toys like plumbing and paper? Dross! All dross! Some paltry comforts that our sinner ancestors let us poor exiles keep for a while, softening our first steps on the road toward grace. But the Scrolls say none of it will last! It’s all destined for the sea!”
Jop turned to his partisans, clutching both hands together. “It was planned long ago-what we’re sworn to do when starships come. Or else, why’ve we supported a guild of explosers all this time?”
Sara glanced again at Henrik and son, seated at the back of the dais. The boy, Jomah, betrayed unease with a slow twisting of his cap between nervous young hands. But his pa might have been a statue. Henrik had remained silent throughout, except to report tersely that his charges were ready.
Sara always pictured their craft as a frustrating profession, probably unique to Jijo. After so many years of preparation-performing endless tests in a small canyon in the hills-wouldn’t they hanker to see it all finally put to use? I know I would.
Long ago, she and Lark and little Dwer used to sit in their attic room, watching moonlight spill over the rumbling water wheel and thrilling each other with lurid tales of what they might see if ever the moment came when Henrik lit his fuses. With delicious mock-terror pounding in their chests, they counted down heartbeats until-kablam!
Dwer loved making sound effects, especially the pretend detonation that finished off the dam, accompanied by waving arms and lots of saliva. Sara’s younger brother then gleefully described the wall of water tossing proud boats like trifles, smashing Nelo’s drying racks, and driving toward their bedroom window like a fist.
Lark took over then, thrilling and terrifying the younger kids as he portrayed their attic being sheared off by a watery blast, sent careening through the garu forest while farmers stared down in pity. Each pretend near-miss made Sara and Dwer cry out till they leaped on their laughing older brother, pummeling to make him stop.
And yet-after Dwer and Lark had done their best to scare her, they would toss and turn, while Sara never had nightmares. When she did dream about the dam bursting, she used to picture a great wave simply taking them in the palm of its gentle hand. As froth concealed all of Jijo, it magically transformed into the fluffy, charged substance of a cloud. Always, the fantasy ended with her body lighter than mist, fearless, soaring through a night radiant with stars.
A roar of approval yanked her back to the present. At first she could not tell if it came from the party wanting quick action, or from those resolved not to wreck nine generations’ work on the mere evidence of their own eyes.
“We have no idea what it was we saw!” her father declared, combing his beard with gnarled fingers. “Can we be sure it was a spaceship? Perhaps a meteor grazed by. That’d explain all the noise and ruckus.”
Sneers and foot-stamps greeted this suggestion. Nelo hurried on. “Even if it was a ship, that don’t mean we’ve been discovered! Other vessels have come and gone- Zang globes, for instance, come to siphon water from the sea. Did we wreck everything then? Did the older tribes burn their towns when we humans came? How do we know it wasn’t another sneakship, bringing a seventh exile race to join our Commons?”
Jop snorted derisively.
“Let me remind the learned papermaker-sneakships sneak! They come under the shadow of night an’ cloud an’ mountain peak. This new vessel made no such effort. It aimed straight at the Glade of the Egg, at a time when the pavilions of Gathering are there, along with the chief sages of the Six.”
“Exactly!” Nelo cried. “By now the sages should be well aware of the situation and would have farcast if they felt it necessary to-“
“Farcasting?” Jop interrupted. “Are you serious? The sages remind us over an’ over again that it can’t be trusted. In a crisis, farcasts may be just the thing to at-tract attention! Or else”-Jop paused meaningfully-“or else there may have been no calls for a more terrible reason.”
He. let the implication sink in, amid a scatter of gasps. Almost everyone present had a relative or close friend who had taken pilgrimage this year.
Lark and Dwer—are you safe? Sara pondered anxiously. Will I ever see you again?
“Tradition leaves it up to each community. Shall we shirk, when our loved ones may’ve already paid a dearer price than some buildings and a stinkin’ dam?”
Cries of outrage from the craft workers were drowned out by support from Jop’s followers. “Order!” Fru Nestor squeaked, but her plaint was lost in the chaos. Jop and his allies shouted for a vote.
“Choose the Law! Choose the Law!”