Startide Rising (19 page)

Creideiki thought that debatable. Galactics didn’t often think like the Earthborn, and wouldn’t conduct a search in the same way. Witness how long the fleet had lain undiscovered. Still, Metz was probably right in the long run.

“In that case, Doctor, why don’t we simply broadcast the location to the Library? It’ll be public knowledge, and no longer our affair. Surely this important discovery should be investigated by a licensed team from the Institutesss?” Creideiki was sarcastic, but he realized, as Metz smiled patronizingly, that the human took him seriously.

“You are being naïve, Captain. The fanatics overhead care little about loose Galactic codes when they believe the millennium is at hand! If everyone knows where the derelict fleet is, the battleground will simply move out there! Those ancient ships will be destroyed in a crossfire, no matter how powerful that weird protective field that surrounds them. And the Galactics will still strive to capture us, in case we lied!”

They had arrived at the bridge lock. Creideiki paused there. “So it would be better if only one of the contesting groups got the data, and proceeded to investigate the fleet alone?”

“Yes! After all, what is that bunch of floating hulks to us? Just a dangerous place where we lost a scoutboat and a dozen fine crewfen. We’re not ancestor-worshipers like those ET fanatics fighting over us, and we don’t give a damn except intellectually whether the derelict fleet is a remnant from the days of Progenitors, or even the returning Progenitors themselves! It sure isn’t worth dying over. If we’ve learned one thing in the last two hundred years, it’s that a little clan of newcomers like us Earthfolk has got to duck out of the way when big boys like the Soro and Gubru get something up their snoots!”

Dr. Metz’s silvery hair waved as he bobbed his head for emphasis. A fizzing halo of effervescence collected amongst the strands.

Creideiki didn’t want to go back to respecting Ignacio Metz, but when the man became passionate enough to drop his stuffy façade, he became almost likable.

Unfortunately, Metz was fundamentally wrong.

Creideiki’s harness clock chimed. Creideiki realized with a start how late it had become.

“You make an interesting argument, Doctor Metz. I don’t have time to go into it any further, right now. But nothing will be decided until a full staff review by the ship’s council. Does that sound fair?”

“Yes, I think so, although…”

“And, speaking of the battle over Kithrup, I must go now and see what Takkata-Jim has to say.” He hadn’t intended to spend so much time with Metz. He did not plan to miss his long-delayed exercise period.

Metz seemed unwilling to let go. “Ah. Your mention of Takkata-Jim reminds me of something else I wanted to bring up, Captain. I’m concerned about feelings of social isolation expressed by some of the crewfen who happen to come from various experimental sub-breeds. They complain of ostracism, and seem to be under discipline a disproportionate amount of the time.”

“You’re referring to some of the Stenos, I assume.”

Metz looked uncomfortable. “A colloquial term that seems to have caught on, although all neo-fen are taxonomically Tursiops amicus…”

“I have my jaws on the situation, Dr. Metz,” Creideiki no longer cared if he interrupted the mel. “Subtle group dynamics are involved, and I am applying what I believe are effective techniques to maintain crew solidarity.”

Only about a dozen of the Stenos showed disaffection. Creideiki suspected an infection of stress atavism, a decay of sapiency under fear and pressure. The supposed expert, Dr. Metz, seemed to think the majority of Streaker’s crew was practicing racial discrimination.

“Are you implying that Takkata-Jim is also having problems?” Creideiki asked.

“Certainly not! He’s a most impressive officer. Mention of his name reminded me because…” Metz paused.

Because he’s a Stenos, Creideiki finished for him silently. Shall I tell Metz that I’m considering moving Hikahi into the vice-captaincy? For all of Takkata-Jim’s skill, his moody isolation is becoming a drag on crew morale. I cannot have that in my pod-second.

Creideiki sorely missed Lieutenant Yachapa-Jean, who had died back at the Shallow Cluster.

“Dr. Metz, since you bring up the subject, I have noticed discrepancies between the pre-launch psycho-biological profiles of certain members of the crew and their subsequent performance, even before we discovered the derelict fleet. I’m not a cetapsychologist, per se, but in certain cases I am convinced that the fen did not belong on this ship in the first place. Have you a comment?”

