Fugue on a Sunken Continent

Illustration by Wolf Read

“Disaster, Anna, is the way of life on Epona.” Gregos Konstantis, Chief of Ground Service Operations, smiled ironically and looked past the beautiful but impatient woman on his office balcony across the Nell Strait and into the mainland. Disaster—and deception.

There, under the mist in the deceptively normal morning light of the star Taranis, lay Tir fo Thuinn—human names whimsically derived from Welsh, as Greg remembered, for the remnants of an ancient, slowly sinking continent. Its tropical lowlands glistened with a forest of triple-decked umbrella-leafed “pagoda trees” that were not really plants under what looked like a greenish gray-topped ridge. But the gray was dry-season forest, not stone, and the green was not forested foothills, but nearly vertical serpentine left bare as the last season’s landslides ate a little more away from the old continent. Above it all was a sky crossed by occasional V-shaped flocks of beings that were not birds.

He turned back to Anna Wolf and shrugged. A classical vocalist, she had arrived with a cultural exchange mission thirty years ago, and as the Contact Mission’s instant artistic establishment, had proved herself a prima donna in every meaning of the word. Beyond the reach of solar system birth boards, Anna had borne herself a child—who everyone assumed had been conceived by artificial insemination, given the mother’s personality. Anna’s disaster was that she was ready to take her daughter and leave Epona, but the daughter was nowhere to be found.

Kanti Wolf had inherited none of her mother’s chauvinism and only a little of her temperament, but all of her perfect pitch and facility with the Uther language—which made her very important just now. Anna had to be put off.

Greg spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You may need to make different plans.”

“Your favorite line!” She was used to the favors of men and had run afoul of Greg’s indifference to her charms before. “Plans!” She waved her hands dramatically and strode into his office. “Did you turn your cyberservant off?”

At least she showed that much discretion. What a cybernetic intelligence didn’t know, couldn’t be hacked out of it—and the native Uthers’s sophistication in electronics was increasing exponentially. He followed her meekly inside. “Yes, Anna.”

“Well, I hear that—” she sang four notes, “—is going to demand that we give him the inner system starbase and may hold some of us on Epona hostage to get it.”

The notes, Greg thought, were likely D_b, C, E and G, the tonal symbol of the airlord of the local metaflock. “D-flat Seege” was what most humans on Epona would have said.

“I want us in a starship,” Anna continued, “riding a mass beam out of this star system while we still control it!”

“You’ve been here long enough, Anna, not to worry too much about the plans of an Uther. Such plans have a half life of about three weeks.” That was only partly true; while most Uthers were characteristically volatile, Uther leadership could and did plan for the long term.

She ran long, delicate fingers through her straight jet-black hair and sighed in dramatic exasperation. “Then why are we building another starbase way out at Borvo?”

Greg frowned. Borvo was the Taranis system’s equivalent of Jupiter, and the new starbase in its Trojan asteroid cluster was supposed to be kept very quiet. Even quieter were Knute’s plans to totally dismantle the inner system base before the Uthers demanded it be given to them.

“Anna, the Uthers are expanding, colonizing the inner worlds of their planetary system. The long-term plan is to lessen our impact on this evolution by quietly moving human interstellar traffic out to the outer part of this solar system.”

“Nuts. I’ll tell you why!” Anna didn’t quite shout, which would have been an ear splitting weapon at this range, but put just enough volume into her exclamation to threaten what might be, if she got really disturbed. “We’re building one at Borvo equilateral because Coordinator Larsen is going to sit by like an overly permissive parent and let them have the inner system starbase!”

Close, Anna, Greg thought. “Anna, please avoid saying anything aloud, even in English, that hints that we are the Uthers’s parents. Don’t even think it!” He paused a moment, for effect. “Now, the Coordinator has no intention of giving the inner system star-base to an aggressor flock like the Fay D-flat Seege. They don’t speak for all the flocks of Epona.”

“You fill me with confidence. When, if ever, will our dear Knute act on such noble lack of intent?”

He smiled. Next to Knute Larsen’s plodding deliberateness, the spontaneous Uther seemed almost human. Even so, the other thousand or so humans in the system relied on the Coordinator’s constancy and carefulness—it let them take the little chances that led to progress and understanding. He turned back to Anna and lied. “Look, we are all boringly safe. At worst, we might be inconvenienced. Now, do you have any idea of where Kanti might have gone?”

“Don’t you? Who’s Kanti been flying with, besides you? Don’t think I haven’t seen you strapping on wings and flying with her. I’m worried. She isn’t careful enough and it’s going to end badly for her. Like Icarus or something—you know the story; you were bom in Greece, somewhere.”

“Khania,” he told her for the fourth or fifth time. What would she make of her Icarus analogy when, and if, she realized that Khania was on Crete itself? “Flying isn’t dangerous if you know what you’re doing, and it lowers many Uther-human barriers. They can’t help but consider ground bound beings as their inferiors, but flying—”

“Khania’s near Athens, isn’t it? I’ve sung in Athens, and in Greek, too!”

God save the Hellenic Republic, Greg thought. “Another time, Anna. Kanti flies with an Uther friend, a Geecee, about her own age—just coming into maturity. The family often perches in the red cliff hollows over Fingal’s Cave.”

“They’re still under the so-called protection of that duplicitous, she sang four different notes.

Likely F, E, D_b, and G, Greg thought. Roostlord Feedyflat-gee had sheltered the human mission for a dozen Eponan years—the longest residence in the century-plus since people had come to study the Taranis System. Eventually loyalties shifted, and the humans were sold to the Fay Seeffay, who had loaned them their present quarters. Anna’s emotion toward Feedyflat-gee was unwarranted, he felt—a projection of human moral ideas on the Uther. Uther philosophy was to “fly with the flock the storm winds give to you.” How Anna could be so fluent in the Uther language and so dense about other Eponia was an unending source of amazement to Greg.

“It’s where she grew up, Anna—it’s where her young Uther friends are.”

“But we’re the enemy now, part of the—” she sang F, A, C, F, F, A, which Greg mentally translated to Fay Seeffay “—metaflock. I just don’t understand how Kanti could fly away alone now, like some Uther on a fugue! I’ll bet they’ve kidnapped her just to keep me from going. She’s in deadly danger!”

“The situation’s a lot more complicated than that, Anna. These are intelligent beings, and there are lots of cross-flock ties.” Uthers were the ultimate team players, but they were capable of changing teams with bewildering quickness. In theory, friends, and even seasonal lovers, can become deadly enemies overnight at the flip of an airlord’s wing, and in primitive areas, neonates of newly alienated partners were still destroyed when flocks parted. “Locally, roostlords, harvestleads, and elders still have influence. I doubt that she’s in any real danger.”

Anna’s eyes blazed at him. “Doubt isn’t good enough. We are booked out on the Vulpetti next week and have a place on tomorrow’s shuttle. As the local servop, your job is to help me find her so we don’t delay the starship!”

She had him there. Unlike most humans here, he was not a researcher—at least not officially. That would have put his subjects on guard, and since human Ph.D’s tend to resent anything that smelled of surveillance every bit as much as Uthers, he kept his activities very quiet. But to maintain this cover, he had to provide the services his tide promised.

“Very well, Anna. I’ll go find her and talk to her.”

“I want that on record.”

Now, Greg thought, we really roll the die. “Reactivate 45832. Penelope?”

A section of milky white chitinous wall suddenly appeared to become transparent, revealing a nook decorated in a classical Greek mode, with a vase, a rack of scrolls, a simple but elegant painted table and a chair fit more for a queen than a receptionist. A classical beauty with auburn hair piled high and held by jeweled combs, walked into this frame wearing an authentic-looking Mycenaean era gown and sat down at a brightly painted wooden desk. “Yes, master?” a prim female voice answered.

“I’ll be out this afternoon, at the Geecee roost on the mainland, looking for Kanti Wolf at the request of her mother. Mind the office.”

“Of course. Your wings are ready on the balcony, sir.”

