Her Smoke Rose Up Forever (S.F. MASTERWORKS) (61 page)

“And why he’s always so sad,” the child said, frowning with the effort to truly understand.

“Yes.” But Jatkan knew that he could never really understand; nobody could who had not seen the horror of violently dead flesh that once was living, even though alien and hostile. The three corpses had been consigned with due ritual to the recycling bins, as they did with their own. By now all the Joilani must bear some particles in their flesh that once were Terran. Ironic.

A shadow passed his mind. A few days ago he had been certain that these young ones, and their children’s children, would never need know what it was to kill. Now he was not quite so certain. . . . He brushed the thought away.

“Has the log been kept right up to now?” asked Salasvati from the port. Like Jatkan, she was having difficulty keeping her young co-mates quiet during this solemn wait.

“Oh, yes.”

Jatkan’s fingers delicately riffled through the motley pages of the current logbook on the stand. It had been sewn together from whatever last scraps and charts they could find. The clear Joilani script flashed out at him on page after page: “Hunger . . . rations cut . . . broken, water low . . . repairs . . . adult rations cut again . . . oxygen low . . . the children . . . water reduced . . . the children need . . . how much more can we . . . end soon; not enough . . . when. . . .”

Yes, that had been his whole life, all their lives: dwindling life sustenance in the great rotating cylinder that was their world. The unrelenting uncertainty: would they ever break out? And if so, where? Or would it go on till they all died here in the timeless, lightless void?

And the rare weird events, things almost seen, like the strange light ghost ship that had suddenly bloomed beside them with ungraspably alien creatures peering from its parts—and as suddenly vanished again.

Somewhere in the
Dream
’s magical computers, circuits were clicking toward the predestined coordinates, but no one knew how to check on the program’s progress, or even whether it still functioned. The merciless stress of waiting told upon them all in different ways, as the hundred-day cycles passed into thousands. Some grew totally silent; some whispered endless ritual; some busied themselves with the most minute tasks. Old Bislat had been their leader here; his courage and cheer were indomitable. But it was Jivadh, despite his dreadful deed, despite his self-imposed silence and reclusion, who was somehow still the symbol of their faith. It was not that he had lifted the
Dream
, had saved them not once but twice; it was the sensed trueness of his heart. . . . Jatkan, turning the old pages, reflected that perhaps it had all been easiest for the children, who had known no other life but only waiting for the Day.

And then—the changed writing on the last page spoke for itself—there had come the miracle, the first of the Days. All unexpectedly, as they were preparing for the three-thousandth-and-something sleep period, the ship had shuddered, and unfamiliar meshing sounds had rumbled around them. They had all sprung up wildly, reeling in disorientation. Great strainings of metal, frightening clanks—and the old ship disengaged her tau-field, to unfold her volume into normal space.

But what space! Stars—the suns of legend—blazed in every porthole, some against deep blackness, some shrouded in glorious clouds of light! Children and adults alike raced from port to port, crying out in wonder and delight.

It was only slowly that realization came: they were still alone in limitless, empty, unknown space, among unknown beings and forces, still perishingly short of all that was needful to life.

The long-planned actions were taken. The transmitter was set to send out the Joilani distress call, at what old Jivadh believed was maximum reach. A brave party went outside, onto the hull, in crazily modified Terran space suits. They painted over the ugly Terran star, changing it to a huge Sun-in-splendor. Over the Terran words they wrote the Joilani word for
Dream
. If they were still in the Terran Empire, all was now doubly lost.

“My mother went outside,” said Jatkan’s oldest co-mate proudly. “It was dangerous and daring and very hard work.”

“Yes.” Jatkan touched her lovingly.

“I wish I could go outside now,” said the youngest.

“You will. Wait.”

“It’s
always
‘wait.’ We’re waiting now.”

“Yes.”

Waiting—oh, yes, they had waited, with conditions growing ever worse and hope more faint. Knowing no other course, they set out at crawling pace for the nearest bright star. Few believed they were waiting for anything more than death.