Metz’s face was blank. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Captain.”

Creideiki’s harness whirred as one arm snaked out to scratch an itch above his right eye. “I have little to go on, but soon I think I’ll want to invoke command privilege and look over your notes. Strictly informally, of course. Please prepare them for…”

A chime interrupted Creideiki. It came from the comm link on his harness. “Yess, speak!” he commanded. He listened for a few moments to a buzzing voice on his neural tap.

“Hold everything,” he replied. “I’ll be right up. Creideiki out.”

He focused a burst of sonar at the sensitive plate by the door lock. The hatch hummed open.

“That was the bridge,” he told Metz. “A scout has returned with a report from Tsh’t and Thomas Orley. I’m needed, but we will discuss these matters again, sssoon, Doctor.”

With two powerful fluke strokes Creideiki was through the lock doors and on his way to the bridge.

Ignacio Metz watched the captain go.

Creideiki suspects, he thought. He suspects my special studies. I’ll have to do something. But what?

These conditions of siege-pressure were providing fantastic data, especially on the dolphins Metz had inveigled into Streaker’s complement. But now things were starting to come apart. Some of his subjects were showing stress symptoms he had never expected.

Now, in addition to worry about ET fanatics, he had to handle Creideiki’s suspicions. It wouldn’t be easy to put him off track. Metz appreciated genius when he saw it, especially in an uplifted dolphin.

If only he were one of mine, he thought of Creideiki. If only I could take credit for that one.

T
he ships lay in space like serried rows of scattered beads, dimly reflecting the faint glow of the Milky Way. The nearest stars were the dim reddish oldsters of a small globular cluster, patient and barren remnants from the first epoch of star formation—devoid of planets or metals.

Gillian contemplated the photograph, one of six that Streaker had innocently transmitted home from what had seemed an obscure and uninteresting gravitational tide pool, far off the beaten path.

An eerie, silent armada, unresponsive to their every query; the Earthlings hadn’t known what to make of it. The fleet of ghost ships had no place in the ordered structure of the Five Galaxies.

How long had they gone unnoticed?

Gillian put the holo aside and picked up another. It showed a close-up of one of the giant derelict ships. Huge as a moon, pitted and ancient, it shimmered inside a faint lambence—a preservative field of unguessable properties. The aura had defied analysis. They could only tell that it was an intense probability field of unusual nature.

In attempting to dock with one ghost ship, at the outer reaches of the field, the crew of Streaker’s gig somehow touched off a chain reaction. Brilliant lightning flashed between the ancient behemoth and the little scoutboat. Lieutenant Yachapa-Jean had reported that all the dolphins were experiencing intense visions and hallucinations. She tried to disengage, but in her disorientation she set off her stasis screens inside the strange field. The resultant explosion tore apart both the tiny Earthship and the giant derelict.

Gillian put down the photo and looked across the lab. Herbie still lay enmeshed in his web of stasis, a silhouette untold hundreds of million years—billions of years old.

After the disaster, Tom Orley had gone out all alone and brought the mysterious relic back in secret through one of Streaker’s side locks.

A prize of great cost, Gillian thought as she contemplated the cadaver. We paid well for you, Herb. If only I could figure out what we bought.

Herb was an enigma worthy of concerted research by the great Institutes, not one solitary woman on a besieged starship far from home.

It was frustrating, but someone had to make this effort. Somebody had to try to understand why they had been turned into hunted animals. With Tom gone, and Creideiki busy keeping the ship and crew functioning, the task was hers. If she didn’t do it, it wouldn’t be done.

Slowly, she was learning a thing or two about Herbie … enough to confirm that the corpse was very old, that it had the skeletal structure of a planet-walker, and that the ship’s micro-Library still claimed that nothing like it had ever existed.

She put her feet up onto the desk and pulled another photo from the stack. It clearly showed, through that shimmering probability field, a row of symbols etched into the side of a massive hull.

“Open Library,” she pronounced. Of the four holo screens on her desk, the one at the far left—with the rayed spiral glyph above it—came alight.