Anna took one look at “Penelope,” gave Greg a tight-lipped smile that was not exactly one of approval, and headed out of the office for the balcony and the elevator. “I don’t think I’m going to keep your hologram company. Call me when and if you locate Kanti, Mr. Konstantis,” she said. “My final performance on Tir fo Thuinn is tonight, and I would like to give it with some peace of mind.”

Greg smiled. “No doubt. Penelope, Ms. Wolf will need a lift up to the heliport.”

“The elevator is waiting. Have a good journey, ma’am.” The humans had been permitted to place elevators outside their floor that took them up through the two balconies remaining between their level and the roof. Otherwise, the only way out of these old towers was to fly from a balcony.

“Good-bye, Anna,” Greg said to the closing elevator door.

When Anna was gone, the woman at the desk sprang up and pulled off her wig to reveal a short utilitarian mop of jet black. She set it on the desk, walked around the now-trans-parent divider into the office proper and laughed. “Whew! She never suspected!”

Greg shook his head with a bemused grin. “Not for a moment, Kanti. People see what they expect to see.” He felt a twinge of guilt at the charade, but a cybernetic “servant” could not participate in the deliberate deception of Anna Wolf, and she was the last human on Epona who could be told anything confidential. Fortunately, the computer “off” switch was an inviolable human right, as much as any were truly inviolable, and Anna would now spread the cover story as if it were the truth.

“Is Bach waiting?” Another smile—the Uther’s name was the first example of a human-Uther pun that Greg could think of; its parent had chosen the name to recall the composer.

“It’s B A C G_#’s idea.” Kanti sang the H at the end of the Eponan’s name as G_#—the old German would have used “H” for B-natural, and B-flat for B, but nowadays “B” as B was too ingrained. So, in their effort to transliterate Uther names, Epona’s humans assigned H to the note between G and A.

“Let’s go!” Kanti said. She dashed for the balcony, all queenly reserve vanished.

“Wait!” Greg almost shouted.

She spun around and looked confused.

“First, that Penelope get-up isn’t for flying through the jungle. Second, your mother is still on the heliport. So just hold it a minute, OK?” Greg opened the panel covering the field equipment shelves, handed Kanti her bag and took out his own equipment.

“Yeah, thanks.” She peeled a couple of cheek patches from her face and wiped off her make up, revealing a thinner, tan face that spoke of many hours in the air.

The girl was impulsive, even by Uther standards. But for now, she was the key to Bach and Bach was the key to understanding what the Uther were planning. “Nose around the Uther,” Knute had told him. “Something more than the usual demands seems to be going down.”

Easier said than done—but a Fay Feedyflat-gee recruiter had been to Fingal’s cave. Bach was at the age when adolescent Uthers left their nesting grounds “on fugue” for such adventures. But Bach had told his human friend, who had told her flying instructor, who happened to be Greg.

He hadn’t known Kanti that well, but the opportunity had been too good to pass up. Would she mind taking some risks? Would Bach cooperate? She’d jumped at the chance to do something exciting—if anything, she’d been too eager.

She was aesthetically beautiful, but Greg had long ago decided that his reproductive drive was a nuisance and opted for some minor genetic retro-engineering. Kanti s occasional attempts to flirt were amusing, but, unlike Anna’s heavy-handed come-ons, not an irritation. Still, he told himself, he should have a talk with her before feelings got hurt. But the last few days had been very busy.

A whir of helicopter wings came on the hour, which told Greg the copter was human and Al-controlled. Human copters whirred—they used superconducting electric motors powered by nanomolecular spin batteries, while the Uther copters screeched; they used rotor tip jets—peroxide-hydrocarbon versions of the ancient Hero steam engine. Lower gravity and plentiful hydrogen peroxide content allowed them to do things that had taken humanity much longer.

“OK, her helicopter’s here. Get your wings on while I leave a message for Knute.”

Security was paramount. Spying on people was bad enough, but spying on Uther could get them kicked off the planet. They were guests here, not gods. Greg wrote his note long-hand, took a digital picture of it, then put the bits through a scramble routine that pseudo-randomized them and hid them as sidebands in an audio recording. The recordings were of Uthers singing Bach—somewhat off pitch by human standards because of how the Uthers’ vocal apparatus worked, but still quite recognizable. Greg stored the doctored audio on a data wand and stuck it in a reader.

Kanti changed while he did this and the next time he looked at her, she’d donned a loose green jumpsuit with an airy weave of near-indestructible fibers.

Greg grabbed a three-day kit from the shelf for himself and tossed one to her.

She snatched the half-meter long sausage-shaped bag in midair and wrapped it around her waist.

Greg did likewise. His tropical office shirt and dark trousers were actually a fully field-capable one-piece coverall—being ready to go quickly was part of his job. He exchanged his sandals for field boots, activating the tongue seal just as they heard the helicopter depart.

“She’s off. You’ll need to leave first, then I’ll turn the real Penelope on again, send the recording to Knute, and follow you.”

“Got it. See you at Fingal’s cave.” Kanti gave Greg a quick peck on the cheek and scampered out on the balcony to strap on her gear.

With Greg watching for mistakes, still the instructor, she opened the wing closet—a tall compartment on the balcony between the elevator tube and the outer office wall. Her folded wings were two meters long, half a meter wide, and formed a package about two centimeters thick. Deployed, they would measure almost nine meters, tip to tip. They weighed less than two kilograms and shimmered like dragonfly wings in the noon sun. She plugged their stubby cylindrical roots into the back unit, in five-centimeter holes a half meter below her shoulders. As soon as she did so, they rotated to a vertical folded position. Then she climbed onto the balcony rail.

Greg thought she looked like Tinkerbell in camouflage gear. He waved to her, and she waved back. Then she reached up and laid her arms against the insides of the wings’ cupped leading edges. Straps that were almost transparent curled out and around her wrists and elbows in response. The tail surfaces snapped out from the cylinders on the sides of her boots like Japanese fans.

She pulled the wings down slowly, and they unfolded from one-way hinges to their full nine-meter span. She raised and lowered them twice, as if doing a strange form of tai chi, testing them, becoming one with them again. Then she bent her legs, arched her back, and leapt from the balcony, snapping the wings down with enough force that she actually gained a little altitude before gliding into the windward updraft.

Good flight, Kanti, Greg thought, conserve your energy.

He looked around the office, saw Kanti’s discarded “Penelope” outfit on the floor and stuffed it in the recycler. He restored the partition of his private nook to its normally slick chitinous appearance, took one last look around for anything that would reveal that Kanti had been there, and said “Reactivate 43895,” to his wrist comp.

“Back again,” Penelope announced, “after an hour! What did Anna want to talk about?”

“Her daughter, Kanti, flew off, and Anna thinks it has something to do with some Eponan politics that you shouldn’t be burdened with. I’m going off to find the young lady and persuade her to come back and talk to her mother. In the meantime, why don’t you see what the chances are of scheduling another starbase shuttle in time to catch the Vulpetti?”

“Eponan or Human?”

Greg allowed himself a grim smile at the thought of Anna on an Eponan shuttle.

“Either. I’ll assume Anna will go on the human one and wait for her daughter at the starbase.” He pulled his own kit out of its locker, and gulped. Kanti had left the locker door open—but anyone seeing that when Penelope’s record resumed would think that he’d opened it to get his own gear. “I’d better get going.”

“There’s a tropical storm approaching from the west.”

Greg grimaced. The weather. When everything else on Epona was going right, there was always the weather. The low sunken continent was no barrier at all to late season hurricanes. “How soon?”

“Three hours.”

“I’m just going to Fingal’s cave on the mainland. It should take sixty minutes max—might even make it back with Kanti.” If all went right, he might not be back for days, but play the role, yes. “Oh, and send Knute what the Fay Feedyflat-gee did with Bach’s Fugue in G. It’s in the rack.”

