"The Ta.r.s.euh 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 Ta.r.s.euh in a successful counterattack by Galactic culture. Afterward, when the Inst.i.tutes were re-established, the Ta.r.s.euh 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 pa.s.sing 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, pa.s.s 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 ..."

"Stop!" The Library fell silent at once. Gillian frowned as she thought about the phrase "Naturally, this is profoundly different ...

Bull! The Abdicator belief was just a variant of the same basic dogma, differing only slightly from other millennial legends of the "return" of the Progenitors. The controversy reminded her of old-time religious conflicts on Earth, when adherents had performed frantic exegesis over the nature of trinity, or the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin.

This particular frenzy over minor points of doctrine would be almost funny if the battle weren't going on right now, a few thousand kilometers overhead.

She jotted a reminder to try a cross-reference to the Hindu belief in the avatars of deities. The similarity to Abdicator tenets made her wonder why the Library hadn't made the connection, at least as an a.n.a.logy.

Enough is enough.

"Niss!" she called.

The screen on the far right came alight. An abstract pattern of sparkling motes erupted into a sharply limited zone just above the screen.

"As you know, Gillian Baskin, it is preferable that the Library not know of my existence aboard this ship. I have taken the liberty of screening it so that it cannot observe our conversation. You wish to ask me something?"

"I certainly do. Were you listening to that report just now?"

"I listen to everything this ship's micro-branch does. It is my primary function here. Didn't Thomas Orley ever explain that to you?"

Gillian restrained herself. Her foot was too close to the offending screen. She put it on the floor to remove temptation. "Niss," she asked evenly, "why does the micro-branch Library talk gibberish?"

The Tymbrimi machine sighed anthropomorphically. "Dr. Baskin, virtually every oxygen-breathing race but Mankind has been weaned on a semantic which evolved down scores of patron-client links, all influenced by the Library. The languages of Earth are strange and chaotic by Galactic standards. The problems of converting Galactic archives into your unconventional syntax are enormous."

"I know all that! The ETs wanted us to all learn Galactic Seven at the time of Contact. We told them to take the idea and stick it."

"Graphically put. Instead, humanity applied immense resources to convert Earth's branch Library to use colloquial Anglic, hiring Kanten, Tymbrimi, and others as consultants. But still there are problems, are there not?"

Gillian rubbed her eyes. This was getting them nowhere. Why did Tom imagine this sarcastic machine was useful? Whenever she wanted to get a simple answer, it only asked questions.

"The language problem has been their excuse for over two centuries!" she said. "How much longer will they use it? Since Contact we've been studying language as it hasn't been studied in millions of years! We've tackled the intricacies of 'wolfling' tongues like Anglic, English, j.a.panese, and taught dolphins and chimps to speak. We've even made some progress communicating with those strange creatures, the Solarians of Earth's sun!

"Yet the Library Inst.i.tute still tells us it's our language that's at fault for all of these lousy correlations, these clumsily translated records! h.e.l.l, Tom and I can each speak four or five Galactic tongues. It's not the language difference that's the trouble. There's something queer about the data we've been given!"

The Niss hummed silently for a time. The sparkling motes coalesced and separated like two immiscible fluid merging and falling apart into droplets.

"Dr. Baskin, haven't you just described the major reason for ships such as this one, which roam s.p.a.ce hunting discrepancies in the Library's records? And the very purpose of my existence, to attempt to catch the Library in a lie, to try to: find out if the most powerful patron races, as you would say: 'stack the deck' against younger sophonts such as Men and Tymbrimi?"

"Then why don't you help me?" Gillian's heart raced She gripped the edge of the desk, and she realized suddenly that the frustration had come close to overcoming her.

"Why am I so fascinated with the human way of looking at things, Dr. Baskin?" the Niss asked. Its voice turned almost sympathetic. "My Tymbrimi masters are unusually crafty. Their adaptability keeps them alive in a dangerous galaxy. Yet they, too, are trapped in the Galactic mode of thinking. You Earthlings, from a fresh perspective, may see what they do not.

"The range of behaviors and beliefs among oxygen-breathers is vast, yet the experience of Man is virtually unique. Carefully uplifted client races never suffer through the errors made by your pre-Contact human nations. These errors have made you different."

That was true enough, Gillian knew. Blatant idiocies had been tried by early men and women-foolishness that would never have been considered by species aware of the laws of nature. Desperate superst.i.tions had bred during the savage centuries. Styles of government, intrigues, philosophies were tested with abandon. It was almost as if Orphan Earth had been a planetary laboratory, upon which a series of senseless and bizarre experiments were tried.

Illogical and shameful as they seemed in retrospect, those experiences enriched modern Man. Few races had made so many mistakes in so short a time, or tried so many tentative solutions to hopeless problems.

