Infinity's Shore

There was no lack of volunteers to come along. Riding the first tram, Sara watched Prity flip through Emerson’s wrinkled sketchpad, lingering over a page where sleek figures with finned backs and tails arched ecstatically through crashing waves. An image drawn from memory.

“They look other than I inagined,” commented Uriel, curling her long neck past the chimp’s shoulder. “Till now, I only knew the race fron descrifshuns in vooks.”

“You should read the kind with pictures in ’em.” Kurt the Exploser laughed, nudging his nephew. But Jomah kept his face pressed to the window next to Emerson taking turns pointing at features of the fast-changing landscape. Ever-cheerful, the starman showed no awareness of what this trip was about.

Sara knew what tugged her heart. Beyond all other worries and pangs, she realized, It may be time for the bird to fly back to his own kind.

Watching the robust person she had nursed from the brink of death, Sara saw no more she could offer him. No cure for a ravaged brain, whose sole hope lay back in the Civilization of the Five Galaxies. Even with omnipotent foes in pursuit, who wouldn’t choose that life over a shadow existence, huddling on a stranded shore?

The ancestors, that’s who. The Tabernacle crew, and all the other sneaksbips.

Sara recalled what Sage Purofsky said, only a day ago.

“There are no accidents, Sara. Too many ships came to Jijo, in too short time.”

“The scrolls speak of destiny,” she had replied.

“Destiny!” The sage snorted disdain. “A word made up by people who don’t understand how they got where they are, and are blind to where they’re going.”

“Are you saying you know how we got here, Master?”

Despite all the recent commotion and tragedy, Sara found her mind still hooked by Purofsky’s reply.

“Of course I do, Sara. It seems quite clear to me.

“We were invited.”

Ewasx

FOOLS!” THE CAPTAIN-LEADER DECLARES. “ALL BUT one of these emanations must come from decoy torpedoes, tuned to imitate the emission patterns of a starship. It is a standard tactical ruse in deep space. But such artifice cannot avail if we linger circumspectly at short range!

“Use standard techniques to sift the emanations.

“FIND THE TRUE VESSEL WE SEEK!”

Ah, My rings. Can you discern the colors swarming down the glossy flanks of our Captain-Leader? See how glorious, how lustrous they are. Witness the true dignity of Jophur wrath in its finest form.

Such indignation! Such egotistic rage! The Oailie would be proud of this commander of ours, especially as we all hear impossible news.

THESE ARE NOT DECOY DRONES AT ALL.

The myriad objects we detect … moving out of the Rift toward open ocean … EVERY ONE OF THEM IS A REAL STARSHIP!

The bridge mists with fearful vapors. A great fleet of ships! How did the Earthers acquire such allies?

Even our Polkjhy is no match for this many.

We will be overwhelmed!

Dwer

I AM SORRY,” GILLIAN BASKIN TOLD HIM. “THE DECISION came suddenly. There was no time to arrange a special ride to shore.”

She seemed irked, as if his request were unexpected. But in fact, Dwer had asked for nothing else since his second day aboard this vessel.

The two humans drifted near each other in a spacious, water-filled chamber, the control center of starship Streaker. Dolphins flew past them across the spherical room, breathing oxygen-charged fluid with lungs that had been modified to make it almost second nature. At consoles and workstations, they switched to bubble domes or tubes attached directly to their blowholes. It seemed as strange an environment as Dwer had ever dreamed, yet the fins seemed in their element. By contrast, Dwer and Gillian wore balloonlike garments, seeming quite out of place.

“I’m not doing any good here,” he repeated, hearing the words narrowly projected by his globe helmet. “I got no skills you can use. I can hardly breathe the stuff you call air. Most important, there are folks waiting for me. Who need me. Can’t you just cut me loose in some kind of a boat?”

Gillian closed her eyes and sighed — a brief, eerie set of clicks and chuttering moans. “Look, I understand your predicament,” she said in Anglic. “But I have over a hundred lives to look after … and a lot more at stake, in a larger sense. I’m sorry, Dwer. All I can hope is that you’ll understand.”

He knew it useless to pursue the matter further. A dolphin at one of the bridge stations called for attention, and Gillian was soon huddled with that fin and Lieutenant Tsh’t, solving the latest crisis.

The groan of Streaker’s engines made Dwer’s head itch — a residual effect, perhaps, of the way his brain was palped and bruised by the Danik robot. He had no proof things would really be any better if he found his way back to shore. But his legs, arms, and lungs all pined for wilderness — for wind on his face and the feel of rough ground underfoot.