“Message sent. Good luck, Greg.” The office wall turned into a real hologram this time, and the classical Greek beauty in it waved farewell. She did look somewhat like a more rounded, softer Kanti, he thought, except the face. That came from a memory burnt too deep to forget—so he had decided, at least, to remember it accurately.

Three hours? By the time he had his own wings and boot-fans on, it was already so gusty that he simply rotated his wings to a positive angle of attack, and rode the draft up like a blown leaf. The computer in his back unit adjusted all the angles and twists of his wings for maximum efficiency as his hands and body language supplied the basic sense of direction.

He sheared off to the right over the city until he found a back eddy that took him out over the strait between the island of Fay Seeffay’s metaflock and the Fay Geecee part of the mainland. The storm circulation brought the freshening winds in from the southwest, more or less along the strait.

Trading altitude for distance, he glided for the nearest shore, crabbing to his left across the moving air mass until he was over the shallows of the mainland. The low plateau to his right was all that was left of a mountain range piled up in the last throes of continental drift on ancient Epona. A few hills still approached a thousand meters in altitude, but most of it was worn down to two or three hundred. Still, that was huge on a human scale, and its storm and current-undercut cliffs had enough of a wind shadow beneath its turbulent edge for Greg to make progress south under the wind.

Warm air from over the vast continental sea drifted into the sunken continent here and rose in occasional updrafts against chalk and sandstone cliffs to meet the west storm wind in a layer of turbulence. Greg used the updrafts to gain altitude until it became rough, then glided southward below the cliffs, aided by occasional sweeping strokes of his wings. He descended until he skimmed the shore like a gull, then rose on the next updraft. He felt exhilarated, not only by the sensation of flight, but from the sense of expectation that this particular flight brought.

Storm reports were still ominous, but it was moving slower than expected. Greg thought he easily had another hour or two before the weakening depression crossed the continental mass. Not only that, but he seemed to have picked up a tail wind. A tail wind? But the storm was blowing in from the west. Greg triggered his comset. “Met Local, I’ve got winds from 0-3-0. What gives?”

“Roger, Konstantis, be advised that the storm we’ve been watching has started tracking south, and an anticyclonic instability has been drawn down from the northeast. It’s a minor cold front, not regionally significant, but it could be nasty locally. You might want to put down and let it blow over.”

“Roger, Met Local, copy.” Greg had no intention of putting down as long as the new storm was blowing him where he wanted to go. He’d put down when he got to Fingal’s cave and let it blow over there—while he got up to speed with Kanti and her Uther friend Bach.

Getting an Uther to make a covert appointment was a minor miracle in itself, and for the Uther to be there and the Human not would be an ironic disaster. Greg invested some more of his own energy, driving himself south. Minutes went by in the fog of steady effort.

Out of boredom, he glanced behind himself and saw the cold front. Minor? Its cumulonimbus stretched way up; even allowing for a 25 percent increase in vertical scale due to Epona’s 25 percent lower gravity, that was an awesome pile of clouds, coal black on their undersides. Ten kilometers away? No, the clouds seemed to roil up out of thin air, forming a front that was much closer than that.

Greg looked down. Rocks and bub-bleweed marsh reached in right up to the edge of the cliffs. He looked up. The plateau seemed devoid of any usable shelter, but he knew it was full of gullies with occasional caves and littered with enough dormant “vegetation” to thatch a crude roof.

He glided closer to the cliff where air pressing upward from the surface should form an updraft. He found one and soared up over the edge—and then it really hit him. Before he knew what was happening, his wrist comp told him he was a kilometer above the plateau. Big mistake—the oncoming front had sucked him in.

Clouds sprang up all around him and it was numbingly cold. A brief hole below him revealed clouds scudding by at an incredible rate—his heads up display showed a ground speed of forty meters a second—westward. He was already twenty kilometers inland.

To get back, he would have to land and wait for the normal seasonal winds to assert themselves, then ride them back to the coast. Of course that would make a mess of his schedule—and since he was doing everything secretly, there was no way he could simply call Kanti and tell her he would be late.

Or could he? “Voice mail.”

“Voice mail ready to receive from Greg Konstantis. Who is the message for?”

“Anna Wolf, with a copy to Kanti Wolf and Knute.”

“Proceed.”

“I’ve been blown off course and will be several hours longer in finding Kanti than I planned to be. Kanti, if you check in, please call your mother and be patient. We need to talk.

Knute, the Bach I promised you should be in the mail. Konstantis out.” These same words would mean something different to everyone who heard them—he allowed himself a momentary grin at his own cleverness.

He tried to lose altitude, but the updraft got more fierce as he dropped lower until, stooping like a hawk with his wings straight up, he could get no lower. “With the flock the storm winds bring, you fly,” the Uther saying went. He faced the mists, held his altitude and waited.

Thirty kilometers from the coast, another opening below him revealed the tops of the low hills that formed the divide of the slowly sinking continent. The windward side had no real dry season. There, ancient river valleys widened by periodic glaciers had carved coundess lush, flat valleys.

He started to lose altitude now. He linked with Met Central and studied the map. He’d been aloft almost two hours and ached everywhere, but the front was weakening, and a few kilometers south was an L-shaped valley he thought he recognized. A recently-declared “harvesting reserve for the Fay-D-flat Seege.” What that normally meant was an area protected from other scavengers. Airborne hunters would spear a ceretridon, then fly in for the feast. Ancient competition with the Uthers’ ancestors and relatives left ground scavengers few and slow, so the kill would be safe until it ripened to Uther tastes. There were thousands of these reserves across the sunken continent.

Human distaste for such activities was well known, so if an Uther airlord was up to something he didn’t want a human to know about, Greg reasoned, a harvesting reserve was as good a place to hide it as any. The satellite view would simply show a pagoda tree forest, and robot surveillance flyers had to be used very sparingly for fear of malfunction and accidental technology transfer. Greg now had, he thought, as good an excuse to be in such an area as any human would ever have. When fate gives you a lemon, make lemonade. A yellow and green tethered balloon floated over the area—a hunting perch—or a guard station. He banked left and headed south.

Almost immediately, there were Uther in the air over the area, looking from a distance like giant tailless dragonflies. The forewings, though, were shorter in proportion and beat the air in a kind of undulating motion rather than stiffly. They had great vision; if he had been able to see them, he could be sure that they had seen him.

He banked and glided at right angles to the line between them, making it hard for them to judge his distance by parallax. His slow, deliberate course was, he hoped, nothing they would consider evasive or hostile. Time to call home, he thought. “Voice mail, for Knute.”

After a moment, his wing set computer responded in dry, standard tones. “The link wasn’t achieved due to the electromagnetic noise environment.”

This gear would punch through storm interference easily, and already had. He was being jammed. Quick students, these Uthers. Knute, Greg realized, was way behind the power curve on this one. Would some surveillance robot recognize the jamming as different from storm lightning? It probably could if it were looking for that, but looking for that would be the kind of purposefully creative act that, even now, artificial intelligence didn’t do very well.

The Uther guards, if that’s what they were, probably did that kind of thing very well, and would have immediately recognized his transmissions as artificial. Sure enough, they’d all banked toward him, in unison, like a flock of crows. He was far too tired, and the power level in his wing pack was far too low to try to run for it. He would learn as much as he could, and try to talk his way out of it.

He heard a faint tone, like the ones used to test hearing—it was his computer’s rendition of the Uthers’ sonar—like bats, they could range and image, roughly, with sound waves. They would expect him to react now, having announced their presence.

He began by assuming a long, flat glide toward the Uther and selecting his translator. Remembering the object-subject-verb version of simplified Uther-human translation grammar, he composed his greeting, then shouted, “I the storm blows-here. Tired I am. Help I must buy.” There was no mote in Uther for “give” or “receive without compensation.”

Beneath where the Uther had been flying was a large, roughly rectangular area of the preserve that looked different, somehow It took him a moment to place why. Then he realized that all the pagoda trees in it, though randomly placed, were the same height, causing the fractal-like dimpling of most of the forest to abruptly change into a kind of regular shading.

