They set forth in skirmish formation. The fins took turns gliding along the surface, then diving to swim alongside Toshio. The ocean bottom was like an endless series of snake tracks -- pitted by strange pock-holes like deep craters, darkly ominous. In the valleys Toshio could usually see bottom, a hundred meters or so below, gloomy with dark blue tendrils.
The long ridges were topped at intervals by the shining metal-mounds, like hulking castles of shimmering, spongy armor. Many were covered with thick, ivy-like growths in which Kithrupan fishes nested and bred. One metal-mound appeared to be teetering on the edge of a precipice -- the cavern dug by its own tall drill-tree, ready to swallow the entire fortress when the undermining was done.
The sled's engine hummed hypnotically. Keeping track of his instruments was too simple a task to keep Toshio's mind busy. Without really wishing to, he found himself thinking. Remembering.
A simple adventure, that's what it had seemed when they had asked him to come along on the space voyage. He had already taken the Jumpers' Oath, so they knew he was ready to leave his past behind. And they needed a midshipman to help with hand-eye work on the new dolphin ship.
Streaker was a small exploratory vessel of unique design. There weren't many finned, oxygen-breathing races flying ships in interstellar space. Those few used artificial gravity for convenience, and leased members of some client species to act as crafters and handmen.
But the first dolphin-crewed starship had to be different. It was designed around a principle which had guided Earthlings for two centuries: "Whenever possible, keep it simple. Avoid using the science of the Galactics when you don't understand it."
Two hundred and fifty years after contact with Galactic civilization, mankind was still struggling to catch up. Species which had been using the aeons-old Library since before mammals appeared on Earth -- adding to that universal compendium with glacial slowness -- had seemed almost god-like to primitive Earthmen in their early, lumbering slowships. Earth had a branch Library, now, supposedly giving her access to all wisdom accumulated over Galactic history. But only in recent years had it proven more help than a confusing hindrance.
Streaker, with its complex arrangements of centrifugally held pools and weightless workshops, must have seemed incredibly archaic to the aliens who looked it over just before launch. Still, to Earth's neo-dolphin communities, she was an object of pride.
After her shakedown cruise, Streaker stopped at the small human-dolphin colony of Calafia to pick up the best graduates of its tiny academy. It was to be Toshio's first, and possibly last, visit to old Earth.
"Old Earth" was still home to ninety percent of humanity, not to mention the other terrestrial sapient races. Galactic tourists still thronged in to gawk at the home of the enfant terribles who had caused such a stir in a few brief centuries. They were open in their wagering over how long Mankind would survive without the protection of a patron.
All species had patrons, of course. Nobody reached spacefaring intelligence without intervention by another, older race. Had not men done this for chimps and dolphins? All the way back to the time of the mythical Progenitors, every species that spoke and flew spaceships had been raised up by a predecessor. None still survived from that distant era, but the civilization the Progenitors established, with its all-encompassing Library, went on.
Toshio wondered, as just about everyone had for three centuries, what the patrons of Man might have been like. If they ever existed. Might they even be one of the species of fanatics that had ambushed the unsuspecting Streaker, and even now sought her out like hounds after a fox?
It wasn't a pleasant line of thought, considering what the Streaker had discovered.
The Terragens Council had sent her to join a scattered fleet of exploration vessels, checking the veracity of the Library. So far only a few minor gaps had been found in its thoroughness. Here a star misplaced. There a species miscatalogued. It was like finding someone had written a list describing every grain of sand on a beach. You could never check the complete list in a thousand lifetimes of a race, but you could take a random sampling.
Streaker had been poking through a small gravitational tide pool, fifty thousand parsecs off the galactic plane, when she found the fleet.
Toshio sighed at the unfairness of it. One hundred and fifty dolphins, seven humans, and a chimpanzee; how could we have known what we found?
Why did we have to find it?
Fifty thousand ships, each the size of a moon. That's what they found. The dolphins had been thrilled by their discovery -- the biggest derelict fleet ever encountered, apparently incredibly ancient. Captain Creideiki had psicast to Earth for instructions.
Dammit! Why did he call Earth? Couldn't the report have waited until we'd gone home? Why let the whole eavesdropping galaxy know you'd found a Sargasso of ancient hulks in the middle of nowhere?
The Terragens Council had answered in code.
"Go into hiding. Await orders. Do not reply."
Creideiki obeyed, of course. But not before half the patron-lines in the galaxy had sent out their warships to find Streaker.
Toshio blinked.
Something. A resonance echo at last? Yes, the magnetic ore detector showed a faint echo toward the south. He concentrated on the receiver, relieved at last to have something to do. Self-pity was becoming a bore.
Yes. It would have to he a pretty fair deposit. Should he tell Hikahi? Naturally, the search for the missing crewfen came first, but...
A shadow fell across him. The party was skirting the edge of a massive metal-mound. The copper-colored mass was covered with thick tendrils of some green hanging growth.
