Heaven's Reach (46 page)

Stunned amazement filled
Polkjhy
's halls and chambers. Who could have imagined this would happen? Dolphins are the youngest licensed sapient race in the Civilization of Five Galaxies. Whether by trickery or merit, this was the last thing any sane entity would expect!

At that point, our new captain-leader gave in to the inevitable. Commands were given.
Polkjhy
must give up the chase!

Instead, we would aim for Galaxy One, toward a Jophur base, to be cleansed of infesting Zang, and to report all we had learned. Even without the Earthship in our grasp, we would be able to tell its fate, and that data should be valuable.

Moreover, there is Jijo, an excellent consolation prize! When we reveal its location to the home clan, that little sooner world will make an ideal outpost for genetic experimentation/exploitation. A source of wealth for the race. Final destruction of the g'Kek, alone, would make our travails worthwhile.

Perhaps the clan would be so joyful over those achievements that allowance would be made for
this
crude, hybrid stack—for this Ewasx—if we/I manage to avoid capture-disassembly till then.

Thus the crew rejoiced, despite apparent failure of our central mission. Although the
Streaker
had escaped, it seemed to be no fault of our own. We had accomplished more than any other ship in known space. Now we could go home.

Only then the truly unexpected happened.

Do you recall, my rings? Or is the wax-of-surprise still too fresh and runny for true-memory to congeal?

We faced our own turn before the Harrower, expecting to be conveyed routinely, like so many others, on a swift path toward Galaxy One.

Strange light filled the ship, and we/I felt
scrutinized.
Some of our/My rings—former parts of Asx—compared it to communing with Jijo's wonder stone, the Holy Egg.

Then, to our/My/everyone's amazement,
Polkjhy
was lifted off the transfer thread and placed amid a row of the elect! The chosen! Those whose emblems marked them for great honor and enlightenment, far down amid the Embrace of Tides.

Thus we learned the wondrous glory of our new honored state … and the pain yet to be endured.

What no one could explain, from our senior priest-stack on down to the lowest warrior, was
why?

Why were we chosen for this honor?

One we never sought.

One that brings no gladness to any Jophur stack aboard this noble ship.

I/we stand corrected.

ONE
STACK EXPERIENCES GLADNESS.

Some of the cognition rings left over from Asx rejoice at the news!

They think this means
Polkjhy
may never report on Jijo. The weird, miscegenist society of sooner races might yet be left in peace, if this battleship never makes it home.

Is that what you hope/believe, my rings?

I would discipline you now, with jolts of loving pain, to drive such disloyalty out of our common core, except—

Except that now the Harrower appears to have finished its task! The armadas it collected in pockets of coiled space have begun moving at last … in rows, columns, regiments … all pouring along special transfer threads that glow hot with friction.

Vibrations and sudden swerves shake
Polkjhy
so powerfully that swaying motions penetrate even our mighty stabilizing fields.

And now, as if none of that were enough, the sequence of upsetting surprises continues.

Robots continue tending the incubators, wherein juvenile rings of many shapes, attributes, and colors thrive on distilled nutrients, growing into components to make new Jophur stacks.

Soldiers keep coming for repairs, seeking to replace damaged walker-rings, sword-manipulators, chem-synth toruses, and even mortally wounded Master Rings. Clearly, the battle against the Zang rages on with deadly fury.

Meanwhile, on monitors, I/we watch
Polkjhy
emerge in some far star system, part of an orderly swarm of transcendence candidates—ranging from conventional-looking starships and spiky fractal shapes all the way to quivering blobs that appear horridly Zangish before our appalled gaze!

For several jaduras, this bizarre armada uses B-Level hyperspatial jumps to cross a gap of several paktaars, skirting around a vast glowing nebula in order to reach the next transfer point. Finally, the convoy dives into this nexus and another thread-ride commences, swooping along multidimensional flaw boundaries where space itself condensed long ago from the raw essence of an expanding universe.

While all this activity continues, we/I remain in a dim corner of the nursery chamber, hiding from our/My own crewmates … until the unexpected once again forces its way into our shock-numbed consciousness.

We stare at a new interloper.

A recent arrival, standing before our disbelieving senses.

The strangest being that I/we/I have ever seen.

It came just moments ago, arriving via an unconventional route—by supply tube—conveyed to the nursery in a slender car designed for transporting raw materials and samples, not sapient beings!

Crawling out before we could react, it unfolded long limbs, revealing a shape with proportions like a
Homo
sapiens.
Indeed, the head protruding atop looked completely human. And familiar.

I/we stared, did we not, my rings? Several of our cognition-memory toruses exclaimed, releasing recognition vapors and causing words to vent from our shared oration peak.