As he got closer, the Uther answer arrived—triad chords coming out milliseconds later as, “No closer you come. To ground-under you descend.” Ground-under meant “under the pagoda tree canopy,” as opposed to resting simply on anything attached to the ground, but Greg decided to misunderstand somewhat. The tree would be more comfortable.

Taranis poked out under the storm sky, painting the forest below gold. The sunlight glinted off the spearheads carried by the Uther as they flew in a slanted line toward him. He spotted a largish pagoda tree in the area below and banked toward it, losing altitude and turning away from the anomalous area, but continued in a spiral that brought it in view again.

From this lower angle he could see the trees were like nothing he’d ever seen on Epona—beneath their umbrella shaped canopies they were huge fat wedges, almost like Uther rocket shuttles, though twice the size of the usual. Nonsense, he thought. The area was about, what, fifteen trees wide, and over four times as long? There would have to be a thousand of the things.

He flared a few meters above the treetops and looked for his target, headed directly towards it and picked up a little speed. Then with a quick turn up, and a wing beat down with the last of his strength and power, he popped up over the broad drooping-ring leaf and stalled, dropping softly onto its trampoline-like skin. He lay there, wings askew, too tired to lift his pain-deadened arms. He had been aloft two and a half hours. Marathon fliers could do about four, but they trained for it.

Exhausted as he was, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the incredible beauty of the burgeoning sunset and the lush Eponan forest. There was a curious kind of exhilaration in his limb-deadened numbness, and a luxury of warmness after being so cold. Alien scents that reminded him somewhat of ginger and warm chocolate tickled his nose.

An entirely incongruous place to hide an armada of a thousand spacecraft. But that’s what they had to be, he realized. It all made sense now. D-flat Seege had an ace up his sleeve—one that leapfrogged human intelligence estimates. Their plan was not to demand the starbase—they meant to physically seize it with surprise and overwhelming numbers. The rockets were mixed in with some real pagoda trees, and the canopies were probably made of real pagoda tree canopy material. For that matter, the rocket hulls were probably composite organic and silica—there wouldn’t be enough metal in them to interest a sensor. From orbit, or the air, they’d be taken for odd pagoda trees—hell, he’d been almost on top of them and taken them for that.

They would be easy to blow out of the sky with any kind of advanced weapon, but the human contact mission had studiously avoided making weapons. The starbase mass beam itself would be a terrific weapon, but its real-time steering capability was in microradians—to turn it around would require turning the whole asteroid to which it was anchored. No, the base couldn’t be defended in a surprise attack—at best, the human crew might do some minor damage and escape; but if Knute got sufficient warning, it would be a different story. Replicators could make things quickly.

I, he thought, have company coming. Best get ready for it. With a tremendous, muscle-torturing effort, he sat up. He could not raise his wings above his head to fold them with his arms, but the pack had enough power left to do it for him. His arms dropped like leaden weights as the straps released.

Then the Uther arrived. There were three, one with a half-grown neonate attached behind its head. The neonate’s eyes, Greg remembered, could detect movement above and behind and warn its parent—which made Uthers with a baby on board prized military recruits. Different circumstances, different values. Greg tried to imagine an army of pregnant human women.

The other two were, at first sight, indistinguishable. But, knowing what to look for, Greg found four light streaks on the cephalothoracic barrel of the one on the left, while the one to the right of the pregnant adult was even-colored.

The one with the neonate sang. “What providence (buzz) gives to (buzz) Uther, our eyes see and teeth suck in. (Buzz) Enemy flock may belong to,” Greg’s translator provided in a time-driven compromise between the original Eponan mote order and normal conversation. The vaguely poetic result, Greg knew, made the Uthers sound more benign than they were.

And this didn’t sound very benign.

“To you,” Greg replied, though he wasn’t sure he’d been spoken to, “this human offers greetings.” He’d learned long ago that the translators made fewest mistakes when he expressed himself in some approximation of Uther mote sequence, and prided himself on his ability to do this. “For stillness I am sorry, but great discomfort now any movement would make.”

“Spy trick (buzz) Greg Konstantis would (buzz) maybe. (Buzz) We (buzz) Uther laugh,” the four-streaked Uther hooted. “Laughter.” Somehow, they already knew his name—of course, Knute probably had search parties out looking for him in response to his voice mail message. Their conversation was not meant for Greg and his translator was having problems, but the last notes of the triad corresponding to the second buzz sounded a bit like D-flat C E G.

Then they addressed him directly. “To the Human flock we say ‘Back over the High-hills Greg Konstantis maybe fell.’ Laughter. To the ground-under, you must go now.”

About thirty meters, Greg reckoned. Experimentally he tried to lift his arms. No good. He checked the power level—actually it wasn’t that bad, maybe 2 percent left. He activated the emergency descent mode, then simply scooted toward the edge of the huge umbrella-like leaf until friction no longer held him, and slid off.

The wings deployed to 80 percent automatically, assuming a configuration that would look like a flattened M from the front, with him at the lower middle point of the M. This slowed his fall like an air brake. At three meters altitude, they beat down the rest of the way, and the thrust broke his fall to the point that his feet hit not much harder than if he had jumped off a chair.

His leg muscles were not that tired and, surprising himself, he was able to stand. The forest floor was already in twilight and squishy with roundleaf underfoot. All kinds of grunts, whistles, and clicks greeted his arrival.

A small springcroc sprang up from almost under his foot and snapped its shell-like jaw at him in midair. It missed. Then it performed some kind of acrobatic maneuver to land balanced on its single leg, staring at him with the beady crocodile eyes set on top of its jaw. For a moment Greg thought it would spring again, but, instead, it sank down into the roundleaf as he watched, its busy foot drilling a hole for it in the soft muck.

A bright beam of light cut down from above and cast a pool of light beside him. A brief cacophony of off-key notes followed it. “That way Greg Konstantis must go,” said the translator.

He picked his way through the vegetation toward the pool of light, and it moved away.

Notes. “This light Greg Konstantis must follow.”

He followed for twenty minutes until he saw a single pentagonal tower, about five Uther stories tall, with a rounded roof that would look like another pagoda tree from above. From below, it looked vaguely like a giant mushroom. He walked toward it.

About halfway there, a door—really a section of wall on a pivot—swung open and a human female walked out to greet him.

“Hi,” Kanti said, her voice full of disappointment. “Bach kidnapped me at our rendezvous.”

Before he could answer, the three Uther landed. Two assumed relaxed poses but the one with the neonate flowed to a tripod posture on his rear wing fingers—it was a sign of dominance.

Kanti sighed and waved a hand at the Uther with four light streaks. “Greg, meet Bach.”

The Uther hooted, then broke into a passable rendition of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” then hooted again. Greg understood. Another typically Utherian disaster had struck his mission—Bach had gone over to the Fay D-flat Seege and was laughing at how he’d tricked them.

“Bach, hello. Kanti’s friend you are still?”

The Uther hooted and sang, and the translator followed, “Laughter. Such a thing Kanti still thinks—so Kanti I captured easily. Slow thinking, humans are still. Flockmate one is or is not. (Buzz) a friend is. With that word, I jest.” It hooted again. “Laughter.” Utherensis had been named by a Dane who pronounced it “ooter” for die sound they made when amused.

But Greg was not amused. He tried hard to think. “Good things, D-flat Seege may destroy. Unprofitable in the far, far time this flock may be.”

A warble from the Uther with the neonate, then, “Star travel, Fay D-flat Seege want, and star travel humans will not trade. But the starbase humans defend too lightly. So, the star-base D-flat Seege will spear—will eat. Then star travel and great power the metaflock Fay D-flat Seege will have.” It hooted. “To themselves weak humans help do this. To all providence gives.”

Bach warbled and added. “The stars I gain quickest this way. Highest of Fay D-flat Seege this Uther will fly and Fay Bach this flock may become someday.”

Greg shook his head. “Your old Flock, Bach must remember. They, the Fay D-flat Seege may kill—if the starbase technology the Fay D-flat Seege takes. If humans, Fay D-flat Seege tries to fight, many Fay D-flat Seege we may have to kill. What profit such a big killing makes?”