"Don't go too close, Little Hands," Keepiru whistled from Toshio's left. Only Keepiru and the sled were this close to the mound. The other fins were giving it a wide berth.
"We know nothing of this flora," Keepiru continued. "And it'ss near here that Phip-pit was lost. You should stay safe within our convoy." Keepiru rolled lazily past Toshio, keeping up with languid fluke strokes. The neatly folded arms of his harness gleamed a coppery reflection from the metal-mound.
"Then it's all the more important to get samples, isn't it?" Toshio replied in irritation. "That's what were here for!" Without giving Keepiru time to react, Toshio banked the sled toward the shadowy mass of the mound, entering darkness as the island blocked the afternoon sunlight. A drifting school of silver-backed fish seemed to explode away from him as he drove at an angle along the thick, fibrous weed.
Keepiru squeaked in startlement behind him, an oath in Primal Delphin, which showed the fin's distress. Toshio smiled.
The sled hummed cooperatively as the mound loomed like a mountain on his right. Toshio banked and grabbed at the nearest flash of green. There was a satisfying snapping sensation as his sample came free in his hand. No fin could do that! He flexed his fingers appreciatively, then twisted about to stuff the clump into a collection sack.
Toshio looked up and saw that the green mass, instead of receding, was closer than ever. Keepiru's squawling was louder.
Crybaby! Toshio thought. So I let the controls drift for a second. So what? I'll be back in your damned convoy before you finish making up a cuss-poem.
He steepened his leftward bank and simultaneously set his bow planes to rise, then realized it was a tactical mistake. For it slowed him down just enough for a cluster of pursuing tendrils to arrive.
There must be larger sea creatures on Kithrup than the party had seen so far, for the tentacles that fell about Toshio were obviously meant to catch big prey.
"Oh, Koino-Anti! Now I've done it!" He pushed the throttle over to maximum and braced for the expected surge of power.
Power came... but not acceleration. The sled groaned, stretching the ropy strands. But forward movement was lost. Then the engine died. Toshio felt a slithery presence across his legs, then another. The tendrils began to tighten and pull.
Gasping, he managed to twist onto his back, and groped for the knife sheathed at his thigh. The tendrils were sinuous and knotty, clinging to whatever they touched, and when one brushed the back of Toshio's exposed left hand, the boy cried out from searing pain.
The fins squealed to each other, and there were sounds of vigorous movement not far away. But other than a brief prayer that nobody else was caught, Toshio had no time to think of anything but the fight at hand.
The knife came free, gleaming like hope. And hope brought hope as two small strands parted under his slashing attack. Another, larger, one, took several seconds to saw through. It was replaced almost instantly by two more.
Then he saw where he was being drawn.
A deep gash split the metal-mound. Inside, a writhing mass of filaments waited. Deep within, a dozen meters farther up, something sleek and gray lay enmeshed in a forest of deceptively languid foliage.
Toshio felt open-mouthed steam fill his facemask. The reflection of his own eyes, dilated and stricken, was superimposed on the motionless figure of Ssassia. Gentle as her life had been, though not her death, the tide rocked her.
With a cry, Toshio resumed hacking. He wanted to call out to Hikahi -- to let the party leader know of Ssassia's fate -- but all that came out was a roar of loathing of the Kithrupan creeper. Leaves and fronds flew through the churning water as he sliced out his hatred, to little good as the tendrils fell more numerous about him to draw him toward the gash.
* Ladder climber -- Sharp-eyed rhymer *
* Call a fix -- for seeking finders *
* Trill sonar -- through the leaf blinders *
Hikahi calling.
Above the churning of his struggle and the hoarseness of his breath, Toshio could hear combat sounds of dolphin teamwork. Quick trills of Trinary, unslowed for human ears except that one brief command, and the whining of their harnesses.
"Here! Here I am!" He slashed at a vine that threatened his air hose, barely missing the hose itself. He licked his lips and tried to whistle in Trinary.
* Holding off -- the sea-squid's beak *
* Suckers tight -- and outlook bleak *
* Havoc done -- on Ssassia wreaked! *
Lousy form and rhythm, but the fins would hear it better than a shout in Anglic. After just forty generations of sapience, they still thought better in an emergency when using whistle rhyme.
Toshio could hear the sounds of combat corning closer. But, as if hurried by the threat, the tentacles began drawing him back more rapidly, toward the gash. Suddenly a sucker-covered strand wrapped itself around his right arm. Before he could shift his grip, one of the burning knots reached his hand. He screamed and tore the tendril away, but the knife was lost to darkness.
Other filaments were falling all about him. At that moment Toshio became distantly aware that someone was talking to him, slowly, and in Anglic!
"... says there are ships out there! Vice-Captain Takkata-Jim wants to know why Hikahi hasn't sent a monopulse confirmation..."