Until that day—the greatest of Days—when a strange spark burst suddenly into being ahead, and grew into a great ship bearing down upon them.

And they had seen the Sun-in-splendor on her bow.

Even the youngest child would remember that forever.

How the stranger had almost magically closed and grappled them, and forced the long-corroded main lock. And they of the
Dream
had seen all dreams come true, as in a rush of sweet air the strange Joilani—the true, real Joilani—had come aboard. Joilani—but giants, as big as Terrans, strong and upright, glowing with health, their hands upraised in the ancient greeting. How they had narrowed their nostrils at the
Dream
’s foul air! How they had blinked in wonderment as the song of thanksgiving rose around them!

Through it all, their leader had patiently repeated in strange but understandable accents, “I am
Khanrid
Jemnal Visadh. Who
are
you people?” And when a tiny old Joilani female had rushed to him with leaves torn from the hydroponics bed and tried to wreathe him, crying, “Jemnal! Jemnal my lost son! Oh, my son, my son!” he had smiled embarrassedly, and stooped to embrace her, calling her “Mother,” before he put her gently aside.

And then the explanations, the incredulity, as the great Joilani had spread out to examine the
Dream
, each with his train of awestruck admirers. They had scanned the old charts, and opened and traced the tau-program with casual skill. They too seemed excited; the
Dream
, it seemed, had performed an unparalleled deed. One of the giants had begun questioning them: arcane, incomprehensible questions as to types of Terran ships they had seen, the colors and insignia numbers on the Terrans’ clothes. “Later, later,”
Khanrid
Jemnal had said. And then had begun the practical measures of bringing in food and water, and recharging the air supply.

“We will plot your course to the sector base,” he told them. “Three of our people will go with you when you are ready.”

In all the excitement Jatkan found it hard to recall exactly when he had noticed that their Joilani saviors all were armed.

“They are patrol spacers,” old Bislat said wonderingly. “
Khanrid
is a military title. That ship is a warship, a protector of the Joilani Federation of Worlds.”

He had to explain to the young ones what that meant.

“It means we are no longer helpless!” His old eyes glowed. “It means that our faith, our Gentleness-in-honor, our
Jailasanatha
way, can never again be trodden to the dirt by brute might!”

Jatkan, whose feet could not remember treading dirt, yet understood. A marveling exultation grew in them all. Even old Jivadh’s face softened briefly from its customary grim composure.

Female Joilani came aboard—new marvels. Beautiful giantesses, who did strange and sometimes uncomfortable things to them all. Jatkan learned new words:
inoculation, infestation, antisepsis.
His clothes and the others’ were briefly taken away, and returned looking and smelling quite different. He overheard
Khanrid
Jemnal speaking to one of the goddesses.

“I know,
Khanlal
. You’d like to strip out this hull and blow everything but their bare bodies out to space. But you must understand that we are touching history here. These rags, this whole pathetic warren, is hot, living history. Evidence, too, if you like. No. Clean them up, depingee them, inoculate and dust and spray all you want. But leave it looking just the way it is.”

“But,
Khanrid
—”

“That’s it.”

Jatkan had not long to puzzle over that; it was the day of their great visit to the wonderful warship. There they saw and touched marvels, all giant-size. And then were fed a splendid meal, and afterward all joined in singing, and they learned new words for some of the old Joilani songs. When they finally returned, the
Dream
seemed to be permeated with a most peculiar odor which made them all sneeze for days. Soon afterward they noticed that they were doing a lot less scratching; the fritlings that had been a part of their lives seemed to be gone.

“They sent them away,” Jatkan’s mother explained. “It seems they are not good on ships.”

“They were killed,” old Jivadh broke his silence to remark tonelessly.

The three giant Joilani spacers who were to get them safely to the sector base came aboard then.
Khanrid
Jemnal introduced them. “And now I must say good-bye. You will receive a warm welcome.”

When they sang him and the others farewell, it was almost as emotional as on the first day.