“Sargasso file symbols reference search. Open and display changes.”

A terse column of text displayed in response against the wall to Gillian’s left. The listing was dismayingly brief.

“Sub-persona: Reference Librarian—query mode,” she said. The outline remained projected against the wall. Alongside it a swirling pattern coalesced into the rayed spiral design. A low, calm voice intoned, “Reference Librarian mode, may I help you?”

“Is this all you’ve been able to come up with, regarding those symbols on the side of that derelict ship?”

“Affirmative,” the voice was cool. The inflections were correct, but no attempt had been made to disguise the fact that it came from a minimal persona, a small corner of the shipboard Library program.

“I have searched my records for correlates with these symbols. You are well aware, of course, that I am a very small micro-branch, and that symbols are endlessly mutable in time. The outline gives all possible references I have found within the parameters you set.”

Gillian looked at the short list. It was hard to believe. Though incredibly small compared with planetary or sector branches, the ship’s Library contained the equivalent of all the books published on Earth until the late twenty-first century. Surely there had to be more correlates than this!

“Ifni!” she sighed. “Something has got half the fanatics in the galaxy stirred up. Maybe it’s that picture of Herbie we sent back. Maybe its these symbols. Which was it?”

“I am not equipped to speculate,” the program responded.

“The question was rhetorical, and not addressed to you anyway. I see you show a thirty percent correlation of five symbols with religious glyphs of the Abdicator’ Alliance. Give me an overview of the Abdicators.”

The voice shifted tone. “Cultural summary mode…”

“Abdicator is a term chosen from Anglic to represent one of the major philosophical groupings in Galactic society.

“The Abdicator belief dates from the fabled Tarseuh episode of the fifteenth aeon, approximately six hundred million years ago, a particularly violent time, when the Galactic Institutes barely survived the ambitions of three powerful patron lines (reference numbers 97AcF109t, 97AcG136t and 97AcG986s).

“Two of these species were amongst the most potent and aggressive military powers in the history of the five linked galaxies. The third species was responsible for the introduction of several new techniques of spacecraft design, including the now standard…”

The Library waxed into a highly technical discussion of hardware and manufacturing methods. Though interesting, it seemed hardly relevant. With her toe she touched the “skim” button on her console, and the narration leaped ahead …

“…The conquerors assumed an appellation which might be translated as ‘the Lions.’ They managed to seize most of the transfer points and centers of power, and all the great Libraries. For twenty million years their grip appeared unassailable. The Lions engaged in unregulated population expansion and colonization, resulting in extinction of eight out of ten pre-client races in the Five Galaxies at the time.

“The Tarseuh helped bring about an end of this tyranny by summoning intervention by six ancient species previously thought to be extinct. These six joined forces with the Tarseuh in a successful counterattack by Galactic culture. Afterward, when the Institutes were re-established, the Tarseuh accompanied the mysterious defenders to an obscure oblivion…”

Gillian interrupted the flow of words.

“Where did the six species that helped the rebels come from? Did you say they had been extinct?”

The monitor voice returned. “According to records of the time, they had been thought extinct. Do you want reference numbers?”

“No. Proceed.”

“Today most sophonts believe the six were racial remnants not yet finished stepping off into a later stage of evolution. Thus the six might not have been extinct per se, but merely grown almost unrecognizable. They were still capable of taking an interest in mundane affairs when matters became sufficiently severe. Do you wish me to refer you to articles on the natural passing modes of species?”

“No. Proceed. What do the Abdicators say took place?”

“Abdicators believe that there are certain ethereal races which deign to take physical form, from time to time, disguised in a seemingly normal pattern of uplift. These ‘Great Ghosts’ are raised up as pre-clients, pass through indenture, and go on to become leading seniors, without ever revealing their true nature. In emergencies, however, these super-species can quickly intervene directly in the affairs of mortals.

“The Progenitors are said to be the earliest, most aloof, and most powerful of these Great Ghosts.

“Naturally, this is profoundly different from the common Progenitor legend, that the Eldest departed the Home Galaxy long ago, promising to return some day…”