Earthling artists were sought out by many jaded ETs, and paid well to spin tales no Galactic would imagine. The Tymbrimi particularly liked human fantasy novels, with lots of dragons, ogres and magic-the more the better. They thought them terrifyingly grotesque and vivid.

"I am not discouraged when you grow frustrated with the Library," the Niss said. "I am glad. I learn from your frustration! You question things that all Galactic society takes for granted.

"Only secondarily am I here to help you, Mrs. Orley. Primarily, I am here to observe how you suffer."

Gillian blinked. The machine's use of an ancient honorific had to have had a purpose-as did its blatant attempt to make her angry. She sat still and monitored a flux of conflicting emotions.

"This is getting nowhere," she spat. "And it's making me crazy. I feel all cooped up."

The Niss sparkled without commenting. Gillian watched the motes spin and dance.

"You're suggesting we let it sit for a while, aren't you?" she said at last.

"Perhaps. Both Tymbrimi and Humans possess preconscious selves. Perhaps we should both let these matters lie in the dark for a time, and let our hidden parts mull things over."

Gillian nodded. "I'm going to ask Creideiki to send me to Hikahi's island. The abos are important. After escape itself, I'd guess they're the most important thing:"

"A normal, moral view from the Galactic standpoint, and therefore of little interest to me." The Niss sounded bored already. The dazzling display coalesced into dark patterns of spinning lines. They whirled and converged, fell together into a tiny point, and disappeared.

Gillian imagined she heard a faint pop as the Niss departed.

When she reached Creideiki on the comm line the captain blinked at her.

"Gillian, is your psi working overtime? I was just calling you!..

She sat up. "Have you heard from Tom?"

"Yesss. He's fine. He's asked me to send you on an errand. Can you come down here right away?"

"I'm on my way Creideiki."

She locked the door to her lab and hurried toward the bridge.

24 ::: Galactics Beie Chohooan could only rumble in amazement at the magnitude of the battle. How had the fanatics managed to gather such strength in so short a time?

Beie's little Synthian scout ship cruised down the ancient, rocky jet stream left by a long-dead comet. The Kths.e.m.e.nee system was ablaze with bright flashes. Her screens showed the battle fleets as they merged into swirling knots all around her, scratching and killing and separating again. Alliances formed and dissolved whenever the parties seemed to sense an advantage. In violation of the codes of the Inst.i.tute for Civilized Warfare, no quarter was being given.

Beie was an experienced spy for the Synthian Enclave, but she had never seen anything like this.

"I was an observer at Paklatuthl, when the clients of the J'81ek broke their indenture on the battlefield. I saw the Obeyor Alliance meet the Abdicators in ritual war. But never have I seen such mindless slaughter! Have they no pride? No appreciation of the art of war?"

Even as she watched, Beie saw the strongest of the alliances fall apart in a fiery betrayal, as one flank fell upon the other.

Beie snorted in disgust. "Faithless fanatics," she muttered.

There was a chitter from the shelf to her left. A row of small pink eyes looked down upon her.

"Which of you said that!" She glared at the little tarsier-like wazoon, each staring out the entrance hatch of its own little spy-globe. The eyes blinked back at her. The wazoon chittered in amus.e.m.e.nt, but none of them answered her directly.

Beie sniffed. "Well, you're right, of course. The fanatics have quick reactions on their side. They do not stop and consider, but dive right in, while we moderates must ponder before we act."

Especially the ever-cautious Synthians, she thought. Earthlings are supposed to be our allies, yet timidly we talk and consider, we protest to the impotent Inst.i.tutes, and send expendable scouts to spy upon the fanatics.

The wazoon chattered a warning.

"I know!" she snapped. "Don't you think I know my business? So there's a watcher probe up ahead. One of you go take care of it and don't bother me! Can't you see I'm busy?"

The eyes blinked at her. One pair vanished as the wazoon scuttled into its tiny ship and closed the hatch. In a moment a small shudder pa.s.sed through the scout as the probe departed.

Luck to you, small wazoon, faithful client, she thought.

Feigning nonchalance, she watched as the tiny probe danced up ahead amongst the planetoidal debris, sneaking toward the watcher probe that lay in Beie's path.

One expendable scout, she thought bitterly. The Tymbrimi are fighting for their lives. Earth is besieged, half her colonies taken, and still we Synthians wait and watch, watch and wait, sending only me and my team to observe.

A small flame burned suddenly, casting stark shadows through the asteroid field. The wazoon let out a low groan of mourning, stopping quickly when Beie looked their way.

"Do not hide your feelings from me, my brave wazoon," she murmured. "You are clients and brave warriors, not slaves. Mourn your colleague, who died so well for us."

