“We urs know death well, young Hph-wayuo. It scales our legs and dries our husvand fouches all too soon. Or else we hurry it along with fights and feuds, as if glory could ever requite our haste to die. A great nany urs look fondly on those days when Earthlings were our finest foes, when heroes roared across the frairie, wheeling and charging recklessly.
“I, too, feel that call. And like others, I resist. This is an age for another kind of hero, young fellow. A warrior who thinks.”
Then she turned back to her labors, directing workers with severe attention to detail. Her response left me confused, unsatisfied… but also, in some way I could not quite fathom, just a bit more proud than I had been before.
It took two days to complete the overhaul and triple-check all systems. By that time, the mass of onlookers had changed. Many of the originals had hurried home on hearing Uriel’s news. Some had militia duties, or were eager to perform destructive sacraments prescribed by the oldest scrolls. Others rushed back to save their property against premature dressing by the devout, or simply to be with loved ones during the expected last of days.
Those departing were replaced by others even angrier than the first, or frightened by things they had seen. Only yesterday, observers from Wuphon Port all the way to Finaltown Bay beheld a narrow, winged specter — a pale aircraft — that paused over the useless camouflage lattices, as if to say I see you, before resuming a twisty course along the coast, then out to sea.
No one had to say it. Whatever Uriel wanted to accomplish here, we didn’t have a lot of time.
XX.THE BOOK OF THE SLOPE
The first sooner races arrived at Jijo knowledgeable, but they lacked a safe way to store that knowledge. The names of many archival tools come down to us, from data plaques to memo-slivers and info-dust, but all of these had to be consigned to the deep.
Earthlings possessed a secure, undetectable way to store information. The secret of paper — pulping and screening vegetable fibers with clays and animal products — was a uniquely wolfling invention. But the Tabernacle crew left Earth so soon after contact, the data published in the Great Printing was sparse in galactology, especially concerning other “sooner infections” elsewhere in the Five Galaxies.
This makes it hard to put our Jijoan Commons in perspective. How different are we from other cases of illegal settlement on fallow worlds? Have we done a better job at minimizing the harm we do? What are our chances of avoiding detection? What kinds of justice were meted out to other squatters who were caught? How far down the Path of Redemption must a race travel before they cease being criminals and become blessed?
The Scrolls offer some guidance on these matters. But since most date from the first two or three landings, they shed little light on one of the greatest mysteries.
Why did so many come to this small patch of ground, in such a short span of time?
Against the half a million years since the Buyur left, two thousand years is not very much. Moreover, there are many fallow worlds — so why Jijo? There are many sites on Jijo — so why the Slope?
Each question has answers. The great carbon-spewing star, lzmunuti, began shielding local space only a few millennia ago. We are told this phenomenon somehow disabled robot sentinels patrolling routes to this system, easing the way for sneakships. There are also vague references to omens that a “time of troubles” would soon spread upheavals across the Five Galaxies. As for the Slope, its combination of robust biosphere and high volcanic activity assures that our works will be destroyed, leaving few traces we were ever here.
To some, these answers suffice. Others wonder, still.
Are we unique?
In some Galactic languages, the question does not even parse as sane. One can find a precedent for anything in the archives of a billion years. Originality is an illusion, everything that is also was.
Perhaps it is symptomatic of our low state — our uncivilised level of consciousness, compared with the godlike heights of our ancestors — but one still is tempted to wonder.
Might something unusual be going on here?
Asx
We sages preach that it is foolish to assume. Yet, during this, our greatest crisis, the invaders often turn out to know much that we thought safely hidden.
Should this surprise us, my rings? Are they not star-gods from the Five Galaxies?
Worse, have we been united? Have not many of the Six rashly exercised their right of dissent, currying favors from the sky-humans against our advice? Some of these have simply vanished — including the sooner girl who so vexed Lester with her ingratitude, daring to steal back the treasure she had brought, which intrigued our human sage for days on end. Does she even now dwell within the buried station, pampered as a g’Kek might groom a favorite zookir? Or else, did the sky-felons simply delete her, as a traeki voids its core of spent mulch, or as Earthling tyrants used to eliminate quislings who had finished serving their purpose?
For every secret the raiders uncover, there are as many ways they seem shockingly ignorant, for sky-gods.
It is a puzzlement — and small solace as we contemplate the proud, intimidating visitor who this morn came before the Council of Sages.
My rings, has memory of this event yet coated your waxy cores? Do you recollect the star-human, Rann, making his request? Asking that several from his group be invited along, when next we commune with the Holy Egg?
The request was courteous, yet it had aspects of a command.
We should not be surprised. How could the aliens not notice what is happening?
At first discernible only to the most sensitive, the tremors strengthen till now they pervade this corner of our world.
—curling the mists that rise from geysers and steam pools,
—guiding patterned flocks of passing birdlings,
—waking dormant rewq, both in caves and in our pouches,
—even permeating the myriad blue colors of the sky.
“We have heard much about your sacred stone,” Rann said. “Its activity triggers fascination in our sensoria. We would see this wonder for ourselves.”
“Very well,” Vubben answered for the Six, wrapping three eyestalks in a gesture of assent. Indeed how could we refuse?
“Pray tell-how many will be in your party?”
Rann bowed again, imposing for a human, as tall as any traeki, broad in the shoulders as a young hoon. “There will be three. Myself and Ling, you have met. As for the third, his revered name is Ro-kenn, and it is incumbent to realize how you are about to be honored. Our master must be shown all expressions of courtesy and respect.”
With varied eyes, visors, and sight patches, we sages winked and winced amazement. All save Lester Cambel, who muttered softly next to our traeki stack,
“So the bloody Dakkins had one underground with them, all along.”
Humans are surprising creatures, but Lester’s breach in tact so stunned our rings that “i” was unanimously amazed. Did he not fear being overheard?
Apparently not. Through our rewq, i read Lester’s ill-regard for the man across from us, and for this news.
As for the rest of the Council, it did not take rewq to note their curiosity.
At long last, we were about to meet the Rothen.