It was Akki's voice, calling from the ship! Toshio couldn't answer his friend. The switch for the sled radio was out of reach, and he was preoccupied.
"Don't respond to this message," Akki went on obligingly. Toshio moaned at the irony as he tried to pry a tendril off his facemask without doing further insult to his hands. "Just transmit a monopulse and come on back-k, all of you. We think there's a space battle going on over Kithrup. Probably those crazy ETs followed us here and are fighting over the right to capture us, just like at Morgran.
"Gotta c-close up, now. Radio silence. Get back as soon as you can. Akki out."
Toshio felt a tendril seize hold of his air hose. A solid grip, this time.
"Sure, Akki, old friend," he grunted as he pulled at it. "I'll be going home just as soon as the universe lets me."
The air hose crimped shut and there was nothing he could do. Fog filled his facemask. As he felt himself blacking out, Toshio thought he saw the rescue party arrive, but he couldn't be sure if it was real or a hallucination. He wouldn't have expected Keepiru to lead the charge, for instance, or for that fin to have such a ferocious demeanor, heedless of the burning suckers.
In the end, he decided it was a dream. The laser flashes were too bright, the saser tones too clear. And the party came toward him with pennants waving in their wake like the cavalry that five centuries of Anglic-speaking man had come to associate with the image of rescue.
2
Galactics
On a ship in the center of a fleet of ships, a phase of denial was passing.
Giant cruisers spilled out of a rent in space, to fall toward the pinpoint brilliance of a nondescript reddish sun. One by one, they tumbled from the luminous tear. With them came diffracted starlight from their point of departure, hundreds of parsecs away.
There were rules that should have prevented it. The tunnel was an unnatural way to pass from place to place. It took a strong will to deny nature and call into being such an opening in space.
The Episiarch, in its outraged rejection of What Is, had created the passage for its Tandu masters. The opening was held by the adamant power of its ego -- by its refusal to concede anything at all to Reality.
When the last ship was through, the Episiarch was purposely distracted, and the hole collapsed with soundless violence. In moments, only instruments could tell that it had ever been. The affront to physics was erased.
The Episiarch had brought the Tandu armada to the target star well ahead of the other fleets, those who would challenge the Tandu for the right to capture the Earth ship. The Tandu sent impulses of praise to the Episiarch's pleasure centers. It howled and waved its great furry head in gratitude.
To the Tandu, an obscure and dangerous form of travel had once again proved worth the risks. It was good to arrive on the battlefield before the enemy. The added moments would give them a tactical edge.
The Episiarch only wanted things to deny. Its task now finished, it was returned to its chamber of delusions, to alter an endless chain of surrogate realities until its outrage was needed by the Masters once again. Its shaggy, amorphous shape roiled free of the sensory web, and it shambled off, escorted by wary guardians.
When the way was clear, the Acceptor entered, and climbed on spindly legs to its place within the web.
For a long moment it appraised Reality, embracing it. The Acceptor probed and touched and caressed this new region of space with its farflung senses. It gave out a crooning cry of pleasure.
"Such leakage!" the Acceptor joyously announced. "I had heard the hunted were sloppy sophonts, but they leak even as they scan for danger! They have hidden on the second planet. Only slowly do the edges of their psychic shields congeal to hide from me their exact location. Who were their masters, to teach these dolphins so well to be prey?"
"Their masters are the humans, themselves unfinished," the Leading Stalker of the Tandu replied. Its voice was a rhythmic pattern of rapid clicks and pops from the ratchet joints of its mantis-legs. "The Earthlings are tainted by wrong belief, and by the shame of their own abandonment. The noise of three centuries shall be quieted when they are eaten. Then our hunter's joy will be as yours is, when you witness a new place or thing."
"Such joy," the Acceptor agreed.
"Now stir to get details," the Stalker commanded, "Soon we do battle with heretics. I must tell your fellow clients their tasks."
The Acceptor tuned in the web as the Stalker left, and opened its feelings to this new patch of reality. Everything was good. It passed on reports of what it saw, and the Masters moved the ships in response, but with the larger part of its mind it appreciated... it accepted... the tiny red sun, each of its small planets, the delicious expectancy of a place soon to become a battlefield.
Soon it felt the other war fleets enter the system, each in its own peculiar way. Each took a slightly inferior position, forced by the early arrival of the Tandu.
The Acceptor sensed the lusts of warrior clients and the cool calculations of calmer elders. It caressed the slickness of mind shields rigidly held against it, and wondered what went on within them. It appreciated the openness of other combatants, who disdainfully cast their thoughts outward, daring the listener to gather in their broadcast contempt.
It swept up savage contemplations of the Acceptor's own annihilation, as the great fleets plunged toward each other and bright explosions began to flash.
The Acceptor took it all in joyfully. How could anyone feel otherwise, when the universe held such wonders?
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The Real Culture War