She thought about her own cool, careful people, amongst whom she always felt a stranger.

"Feel!" she insisted, surprised by her own vehemence. "There is no shame in caring, my little wazoon. In this you may be greater than your patron race, when you are grown up and on your own!"

Beie piloted closer to the water world, where the battle raged, feeling more akin to her little client-comrades than to her own ever-cautious race.

25 ::: Thomas Orley Thomas Orley looked down upon his treasure: a thing he had sought for twelve years. It appeared to be intact, the first of its kind ever to fall into human hands.

Only twice had micro-branch Libraries designed for other races been captured by human crews, from ships defeated in skirmishes over the last two hundred years. In each case the repositories were damaged. Attempts to study them were informative, but one mistake or another always caused the semi-intelligent machines to self-destruct.

This was the first ever recovered intact from a warship of a powerful Galactic patron race. And it was the first taken since certain Tymbrimi had joined in this clandestine research.

The unit was a beige box, about three meters by two by one, with simple optical access ports. Halfway along one side was the rayed spiral symbol of the Library.

It was lashed to a cargo sled along with other booty, including three probability coils, undamaged and irreplaceable. Hannes Suessi would ride back to Streaker, protecting those as a mother hen her eggs. Only when he saw them safely in Emerson D'Anite's hands would he turn around to come back here.

Tom wrote routing instructions on a waxboard. With any luck, the crew back at Streaker would turn the micro-branch unit over to Creideiki or Gillian without undue attention. He adhered the shipping slip so that it covered the Library glyph.

Not that his interest in a captured micro-branch was particularly secret. The crew here had helped him pry it from the Thennanin ship. But the fewer who knew the details the better. Especially if they should ever be captured. If his instructions were followed, the unit would be plugged into the comm in his own cabin, to outward appearances a normal communications screen.

He imagined the Niss would be impressed. Tom wished he could be there when the Tymbrimi machine found out what it suddenly had access to. The smug thing would probably be speechless for half a day.

He hoped it wouldn't be too stunned. He wanted something from it right away.

Suessi was already asleep, tethered to his precious salvage. Tom made sure the instructions were well secured. Then he swam up toward the sheer outcrop of rock overlooking the wrecked alien starship.

Neo-fen swarmed over the hulk, making detailed measurements from without and within. At word from Creideiki charges would be set off beginning a process that would leave the giant battleship's core a reamed and empty cavity.

By now the scout they had sent back should have reached Streaker with his initial report, and a sled should already be returning down the new shortcut they had found, bringing a monofilament intercom line from home. It ought to meet the salvage sled about halfway.

All this a.s.sumed "home" was still there. Tom guessed the battle still raged above Kithrup. s.p.a.ce war was a slow thing, especially as practiced by the long-viewed Galactics. They might still be at it in a year or two, though he doubted it. That much time would allow reinforcements to arrive and produce a war of attrition. It was unlikely the fanatic alliances would let things come to that pa.s.s.

In any event, Streaker's crew had to act as if the war were about to end any day now. So long as confusion reigned above, they still had a chance.

Tom went over his plan again, and came to the same conclusion. He had no other choice.

There were three conceivable ways they might escape the trap they were in-rescue, negotiation, and trickery.

Rescue was a nice image. But Earth herself didn't have the strength to come and deliver them. Together with her allies she could barely match one of the pseudo-religious factions in the battle over Kithrup.

The Galactic Inst.i.tutes might intervene. What law there was demanded that Streaker report directly to them. Problem was, the Inst.i.tutes had little power of their own. Like the feeble versions of world government Earth had almost died of in the Twentieth Century, they relied on ma.s.s opinion and volunteer levies. The majority "moderates" might finally decide that Streaker's discovery should be shared by all, but Tom figured it would take years for the necessary alliances to form.

Negotiation seemed as faint a hope as rescue. In any event, Creideiki had Gillian and Hikahi and Metz to help him if it ever came to negotiations with a victor in the s.p.a.ce battle. They didn't need Tom for that.

That left clever schemes and subtle deceptions ... finding a way to thwart the enemy when rescue and negotiation fail.

That's my job, he thought.

The ocean was deeper and darker here than in the region only fifty kilometers to the east, where strings of metal-mounds grew in the hilly shallows along the edges of a thin crustal plate. In the area where Hikahi's party had been rescued, the water was metal-enriched by a chain of semiactive volcanoes.

There were no true metal-mounds in this area, and the long-dead volcanic islands were worn down to the water's surface.

When he looked away from the crumpled Thennanin wreck, and the trail of havoc it had left before coming to rest, Tom found the scenery restful, its beauty calming. Drifting, dark-yellow fronds of danglevine, waving like corn silk from the surface, reminded him of the color of Gillian's hair.