The translator’s discords faded and Bach warbled in return, but fell silent when the Uther with neonate overwarbled. “Unnecessary, a big killing may be,” the translator said, “if the Uther lifestyle you respect. Big enough for both, the Universe may be. Boundaries, small killings will keep and good fun, small killings are. To the Fay D-flat Seege, you humans now belong. D-flat Seege, you will flight-follow when, from this star other humans have fled.” It hooted then sang, “Earth itself, by grace of the Fay D-flat Seege wings, you could someday manage.”

Greg shook his head. His fellow humans typically abhorred any war and either had peace or fought only as big a war as necessary to defeat an aggressor. But he refrained from saying that, feeling that that discussion belonged at least at Knute’s level.

“In mind—and body—I am tired.”

The Uthers all hooted, having won what they probably thought of as a verbal victory.

“Then sleep,” the Uther with the neonate, “you humans shall have. But your wings we shall have in trade—and all of what may be weapons or escape aids, we shall have too.”

The Uthers eventually took everything but their clothes and food only the humans could eat. And that, they had to carry to their ground floor quarters in their hands. The lower wall was solid rock, and the cleverly counterbalanced section of pivoting wall was at least a meter thick. It could be locked behind them by simply disconnecting the counterweight, which Bach demonstrated with a hoot. It then motioned them into a bare gravel-floored room that opened into a sandy courtyard.

Without translators, there was no further conversation, and the Uther swung the door shut. It settled with a very solid thump as the counterweight was detached.

“Welcome to prison.” Kanti pointed to the opposite side of the courtyard, visible through the arched interior door. “I’ve defined that as the latrine,” she said. Their feces, Greg thought, should be sterilized—though the symbiotic bacteria in contact mission personnel had been altered to lyse autonomously when out of their bodies, there was always the possibility of mutation.

Too many risks, too many possibilities and time would overcome any barriers—contact, he realized, meant that the terrestrial and Eponan biospheres would eventually overlap and become something different. The alternative was a strict quarantine that neither civilization wanted, nor would be able to enforce forever. Perhaps off planet reserves could be established…

Kanti took his arm, and they walked back into the chamber.

The inside walls were a breccia—recent sediment fused together into a kind of cement by pressure and crystallization as it dried. Greg slumped down on the gravel with his back to the outer wall. There was a sharp bump on it, and he moved over. The rock was full of shells and other things.

“Look, Kanti. A dracowolf claw.” The semi-intelligent blind predator had been a close cousin of the Uther Two finger-sized talons curled out from the stone and back in, almost like its owner was still attached and trying pull itself out of the wall. The point of a third was exposed.

“They’re extinct, aren’t they?” she said.

“As far as we know. Too specialized—they couldn’t compete with the Uther when the Uther learned how to hunt. There’s still a dwarf species near Fire Island, but it doesn’t get over here.”

“Bach told me stories about dracowolf hunters. The Uther think they exterminated them.” Kanti raised an eyebrow. “And are proud of it.”

Greg nodded. “Our ancestors were proud of exterminating varmints. They didn’t know any better. Neither do the Uther, yet. Which is why letting them out into the Galaxy is so dangerous.”

Kanti frowned. “But they already had rockets when we arrived.”

Greg sighed. “Yes, they had rockets. But their level of technological development in most areas was not much higher than Mycenaean Greece, or Confucian China. Having rockets is a lot different than having a starport with a relativistic mass beam—especially when you only need seven kilometers per second delta-V to get into orbit.”

Kanti looked confused. “If they were so primitive, how did they discover rocket fuel?”

“The fuel is just hydrogen peroxide and oil. Hydrogen peroxide is, roughly, what they use for anaerobic metabolism—its decomposition provides heat and oxygen when Eponan organisms can’t get it from the air. Many Eponan organisms store small quantities of it—their equivalent of barrel cacti are full of it. Concentrate it to 95 percent or so with a still, add one part in four kerosene or a similar hydrocarbon, and you have just enough specific impulse to get out of this gravity well. They need a catalyst to add to the hydrocarbon, but that’s also found in most of the tissue of things around here.

“Their legends say their first rocket engines were snail shells. Juveniles would put a bowl of juice under one, drop a cup of oil and catalyst into it from a hole on top of the shell, and ride the shell up a dozen meters in the resulting explosion. Then they’d glide back and do it again. It was a way of tricking the Universe out of altitude without having to work for it—like finding thermals. There are murals of them, thousands of years old, getting blasted into the sky.”

She shuddered. “Scary.”

Greg stroked the point of the embedded Dracowolf claw. Cowards hadn’t defeated those monsters. “What do you do to prove your courage when you run out of dracowolves, and war is getting a little too expensive? Exploration seems to be a universal substitute for war, and a sink for the impulses that lead to it.” He looked at Kanti. “If we say we agree to its terms, will Bach believe us?”

“Maybe. They haven’t killed us yet, so they must think it’s possible for us to join their flock. I think they’d try to work us in the way they work in purchased or captured juveniles—plenty of incentives and watched all the time.”

“Bach didn’t seem entirely happy,” Greg observed.

Kanti nodded, not looking entirely happy herself. “It’s taking chances. It’s been a risk-taker since I’ve known it—leaving its parent a full two weeks before normal weaning.”

“They aren’t as stubborn about flock loyalties as humans are about family and country, but they still have it. And they consider consequences—note how carefully Bach’s superior rationalized things. The instant loyalty switching is a overlay, I think, a cultural invention that helped metaflocks evolve. Their emotions still go back to parent and flock. And, as thinking beings, they can generalize flock loyalty to the race and perhaps all thinking beings.”

“But your kind of arguments didn’t have much effect on Bach,” Kanti said. “Its administrative flight leader—that’s the title your translator buzzed—offered it more. It was also trying to buy us.” She looked him in the eye. “Have they bought any other humans?”

Kanti was no idiot—Greg wondered how much of his fears to share with her. It was his job to watch humans watching Uthers—and some typically human things were happening. Access, artifacts, being first with some data—these were things that could be bought with a little useful technology, and it was easy enough to rationalize that the Uther would get it soon anyway. Or invent it. So why not?

“I don’t know for sure, but, Kanti—in a population this size, it’s probable that someone’s been disaffected to the point of helping them. There are models for that.”

“So we’re watching for it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re watching for it.”

Greg frowned, then nodded. Another deception revealed, as if it mattered now.

“And you’re watching me big time because you think my mom might have ‘disaffected’ me from the whole human race?” There was a hint of anger in Kanti’s voice.

Cool, now, Greg told himself. “Not really. Your affinity for the Uther seemed more an attraction than a negation—a pretty positive thing, and interesting, as far as I am concerned.”

“I’m interesting. Glad to hear it. Greg, are you my father?” She just blurted it out.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Kanti, you may as well understand. I decided long ago that my sexual feelings were interfering with what I wanted to do, so I had them modified. You’re a beautiful young lady, but you’ll need to look elsewhere for a lover, or a father. Besides, I’m at least ten times your age. That doesn’t matter physically anymore, but mentally—I’ve been through a lot.”

“Children?”

Greg shook his head. “Almost.” He laughed. “She changed loyalties for a better offer.”

“Would you consider changing back?”

“No…” How could he communicate to this young, vital girl how free he had felt after the retrovirus had removed his reproductive needs, and he’d closed away that part of his life? He’d gained peace and the freedom to concentrate on the things that really mattered to him.

“Kanti, you’ll find someone.” Greg stopped. A century ago, almost exactly, he’d heard the same words. What he’d lost in his change, as he looked back on it, was simply embarrassing. And yet there had been a bonding, and memories, sweet once, turned to ironic farce by subsequent events. Now, in a second, the same empty, betrayed feeling touched him as if those years had suddenly vanished. That feeling had not gone away with the lust.

