Another ship voyage might explain the vague, watery images.
Later, he knew better.
XXI. THE BOOK OF THE SEA
In traveling the downward path, that of redemption, be not unaware of what you seek.
To divorce your racial destiny from your former clan, from your associations, from the patrons who first gave your species speech, and reason, and starflight.
You are saying that they failed the first time. That someone else should have a new chance to adopt your kind and try again.
There is nobility in this gamble. Nobility and courage.
But do not expect gratitude from those you have spurned.
Alvin’s Tale
The day came. After all our fantasies, preparations, and endless details, there we were at last, the four of us, standing by the open hatch of Wuphon’s Dream.
“Shoulda built a raft instead,” Huck muttered nervously, while static from her nearest wheel hub made my leg hair stand out. “There’s lots of rivers we could’ve explored all summer, all by ourselves. Done some nice quiet fishing, too.”
I was hyperventilating my throat sacs, as if packing their livid tissues with pure oxygen would help much where we were going! Fortunately, Tyug had provided each of us with mild relaxant drugs, which might explain Ur-ronn’s easy composure.
“I couldn’t’ve gone on a raft,” Ur-ronn replied, in flat deadpan tones. “I’d’ve gotten wet.”
We all turned to stare at her, then each of us, in our own way, burst out laughing. Pincer whistled, Huck guffawed, and I umbled till it hurt. Oh, Ur-ronn-what a character!
“You’re right,” added Pincer-Tip. “The hot-air balloon would have been a much better plan. Let’s talk Uriel into doing a retrofit-fit.”
“Hush up, you two!” Huck chided, a little unfairly, since she had started it. We all turned as Uriel approached, Tyug following two paces behind. The traeki’s little partial, Ziz, now recovered from its distending ordeal, lay back in its assigned cage, under the Dream’s bubble window.
“You have your charts?” Uriel inspected Pincer’s pouch to make sure. Made of laminated plastic by a human-invented process, the sheets were tough, durable, and therefore somewhat less than legal. But we were heading for the Midden anyway, so wasn’t it all right? We had studied the course chosen by Uriel, to follow as soon as the Dream’s wheels touched the muddy bottom.
“Compass?”
Both Pincer and Ur-ronn were equipped. Huck’s magnetically driven axles shouldn’t interfere much, if she didn’t get too excited.
“We’ve gone over contingency tactics and rehearsed as nuch as fossifle, given our haste. I hope.” Uriel shook her head in the manner of a human expressing regret. “There’s just one thing left to cover, an ovject you are to seek out, while down there. A thing I need you to find.”
Huck craned an eyestalk around to semaphore me.
See? I told you so! she flashed in visual GalTwo. Huck had maintained for days that there must be some item Uriel desperately wanted. An ulterior motive for all this support. Something we alone, with our amateur bathy, were qualified to find. I ignored her smug boast. The problem with Huck is that she’s right just often enough to let her think it’s a law of nature.
“This is what you are looking for,” Uriel said, lifting up a sketch pad so that no one but we four could see, showing a spiky shape with six points, like a piece in a child’s game of jacks. Tendrils, or long cables, stretched outward from two of the arms, trailing in opposite directions off the page. I wondered if it might be some kind of living thing.
“It is an artifact we need rather urgently,” Uriel went on. “Even nore infortant than the artifact, however, is the strand of wire running away fron it. It is this strand that you seek, that you shall seize and fasten with the retrieval cord, so that we can haul it vack.”
Sheesh, I thought. The four of us were modernist gloss-junkies who would gladly raid the Midden for treasure, even in defiance of the Scrolls. But now to have a sage order us to do that very thing? No wonder she preferred not letting nearby citizens in on this heresy!
“Will do!” Pincer exclaimed, briefly teetering on two legs in order to salute with three. As for the rest of us, we already stood on the ramp. What were we going to do? Use this as an excuse to back out?
All right, I considered it. So strap me to the Egg and sing till I confess.
I was the last one aboard — unless you count Huphu, who scampered through my legs as I was about to dog the hatch. I tightened the wheel and the skink-bladder seals spread thin, oozing like immunity caulk between a traeki’s member rings. The closing shut us off from nearly all sound — except the hissing, gurgling, rumbling, and sighing of four frightened kids just coming to realize what a fix all their humicking daydreams had gotten them into.
It took half a midura to make certain the air system and dehumidifiers worked. Pincer and Ur-ronn went over a checklist up front and Huck tested her steering bars, while I squatted in the very back with nothing to do but stroke the crank that I would use, whenever the Dream needed the services of an “engine.” To pass the time, I umbled Huphu, whose claws were a welcome distraction, scratching a nervous itch that tickled the outer surface of my heart spine.
If we die, please let Uriel at least drag our bodies home, I thought, and maybe it was a prayer, like humans often do in tight spots, according to books I’ve read. Let my folks have a life-bone for vuphyning, to help them in their grief and disappointment over how I misspent the investment of their love.
XXII. THE BOOK OF THE SLOPE
Anyone who travels by riverboat, and listens to the compelling basso of a hoonisn helmsman, knows something of the process that once made them starfaring beings.
For one thing, the sound is clearly where their race-name comes from. According to legend, the Guthatsa patrons who originally adopted and uplilted presapient hoon were entranced by the musical trait. While splicing in speech, reason, and other niceties, the Guthatsa also worked to enhance the penetrating, vibrant output of the hoonisn throat sac, so that it might enrich their clients’ adulthood, when they took up mature responsibilities in Galactic society.
It would, the Guthatsa predicted, help make the hoon better patrons when their turn came to pass on the gift of wisdom, continuing the billion-year-old cycle of intellect in the Five Galaxies.
Today we know our hoonish neighbors as patient, decent folk, slow to anger, though doughty in a fix. It is hard to reconcile this image with the reaction of urrish and later human settlers, on first learning that the Tall Ones dwelled on Jijo — a response of animosity and fear.
Whatever the initial reasons for that loathing, it soon ebbed, then vanished within a single generation. Whatever quarrels divided our star-god ancestors, we on Jijo do not share them. These days, it is hard to find anyone among the Six who can claim not to like the hoon.
Yet there remains a mystery — why do they dwell on Jijo at all? Unlike other races of the Six, they tell no tale of persecution, or even of a quest for breeding space. When asked why their sneakship defied great odds to seek this hidden refuge, they shrug and cannot answer.
A sole clue lies in the Scroll of Redemption, where we read of an inquiry by the last glaver sage, who asked a first-generation hoonish settler why his folk came, and got this deeply-umbled answer—
“To this (cached) haven, we came, (in hope) seeking.
“On a (heartfelt) quest to recover the (lamented) spines of (lost) youth.
“Here we were sent, on the advice of (wise, secret) oracles.
“Nor was the (danger-ridden) trip in vain.
“For behold what, in (delighted) surprise, we already have won!”
At that point, the hoon colonist was said to point at a crude raft, fashioned from boo logs and sealed with tree sap — earliest precursor of all the vessels to follow, plying Jijo’s rivers and seas.
From our perspective, a thousand years later, it is hard to interpret the meaning of it all. Can any of us today imagine our shaggy friends without boats? If we try to picture them cruising space in starships, do we not envision those, too, running before storm and tide, sluicing their way between planets by keel, rudder, and sail?
By that logic, does it not follow that urs once “galloped” across Galactic prairies, with stellar winds blowing their waving tails? Or that any star-craft fashioned by humans ought to resemble a tree?