Rety bit her lip, quashing any thought, any memory, that might shake her resolve. Now was no time to go sappy and soft. That was what the sages wanted.

As she had done countless times back home — making herself stand up to Jass despite horrid punishments — she had stopped cowering from the dark robot, standing straight, forcing her chin out.

You can’t harm me, she projected defiantly. You wouldn’t dare!

But an unwelcome thought fizzed up from below.

One of these killed the bird.

The bird fought it and died.

A surge of guilt nearly made her spin around and flee. But then the robot had swerved aside, vanishing into the night, and Rann took its place, holding out his massive hand.

“Do you have something for me?” he had asked, smiling till Rety handed over the feather.

Now she watched him grow excited as he played instruments over the souvenir, once her prize possession. Pressing lips together, she bore down to reinforce her resolve.

Hell yes, I have somethin’ for you, Mister Star-Man. Somethin’ I bet you want pretty bad.

The point is-you better have somethin’ for me, too!

I’ve got my Anglic dictionary and usage guide with me right now, so I’m going to try an experiment. To capture some of the drama of what happened next, I’m going to try my narrative skill in present tense. I know it’s not used in many of the Old Earth stories I’ve read, but when it’s done right, I think it lends a buff sense of immediacy to a story. Here goes.

I left off with little Ziz — the traeki partial we all witnessed being vlenned a week ago, on the day Gybz turned erself into Tyug and forgot all about starships — slithering its way from pen to derrick, where we were about to test the bathy for the first time. Ziz had spent the last week voring a rich feed-mix and had grown a lot. Still, it made a pretty short stack. Nobody expects miracles of strength or brilliance from a half-pint traeki that barely reaches my bottom set of knees.

Ziz follows Tyug’s scentomone trail almost to the edge of the cliff, where you can stare straight down into the Great Midden as it takes a sharp hook, stabbing the continent with a wound so deep and wide, our ancestors chose it as a natural boundary for settler life on Jijo.

The towering bulk of Terminus Rock casts a long morning shadow, but Wupbon’s Dream, our pride and joy, dangles just beyond, shimmering in a blaze of sunlight. Instead of slithering up the ramp to the sealed cabin hatch, Ziz glides into a little cage mounted under the bulb window, in front of eighteen heavy ballast stones. As it passes Tyug, Ziz and the full-size traeki exchange puffs of vapor in a language no other member of the Six is equipped to even try to understand.

The cage closes. Urdonnol whistles a call, and gangs of hoon and qheuens set to work, first swinging the bathy gently away, then lowering it toward the sea, unreeling both the taut hawser and the double hose. The drums turn to a slow steady beat, singing over and over—

rumble-dum-dumble-um-rumble-dum-dumble-um…

It draws us. Hoon all over the mesa — even protestors — get caught up in the pulselike cadence of joyful labor. A rhythm of teamwork, sweat, and a job under way.

Being the only noor present, Huphu seems to think it her duty to scamper like a wild thing, taking perches high on the derricks like they’re ship masts, arching her back and stretching as if the umble is being sung just for her, a physical hand petting her back, stroking the bristles on her head. Her eyes sparkle, watching our bathy dip lower and lower with Ziz visible as a single tentacle dangling from the wire cage.

It occurs to me that maybe Huphu thinks the little traeki is being used as bait at the end of a really big fishing line! Maybe Huphu’s curious what we’re trying to catch.

That, in turn, brings to mind Pincer’s wild tales of “monsters” in the deep. Neither he nor Huck has mentioned a word about it since we arrived, each for his or her own reasons, I guess. Or am I the only one who hasn’t forgotten, amid all the recent excitement?

Wuphon’s Dream descends below the cliff face, and we rush near the edge to keep her in sight. Qheuens don’t like heights and react by hunkering down, scraping their abdomens, clutching the ground. That’s where I go too, lying prone and screwing up my courage to slide forward. Huck, on the other hand, just rolls up to the stony rim, teeters with her pusher legs jutting back for balance, then sticks two of her eyestalks over as far as they’ll go.

What a girl. So much for g’Keks being cautious, High-K beings. Watching her, I realize I can’t do any less, so I creep my head over the rim and force my eyelids apart.

Looking west, the ocean is a vast carpet stretching to a far horizon. Pale colors dominate where the sea covers only a few cables’ depth of continental shelf. But a band of dark blue-gray tells of a canyon, stabbing our way from the giant planetary scar called the Midden. That deep-deep gorge passes almost directly under our aerie, then drives on farther east, splitting the land like a crack in the clinker boards of a doomed ship. The far shore is just a hundred or so arrowflights away, but rows of razor-sharp crags and near-bottomless ravines parallel the Rift, making it a daunting barrier for anyone wishing to defy the Law.

I’m no scientist; regrettably, I don’t have the mind for it. But even I can tell the jagged spires must be new, or else wind and surf and rain would’ve worn them down by now. Like Mount Guenn, this is a place where Jijo is actively renewing itself. (We felt two small quakes since setting up camp here.) No wonder some think Terminus Rock a sacred spot.

The surf is a crashing, spuming show elsewhere, but here the sea settles down mysteriously — glassy smooth. A slight out-tow draws gently away from the cliff. Ideal conditions for our experiment — if they’re reliable. No one ever thought to make soundings in the Rift before, since no dross ships ever come this way.

Wuphon’s Dream drops lower, like a spiderfly trailing twin filaments behind her. It gets hard to tell exactly how far she is from the surface. Huck’s eyestalks are spread as far apart as possible, trying to maximize depth perception. She murmurs.

“Okay, here we go, into the drink… now!”

I hold my breath, but nothing happens. The big drums keep feeding out cable and hose. The bathy gets smaller.

“Now!” Huck repeats.

Another dura passes, and Wuphon’s Dream is still dry.

“Sure is a long way down-own-own,” Pincer stutters.

“You can say that again,” adds Ur-ronn, stamping nervously.

“But please don’t,” Huck snaps, showing pique. Then in GalSix — “Reality merges with expectation when—”

It serves her right — a splash cuts off whatever deep insight she was about to share. The big drums’ song slows and deepens as I stare across the vast, wet stillness where the Dream vanished.

roomble-doom-doomble-oom-roomble-doom-doom-ble…

It sounds like the world’s biggest hoon. One who never has to take a break or a breath. Based on that umble, the big derrick would’ve won the title of Honorary Captain of the South if it came to a vote then and there.