He thought for a moment that perhaps he could spare Kanti that by pretending, or perhaps even reversing—No, if he changed back, he’d risk the same thing happening again when and if Kanti found something better, and if he pretended, the relationship would be an act on his part—a false, comic farce. He smiled at the girl. “I don’t dislike you, I care about you, I’m your friend—maybe we can leave it there?”

Her eyes were glistening. “Crap,” she said, then took a breath. “OK. I can deal with it. The Uther don’t form couples either. Hardly think about sex out of season. Maybe it helps you understand them.”

“Well, maybe.” Greg shrugged. “Now, let’s try to think of a way out of here?”

They both sat and thought. Greg tried to think about the problem, but fatigue and other thoughts took his energy. He slumped against the stone wall to be more comfortable, and finally lay down on the sand. The light was almost completely gone.

Someone was shaking him. “Greg, Greg, wake up.”

He was not in his alcove on the island. He was—gravel—Kanti. “Uh, sorry. Fell asleep.”

“Look. Since we don’t have wings, the Uthers don’t think we can fly. Right?”

Greg blinked hard. She woke him up for that? He shook his head. “That doesn’t seem surprising.”

“I can dunk a basketball here. That’s three meters. If you throw me up at the same time, maybe I could get another half meter or so. I think that’s enough to reach the second floor window sills.”

Greg looked at her. She wasn’t particularly tall, but he’d seen women not much taller jump that high on Earth—and they had only three-quarters Earth gravity here.

He tested his arms—they were sore, but seemed to have recovered their strength.

“I guess it’s worth a try. It could smart a little, crashing into that stone wall.”

Kanti puckered her lips. “I can handle it.”

“What window should we try?”

She smiled. “Maybe one of the ones near my latrine?”

Greg laughed. “For all we know, these carrion-eating Uthers might like the smell. But it’s on the opposite side of this building. After we get up, we have to get down, and that looks like a three or four meter fall from the balconies on this side.”

Kanti gestured to their rations. “We need something to carry this in.”

Greg thought a moment, then patted his stomach. “Let’s carry it here. They say food is sleep, and we won’t be getting much. In fact, we should rest a little now, until it’s darker.”

They broke out the food and stuffed themselves. Then they lay down in the gravel.

Kanti shook him. He hadn’t meant to be out so completely again, but it was probably just as well. When he had his wits about him, they stole out into the courtyard.

Kanti’s spot of fertilizer was actually between the ranks of windows, and any odor had long since vanished. They chose the window to the left. With Kanti’s heels on his shoulders, her toes in his hands, and one hand on the wall for balance, they both crouched. On ‘‘three,” he jumped up, and she jumped as soon as she felt him move. It finished with his pushing her toes up and away.

Surprisingly, in view of how the rest of the last twenty-four hours had gone, Kanti reached the window ledge on the first throw. She was able to find sufficient purchase on the walls with her shoes to lever herself up enough to get an elbow up. Then, like a human snake of some sort, she slithered in over the window sill and thumped into the pitch black room.

Greg waited in the courtyard below. If an Uther looked in on him, there was no sign of it. Eventually he leaned against the wall.

Something was brushing his face. He opened his eyes—an electrical cord. He looked up. It was pitch black, with nothing but starlight coming down the well of the five-story Uther building, but enough to see by—two bright planets were overhead.

He pulled on the cord. It jerked back. Clear enough. He pulled steadily, then put his full weight on it. OK. Only four meters or so, he told himself. He’d seen people go up whole mountains this way, but he’d never done it. It wasn’t pretty—he leaned back and got his feet on the wall, then kind of duck-waddled up a foot at a time, advancing hand over hand on the cord until he finally got his legs over the sill. His arms burned with the effort.

The room was a mechanical shop of sorts—with what felt like lathes and presses. They couldn’t really see anything clearly. The cord Kanti had found was still attached to its machine, which, presumably, was bolted to the floor. There was one bank of outlets on a far wall, which, presumably, was why the cord was so long. Electricity had been added to this building long after it had been built.

After a couple of minutes for him to catch his breath, they went out to the balcony.

Four meters down on this side, too. But they had the electrical cord.

Three hours later, they’d managed to steal several kilometers downhill from the Uther building, and Greg stopped at an open place on a small hill to take a look at the sky. Borvo, almost as bright as Jupiter from Earth, approached the horizon, still bright enough to shine through the thin, luminescent clouds. It set about 0300 local time—without a large moon, Eponans of all sorts used the giant planet to time the night. He looked a quarter turn right of Borvo, trying to find a hole through the canopy of pagoda trees along the horizon.

“There, Crux! That’s north,” he finally said. The Southern Cross in Earth’s sky, Crux lay near Epona’s north pole. So downhill was roughly west, toward the field of camouflaged spacecraft. They had probably been managing a couple of kilometers an hour over easy, if squishy, terrain.

“Does it look that way from Earth?” Kanti asked.

Her question sent a twinge of nostalgia through Greg, and then a touch of wonder as he remembered Kanti was a human who had never been to Earth.

“Pretty much,” Greg answered. “Its nearest bright star is a couple of hundred light-years away—a shift of twenty-one light years doesn’t make that much difference. But it’s a northern cross here.”

Kanti sighed. “Sometimes I feel homesick for Earth, which is silly because I’ve never been there—and if I did go, I’d probably feel homesick for here. Makes me wonder if I belong anywhere.”

Greg touched her shoulder. “Someday, maybe, you’ll visit one of those stars, and look back to find that the distance between Epona and Earth is less than the width of your hand.”

He stuck his hand out to illustrate the point.

“Oof!” With no warning at all, something clamped onto his arm like a vice. Kanti’s “Look out!” and a rustle of round leaf penetrated his attention well after the bite. Something that looked like a cross between an alligator and a clam was trying to saw its way through the arm of his bodysuit. A single long, muscular leg flailed away in the air. Greg, instinctively, kept his arm out stiff, keeping the leg and its single claw away from his lower body.

“Springcroc!” Kanti finished her warning. Then she grabbed the upper “jaw” from behind the thing while Greg grabbed the lower one with his other hand and pulled.

An audible crack ended the drama—the thing’s upper carapace fractured and bent up, releasing Greg’s arm. At the same time, the springcroc started shaking like a leaf, then went still.

“You OK?” Kanti asked.

Greg tested his arm. “Sore as hell, but it still works. Look at that thing!”

“It’s dead.” Kanti said, kicking it to make sure. “The cracked shell went into its brain, right between the eyes. It wouldn’t have lived long anyway—look, its eyes were rotting away—it probably couldn’t even see what you were. We were lucky to get it off.”

“This isn’t going to be a walk in a park, I see,” Greg said, rubbing his sore arm.

“Don’t worry, ones that big don’t normally get this far inland. And they can’t eat humans.”

“Right. If they can tell we are human. With that, it was bite first, taste later.” Greg almost felt sorry for the big old springcroc—old and feeble and clearly blind, it had kept doing its jump and bite thing to the very end.

“We can always go back to the tower.”

Greg shook his head. “No. Let’s go. That way.” He pointed west.

Kanti shrugged and plunged into the pagoda tree forest. Greg noted how she kept her arms close to her body, and did likewise.

The sky started to become gray. Kanti stopped at a particularly low and broad pagoda with helicopter vines draped all over its base canopy, their ends twirling in the light breeze. “I need some sleep,” she said simply.

Greg, exhausted as well as worried, nodded. He had no idea of how far they’d come, his arm was killing him, and the whole enterprise felt futile. He worried about how crude his navigation was, and his only feeble hope was that the field of disguised Uther rockets was too big to miss if they were headed in anything like the right direction. He worried about whether they would get there in time to do anything.

“We’ll need about ten rocks and a giant roundleaf,” she said. A nearby stream provided the rocks, and a mystified Greg helped her lug them back to the pagoda tree.

It all became clear in a moment. Kanti pulled the vines down until the edge of the pagoda tree’s canopy touched the ground. Then she weighted it there with a rock. She did this all around the tree until she had turned the umbrella-like canopy into a kind of fluted tent that looked something like a furled umbrella.