“Lark! Is … it … really … you?”

Indeed, the face cracked open with that unique human-style smile. When it/he spoke, the voice was as we knew him from olden days, on Jijo.

“Greetings, reverend Asx … or shall I say
Ewasx?
”

While several of our components wrangled over an appropriate reply, others stared at the transformed body below the neckline. Lark's bipedal stance was similar, striding on stiff, articulated bones. Only now translucent film enveloped his flesh, ballooning outward like profoundly baggy garments, billowing and throbbing with a sick, semiliquid rhythm that sent quivers of nausea down our/My central core. An especially large bulge distended from his back, like a tumor, or a great burden he showed no sign of resenting.

Our chem-synth rings detected several awful stinks, such as methane, cyanogen, and hydrogen sulfide gas.

Sure stench-signs of Zang!

Surprise made our reply somewhat disjointed, to say the least.

“I/we … cannot say what … 
name
 … would best apply to this stack … at this time. Voting commences/continues on that point.… And yet … it can be said in truth that certain parts of us/Me/I/we recognize certain … 
parts
 … of you/You.…”

Our shared voice trailed off. Neither Anglic nor GalSix seemed well suited to convey appropriate/accurate levels of astonishment. Emotional pheromones vented … and to our surprise, the “Lark/Zang” entity answered in kind!

Molecular messages puffed from his new outer skin, triggering instant comprehension by our/My pore receptors.

Seeking the source of these scent messages, our/My sensors now locate a toroidal-shaped bulge, situated near Lark's chest.

Purple colored.

A traeki ring
, incorporated in the group entity across from us!

At once, we/I recognize one of the small rings Asx secretly created, without knowledge of the Ewasx Master, to help Lark and his human companion escape bondage several jaduras ago.

Stroking memory wax from that time, I/we now realize/recall—there had been a
second
cryptic ring.

“I left the other one here,” Lark explains, as if reading My/our thoughts. “It was wounded. Ling hid it in this nursery, to get care and feeding. That's one reason I came back. My new associates want to find the little red ring. They want to know its purpose.”

He does not have to explain his “associates.” A Jophur instinctively knows—as most unitary beings do not—that it is possible to blend and mix and match disparate components to make a new composite being. In this case, the chimera is an amalgam of human, traeki, and Zang … a terrifying union, but somehow credible.

“You … wish to have our/My help recovering the red ring?” I ask.

Lark nods.

“Its powers may bring peace to this vast vessel.…”

He pauses for a moment, as if communing with himself, then goes on.

“But there is something else. The price I demanded for cooperating in this mission.

“We're going to rescue Ling.”

Harry

V
OICES ENCROACHED ON HIS LATEST NIGHTMARE
, pushing past a delirium of jibbering voices and scraping agonies.

“I think he's coming around,”
someone said.

Harry thrashed, shaking his head from left to right.

For what seemed an eternity, his mind had felt stripped, laid bare to E Space, fertile ground for colonization by parasitic memes—intricate, self-sustaining symbolic entities unlike anything conceived on Earth, invading to expropriate his incoherent dreams. Even now, as something like consciousness began to dawn, eerie shapes still thronged and cackled, more bizarre than anything born in an organic mind.

Somehow—perhaps by force of will, or else plain obstinacy—he pushed most of them aside, clawing his way toward wakefulness.

“Are you sure we oughta let him get up?” asked another, higher-pitched voice. “Look at those teeth he's got. He could be dangerous!”

The first speaker seemed calmer, though with a touch of uncertainty.

“Come on. You've seen chimps before. They're our friends. We couldn't be luckier, after everything we've been through.”

“You call
this
a chimp?” the other rejoined. “I never spent as much time around 'em as you have, or read as many books, but I bet no chimp ever looked like this!”

That comment, more than anything, spurred Harry to fight harder against the clinging drowsiness.

What's wrong with the way I look? I'll match my face against a hairless ape's, any day!

Of course the voices were human. He recognized the twangy overtones, despite a strange accent.

How did humans get into E Space?

Painful brightness stabbed, the first time he tried cracking his eyelids. A groan escaped Harry's lips as he raised a heavy forearm over his eyes.

“I—”

His throat felt parched. Almost too scratchy to speak.

“I could use … some water.”

Their reaction surprised him. The higher voice squawked.

“It talks! You see? It
can't
be a chimp. Clobber it!”

Harry's eyes flew open, this time to a world of glare and blurry shadows. Struggling upward, he sensed a pair of nearby figures backing away quickly. Young humans, he perceived—male and female—filthy and disheveled.