Infinity's Shore (35 page)

Fresh lava.

Jijo's hot blood.

The planet's nectar of renewal, melted and reforged.

Hammering taut strings, the Stranger played for Mount Guenn, serenading the volcano while it repaid him with a halo of purifying flame.

Makanee

T
HERE WERE TWO KINDS OF PUPILS IN THE WIDE, wet classroom.

One group signified hope—the other, despair.

One was illegal—the other, hapless.

The first type was innocent and eager.

The second had already seen and heard far too much.

Dr. Makanee never used to hear Primal Delphin spoken aboard the
Streaker.
Not when the
keeneenk
master, Creideiki, used to hold the crew rock steady by his unwavering example.

Nowadays, alas, one commonly picked up snatches of old-speech—the simple, emotive squealing used by unaltered Tursiops in Earth's ancient seas. As ship physician, even Makanee sometimes found herself grunting a snatch
phrase, when frustrations crowded in from all sides … and when no one was listening.

Makanee gazed across a broad chamber, half-filled with water, as students jostled near a big tank at the spinward end, avid to be fed. There were almost thirty neo-dolphins, plus a dozen six-armed, monkeylike figures, scrambling up the shelf-lined walls, or else diving to swim agilely with webbed hands. Just half the original group of
Kiqui
survived since they were snatched hastily from far-off Kithrup, but the remaining contingent seemed healthy and glad to frolic with their dolphin friends.

I'm still not sure we did the right thing, taking them along. Neo-dolphins are much too young to take on the responsibilities of patronhood.

A pair of teachers tried bringing order to the unruly mob. Makanee saw the younger instructor—her former head nurse,
Peepoe
—use a whirring harness arm to snatch living snacks from the tank and toss them to the waiting crowd of pupils. The one who uttered the Primal burst—a middle-aged dolphin with listless eyes—smacked his jaw around a blue thing with writhing tendrils that looked nothing like a fish. Still, the fin crooned happily while he munched.

Makanee had known poor Jecajeca before
Streaker
launched from Earth—a former astrophotographer who loved his cameras and the glittering black of space. Now Jecajeca was another casualty of
Streaker
's long retreat, fleeing ever farther from the warm oceans they called home.

This voyage was supposed to last six months, not two and a half years, with no end in sight. A young client race shouldn't confront the challenges we have, almost alone.

Taken in that light, it seemed a wonder just a quarter of the crew had fallen to devolution psychosis.

Give it time, Makanee. You may yet travel that road yourself.

“Yes, they
are
tasty, Jecajeca,” Peepoe crooned, turning the reverted dolphin's outburst into a lesson. “Can you tell me,
in Anglic
, where this new variety of ‘fish' comes from?”

Eager grunts and squeaks came from the brighter half of the class, those with a future. But Peepoe stroked the older dolphin with sonar encouragement, and soon Jecajeca's glazed eye cleared a bit. To please her, he concentrated.

“F-f-rom  out-side … Good  s-s-sun … good  wat-t-ter …”

Other students offered raspberry cheers, rewarding this short climb back toward what he once had been. But it was a slippery hill. Nor was there much a doctor could do. The cause lay in no organic fault.

Reversion is the ultimate sanctuary from worry.

Makanee approved of the decision of Lieutenant Tsh't and Gillian Baskin, not to release the journal of Alvin the Hoon to the crew at large.

If there's one thing the crew don't need right now, it's to hear of a religion preaching that it's okay to devolve.

Peepoe finished feeding the reverted adults, while her partner took care of the children and Kiqui. On spying Makanee, she did an agile flip and swam across the chamber in two powerful fluke strokes, resurfacing amid a burst of spray.

“Yesss, Doctor? You want to see me?”

Who
wouldn't
want to see Peepoe? Her skin shone with youthful luster, and her good spirits never flagged, not even when the crew had to flee Kithrup, abandoning so many friends.

“We need a qualified nurse for a mission. A long one, I'm afraid.”

Ratcheting clicks spread from Peepoe's brow as she pondered.

“Kaa's outpost. Is someone hurt-t?”

“I'm not sure. It may be food poisoning … or else kingree fever.”

Peepoe's worried expression eased. “In that case, can't Kaa take care of it himself? I have duties here.”

“Olachan can handle things while you are away.”

Peepoe shook her head, a human gesture by now so ingrained that even reverted fins used it. “There must be two teachers. We can't mix the children and Kiqui with the hapless ones too much.”

Just five dolphin infants had been born to crew members so far, despite a growing number of signatures on the irksome
Breeding Petition.
But those five youngsters deserved careful guidance. And that counted double for the Kiqui—presentients who appeared ripe for uplift by some lucky Galactic clan who won the right to adopt them. That laid a heavy moral burden on the
Streaker
crew.

“I'll keep a personal eye on the Kiqui … and we'll free the kids' parents from duty on a rotating basis, to join the crèche as teachers' aidesss. That's the best I can do, Peepoe.”

The younger dolphin acquiesced, but grumbled. “This'll turn out to be a wild tuna chase. Knowing Kaa, he prob'ly forgot to clean the water filters.”

Everyone knew the pilot had a long-standing yearning for Peepoe. Dolphins could sonar-scan each other's innards, so there was no concealing simple, persistent passions.

Poor Kaa. No wonder he lost his nickname.

“There is a second reason you're going,” Makanee revealed in a low voice.

“I thought so. Does it have to do with gravitic signals and depth bombsss?”

“This hideout is jeopardized,” Makanee affirmed. “Gillian and Tsh't plan to move
Streaker
soon.”

“You want me to help find another refuge? By scanning more of these huge junk piles, along the way?” Peepoe blew a sigh. “What else? Shall I compose a symphony, invent a star drive, and dicker treaties with the natives while I'm at it?”

Makanee chuttered. “By all accounts, the sunlit sea above is the most pleasant we've encountered since departing Calafia. Everyone will envy you.”

When Peepoe snorted dubiously, Makanee added in Trinary—

This time, Peepoe laughed appreciatively. It was the sort of thing Captain Creideiki might have said, if he were still around.

Back in sick bay, Makanee finished treating her last patient and closed shop for the day. There had been the usual psychosomatic ailments, and inevitable accidental injuries from working outside in armored suits, bending and welding metal under a mountainous heap of discarded ships. At least the number of digestive complaints had gone down since teams with nets began harvesting native food. Jijo's upper sea teemed with life, much of it wholesome, if properly supplemented. Tsh't had even been preparing to allow liberty parties outside … before sensors picked up star-ships entering orbit.

Was it pursuit? More angry fleets chasing
Streaker
for her secrets? No one should have been able to trace Gillian's sneaky path by a nearby supergiant whose sooty winds had disabled the robot guards of the Migration Institute.

But the idea wasn't as original as we hoped. Others came earlier, including a rogue band of humans. I guess we shouldn't be surprised if it occurs to our pursuers, as well.

Makanee's chronometer beeped a reminder. The ship's council—two dolphins, two humans, and a mad computer—was meeting once more to ponder how to thwart an implacable universe.

There was a sixth member who silently attended, offering fresh mixtures of opportunity and disaster at every turn. Without that member's contributions,
Streaker
would have died or been captured long ago.