With a sharp stone, they were able to cut off the top of a giant roundleaf nearby, and tear it in half. Each half made a sleeping pad. Kanti lifted one rock on the rim of her “tent” to make an opening, and pulled the pads in. Greg followed and closed the “door” by curling the lip of the canopy back under and weighting it down from the inside.

By midday, it was too warm to sleep any longer. Greg started to get out of the “tent.”

“The Uthers have sharp eyes,” Kanti said.

Greg looked up, involuntarily. “We’ve got to make some progress. They must be almost ready to launch their attack, D-flat Seege must realize he can’t keep a lid on this forever.”

“Right.” Kanti said, looking up as well.

“Well,” Greg said. “I think they’ll be looking for something from the air more than from the ground. Bach doesn’t know you, and it would expect me to try to get home instead of going for the rocket field. So maybe they won’t be watching too hard.” Greg moved carefully out of their tent.

“Maybe.” Kanti rolled to her feet and followed him.

They moved carefully under the forest canopy for about an hour. Judging by Taranis’s position, they were still headed approximately west, but Greg was beginning to mistrust his navigation, particularly when the terrain started rising again. It would, he thought, be best to wait for nightfall when he could get a look at the stars again.

“Greg,” Kanti whispered. She was at the top of the rise.

He scrambled up to her and looked. “What is…” He fell silent in awe. Even from this slight hill, the huge, blunt shapes towered over them, and there seemed to be hundreds of them, stretching right and left until distance blended them into the surrounding forest. From the average spacing of the rockets, Greg was able to confirm his original estimate. Probably a thousand of them. One Uther warship for every human being in the system, he thought. Even given the disparity in technology, if that fleet boosted without warning, it would be all over in hours.

The Fay D-flat Seege had made little effort to disguise their fleet from ground level, other than randomizing the placement of their rockets to simulate a pagoda tree forest. They had, however, taken the precaution of surrounding the rockets with an innocent looking belt of thin forest and meadow—anything in that belt would be very easy to spot from the air.

“Down, quickly, quietly. Sentries,” Kanti said.

Greg didn’t see anything, but moved quickly. They scrambled beneath the lowest leaf of a large pagoda tree.

“How did they do all that secretly?” she asked, her voice filled with quiet wonder.

He shook his head. “We screwed up. When your forces are inferior in weapons, skill, or position, your best bet to make up for that is with superior numbers and that was what we should have been looking for. They were more audacious than we realized and did a damn good job of camouflage.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to just walk in there,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “Let’s back off and try to think of something.”

They retraced their steps for a few hundred meters, and sat down near some exposed rocks. Finally Greg asked, more to break the gloomy mood than anything else, “Is there anything here we can eat?” The conventional answer was “no,” but Kanti’s field knowledge had surprised him enough so far that he wasn’t going to make assumptions.

Kanti shook her head. At length she said. “Maybe. The pentapods and their relatives are as poisonous to us as we are to them. In theory you could eat snail flesh, but you would have to cook it a very long time, or the digestive juices would bum your mouth, throat, and everything else. Springcrocs are full of other poisons. But…”

She stopped and went over to a small rock, then turned it over.

“They look like beetles,” Greg said.

“They are beetles.” Kanti announced. “Terrestrial insects—they can eat the moss here, and some of the dead Eponan life.”

It wasn’t supposed to have happened. The precautions against contamination had been immense, and draconian.

“Mom.” Kanti said. “She brought a sealed terrarium with her, a little glass thing the size of a baseball that had its own simple independent ecology. She didn’t declare it, and took it in her handbag. She bragged about getting it through. It disappeared when I was five. She told me to never say anything.” The pain of a broken promise was etched on Kanti’s face.

Greg could guess what had happened. An Uther juvenile had scavenged the little terrarium, then broken it open to see what was in it. In, what, eleven years, with plenty to eat and no natural enemies, in this hothouse… “Who knows about it?” he asked.

“Bach knows. And probably his wing leader’s file right up to D-flat Seege. They aren’t mad—they didn’t believe our promises of not trying to take their planet in the first place and expected us to try to trick them out of it—because that’s what they would have done. They thought it was kind of clever, sneaky. Now they’re going to try to get even.” She hung her head and stared at the loam and the alien beetles. “Greg,” she whispered, “will they kick us out of the system altogether?”

Greg shook his head. “Probably. If Knute doesn’t do it first. But I think it’s already too late.”

Kanti shrugged, and picked up a beetle about the size of her little fingernail. “In the meantime—” She popped it into her mouth and chewed ostentatiously, staring Greg in the eye.

With an extreme effort, Greg did the same. It wasn’t as hard the second time. In half an hour of turning up rocks along the stream bed, they managed a decent snack. It was mostly protein, he told himself, and better than nothing.

It was late afternoon now, and they found themselves by an idyllic stream, warm but not too hot. The leaf ribs of the tall pagoda trees that lined the banks reminded Greg of the vaulting of a cathedral—a translucent cathedral in unearthly shades of green. But for all the beauty around him, Greg felt the lead weight of responsibility on his shoulders. “How long do you think it would take us to walk out?”

Kanti shrugged. “A week. Maybe two—if we survive and Bach and his friends don’t find us first.”

D-flat Seege would make its move well before then. How the hell, Greg asked himself, had he got himself into this? He had no communicator, no food, no weapons and the one Eponan ally they thought they had would probably kill them on sight.

But if they didn’t try to do something, the starbase would surely be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of a surprise Fay D-flat Seege attack. They would be forced to either kill thousands of Uther, or run. The former was unthinkable—but if they did the latter, there would be literally no limit to the Fay D-flat Seege’s ambition, and perhaps its revenge.

“I’m going to have to go in there. If they have human electronics in those Uther spacecraft, I might be able to fly one of them. Part of my job is to manage technology transfer—so I know both ends pretty well. But the voice interface would be Eponan. I’d like your help. It will be dangerous—damn dangerous.”

Kanti looked at him, eyes glistening, but her face determined. “I know how important this is. I’ll take risks. I already have.” She shook her head. “But I’m not too good with technology. I probably don’t even have the vocabulary. And I don’t want to commit suicide.”

Greg pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “There would be just a limited number of commands. Numbers, simple actions like on and off or increase and decrease, and nouns for rocket parts. Maybe you could teach me enough Eponan to do that.”

“I don’t know. It’s hard—especially if you can’t sing.”

“I can whistle. Try me.”

“OK, but I don’t think this will work.” She took a breath. “In the GCH dialect, which is what I know, position is indicated by dividing directions into threes; the high tonic—it’s not really a tonic, off by about a quarter tone, but that’s as close as I can describe it—tells you if the object is high, level, or low. The near subdominant chord tells you whether it is front, even, or back, and the dominant whether it is left, right, or center. That gives you one of twenty-six prime directions, and you can modify that by the pre-motes for more or less.” She sang three notes in rapid succession, the second higher and the third lower than the first. “I can’t sing three notes at once, but if I sing triplets with a rest between, they understand me. I just said ‘Object more high front right is.’ ”

Greg got a sinking feeling. This was very complicated, and he just wasn’t able to remember.

“They break distance,” Kanti continued, “into steps of near, away, and far three times. You’ve got to remember the order; near-away-far is closer to you than away-near-near.”

Greg shook his head—even though his life might depend on it, he couldn’t absorb it. He was tired and having trouble concentrating. He might, he thought, be able to work it out from a sketch, but he’d never absorb enough to use it quickly in a crisis. Besides…

“You said GCH dialect. This isn’t universal?”

She shook her head. “The concept is pretty much the same in other dialects, but the pitches may be different, and some sing range before direction.”

There would, he realized, be no quick study of Eponan for him. Without his translator, or Kanti, he would be an illiterate deaf-mute mime. Maybe he could get something, though.

“Could you sing the, uh, high tonic note for ‘near’ again?”

She did, and it was in his range. He tried to duplicate it. She laughed, and sang it again. This time he got it about right.