Their three guardians had been busy at mysterious tasks in the
Dream
’s workings. Old Bislat and some of the other males watched them keenly, trying to understand, but Jivadh seemed no longer to care. Soon they were plunged back into tau-space, but how different this time, with ample air and water and food for all! In only ten sleep periods the now-familiar shudder ran through the
Dream
again, and they broke out into daylight with a blue sun blinding in the ports.

A planet loomed up beside them. The Joilani pilot took them down into the shadow-darkened limb, sinking toward a gigantic spaceport. Ships beyond count stood there, ablaze with lights, and beyond the field itself stretched a vast jeweled webwork, like myriad earthly stars.

Jatkan learned a new word:
city
. He could hardly wait to see it in the day.

Almost at once the
Dream
’s five Elders had been ceremoniously escorted out, to visit the High Elders of this wondrous place. They went in a strange kind of landship. Looking after them, the
Dream
’s people could see that a lighted barrier of some sort had been installed around the ship. Now they were awaiting their return.

“They’re taking so long,” Jatkan’s youngest co-mate complained. He was getting drowsy.

“Let us look out again,” Jatkan proposed. “May we exchange places, Salasvati?”

“With pleasure.”

Jatkan led his little family to the port as Salasvati’s moved back, awkward in the unfamiliar sternward weight.

“Look, out beyond—there are people!”

It was true. Jatkan saw what seemed to be an endless multitude of Joilani in the night, hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of pale gray faces beyond the barrier, all turned toward the
Dream
.

“We are history,” he quoted
Khanrid
Jemnal.

“What’s that?”

“An important event, I think. See—here come our Elders now!”

There was a commotion, a parting in the throng, and the landship which had taken the Elders away came slowly out into the free space around the
Dream
.

“Come look, Salasvati!”

Craning and crowding, they could just make out their Elders and their giant escorts emerging from the landship, and taking warm ritual leaving of each other.

“Hurry, they’ll tell us all about it in the Center!”

It was difficult, with the ship in this new position and everything hanging wrong. Their parents were already sitting sideways in the doors of the center shaft. The youngsters scrambled to whatever perches or laps they could find. The party of Elders could be heard making their slow way up from below, climbing the long-unused central ladders to where they could speak to all.

As they came into view Jatkan could see how weary they were, and how their dark eyes radiated excitement, exultation. Yet with a queer tautness or tension stretching their cheekbones, too, he thought.

“We were indeed warmly received,” old Bislat said when all had reached the central space. “We saw wonders it will take days to describe. All of you will see them, in due time. We were taken to meet the High Elders here, and ate the evening meal with them.” He paused briefly. “We were also questioned, by one particular Elder, about the Terrans we have known. It seems that our knowledge is important, old as it is. All of you who remember our previous life must set yourselves to recalling every sort of small detail. The colors of their spacers’ clothing, their ornaments of rank, the names and appearance of their ships that came and went.” He smiled wonderingly. “It was . . . strange . . . to hear Terrans spoken of so lightly, even scornfully. We think now that their great Empire is not so mighty as we believed. Perhaps it has grown too old, or too big. Our people”—he spoke with his hands clasped in thanksgiving—“our people do not fear them.”

A wordless, incredulous gasp of joy rose from the listeners around the shaft.

“Yes.” Bislat stilled them. “Now, as to what is ahead for us. We are, you must understand, a great wonder to them. It seems our flight here from so far away was extraordinary, and has moved them very much. But we are also, well, so very different—like people from another age. It is not only our size. Their very children know more than we do of practical daily things. We could not quietly go out and dwell among the people of this city or the lands around it, even though they are our own Joilani, of the faith. We Elders have seen enough to understand that, and you will, too. Some of you may already have thought on this, have you not?”

A thoughtful murmur of assent echoed his words from door after door. Even Jatkan realized that he had been wondering about this, somewhere under his conscious mind.

“In time, of course, it will be different. Our young, or their young, will be as they are, and we all can learn.”