“Could I use that for a warning?”

“Maybe. If you do, sing loudly—that would let them know it’s important, and maybe an Eponan-speaking computer too. And repeat it three times—that’s the nearest possible.”

He tried it again and she smiled at him. “I think that’s barely adequate Eponan neonate talk. Want to try translating Shakespeare now?”

They both laughed, but the laughs had an edge to them.

“So, what do we do?” Kanti asked.

“I’d tell you what to say. Try, ‘increase the oxidizer to fuel ratio’ in Eponan.”

“Huh? Greg, I’d have to understand what you were saying in English to translate it. I’m afraid that learning that would be as hard for me as learning Eponan for you.”

Greg thought about it. How much would be automatic and how much user-selected? Would he have to deal with mix-ratios? Pump rates, or would it be pump pressure, or could one just select a specific impulse? How could he select an escape instead of an orbital trajectory? And if the latter, how could he specify an injection vector—he remembered Kanti’s description of how the Uthers indicated direction.

“Can you fly a ship without the computer?”

“Not a human spacecraft—but an Utheran? Maybe. They used to fly them manually. Anyway, I’ve got to try. There will be a holocaust if we don’t. Maybe, if I’m sneaky enough, I can spend a few hours in the cockpit unbothered and figure out the computer—or figure out the manual controls. At least I might blow it up and start a chain reaction, one ship explosion exploding another.”

That sounded very close to suicide, he realized.

Kanti looked at him and sighed. “After we get away?”

We? She was going in with him. “Yeah,” he said, not very convincingly.

After a long time she nodded.

He looked up and watched the pagoda trees sway in the cooling evening wind. Their helicopter vines twirled in the ruddy embers of the last rays. Greg felt the warmth of Kanti’s thigh against his right leg and memories of the kind of tingling sensation he used to get from that went through him.

Except that he shouldn’t feel that now, and, anyway Kanti was on his left side.

He tensed and looked quickly at his leg. A sheet of flesh had somehow moved from under the rock next to him and had flowed up the side of his leg. Out of this sheet of flesh poked a number of tiny stalks with little black dots on them.

“Yuk!” He jumped up and started rubbing his leg furiously. “Nothing like sitting there thinking everything is going to be all right in the world, then finding out that something’s eating you.”

Kanti laughed. “It’s just snail slime—the real strong stuff is further inside. Rub it with a roundleaf—they’ve got a natural neutralizer.”

Greg uprooted one of the ground cover plants—a kind of dwarf pagoda tree, he recalled—and rubbed its large, crinkly, leaf over this thigh. The stinging sensation, indeed, vanished. “I guess that’s a message that we’d better be about our business. First we have to get in. They’ve got sharp eyes and lots of surveillance—probably alerted now that we’ve escaped.” He looked at the snail that tried to eat him. “Maybe if we found a couple of big shells and crept up a little at a time.

“That’s an idea, but,” She looked at him with a mischievous grin, “how’s your stomach?”

“Why?”

“Are you up to being eaten alive?”

Halfway back to the disguised launching field, they found a snail big enough for both of them—a huge, ancient specimen covered with miniature parasitic pagodas. Its roughly hemispherical shell was almost two meters at its highest point, dented in numerous places and partly covered with the Eponan equivalent of moss as well as parasites. It looked like a big, old boulder.

Kanti dug through the loam and found a rock. Then she scraped part of the shell clear and began to chip away.

“I thought you wanted it alive!”

“I’m not killing it. We’ll just need a little hole to see out of, and some places to attach some slings. Our suits are pretty good, but we won’t be able to sit right on the stomach wall. Get a rock and help.”

The snail seemed completely oblivious to what she was doing, and soon she had a hole chiseled through its shell. Then she started on another.

Greg found a pointed rock. “How many holes?”

“One to see through, one to steer it with, and four others to anchor our slings—a pair here for me and back there for you. We’ll cut some vines and wrap the ends around rocks too big to fit through the holes, and let the other ends dangle inside. We can finish the job inside.”

“Standing in its stomach?”

“You’ve got the picture. It’s really more of a colony of cells than a true multicellular organism. The cells are only partly specialized, and they part with each other fairly easily, and they can change specializations. If you pet an eyestalk, it will start trying to digest your hand.”

Greg shuddered, and got back to chipping. The shell was full of bubbles and wasn’t exceptionally hard—though obviously strong for its mass.

It took less time than he thought.

“OK, what now?”

“We’ve got to make a trail of snail goodies, leading as close as we can to the field. Let’s find a pagoda nut tree. Strip off the shells, and the meat inside is snail caviar. Pull off the helicopter vines, too. We’ll use those to support us inside.”

Finding and gathering the nuts was two hours of exhausting work. They scraped out the inside of a barrel section of a fallen pagoda tree to make a bag for the nut meat. They used that to lay trail to within a few hundred meters of the field over ground level enough for the big snail to pass. That took them to sundown. Then they filled the bag with nutmeats again and went back to the snail. It hadn’t moved.

Would it ever move? Was this whole idea a time-wasting idiot’s errand?

Kanti laid some nut meat directly in “front” of the symmetrical giant snail, that is to say beside it, in the direction they wanted to go.

It did nothing.

She pushed the meat closer.

They waited.

Finally, a band of tissue flowed out from under the shell, and a couple of eyestalks grew out of it and waved around. It came almost as a surprise to Greg that the distance between the shell and the nutmeats had grown less—there was no sound at all above the rustle of windblown pagoda leaves and occasional three-prong hoots. Yet in seconds, the snail had moved over the offering.

They followed the snail for five hours, until it was within two hundred meters of the launch field perimeter.

“Ready?” Kanti asked.

“You’re sure you’ve done this before?”

“Once, when I was eight. Wipe yourself with the roundleaf. Then lie down beside me and put some nut meat on top of yourself. Cover your face with leaves and stand up as soon as you’re inside.”

A minute later, he was lying down holding leaves over his face with his hands, passive as an offering to some omnipotent god, waiting to be eaten.

It didn’t take long. The snail’s dim nervous system had gotten used to finding nut meat in their direction. Warm folds of flesh enveloped his boots, his legs, his chest and arms. Despite himself, he shook. Despite the coating of roundleaf juice, an itching, burning sensation began to take over his nether parts.

The flesh flowed over his hands and pressed the leaves to his face. It was warm, rubbery, and smelled of many, many dead things. He sucked in a last lungful of air.

Then the pressure lessened—he must be under the shell. He felt himself lifted—the snail’s banded foot muscle was pressing him upward into its prime digestive layer. He sat up, and the flesh flowed easily around him. He was in air again—if that’s what you could call the rank, fetid, putrid gas in the snail’s pulmonary cavity.

Kanti was already standing beside him, and reached down to help him up. They were moving noticeably toward the “rear” of the snail, their boots on the ground, as its “foot” flowed around them. A small springcroc appeared in the purple folds of snail flesh around his boots, opened and shut its jaws once, then was still.

“Like this,” Kanti said. She grabbed two of the vine ends hanging down from the holes in the “front” of the shell and tied them together in a square knot, making a loop. Then she hoisted herself up and sat in the loop.

Greg had to “walk” a couple of steps through the grisly flesh before he got his seat right, but he finally managed it, and was rewarded by the tough vine making an uncomfortable dent in his buttocks. But at least he got his feet out of the snail’s digestive layer.

The itching feeling did not go away, however. There would, he realized, be nothing he could do about that until they were out of the shell. He looked down at the springcroc. The outer layers had already been stripped from its foot, showing tubes of smooth muscle. An eye hung out of its socket, and dropped out as he watched, its optic nerve or whatever dissolving in real time.

He looked up at the dome. The pulmonary cavity was lined with a thin layer of cells as well, and glistened in a mucousy sort of way. It was the job of those cells, he remembered, to maintain the shell—over time their holes would be filled in by fresh silica sponge. At least they didn’t drip on him.

Kanti had her face near one of the holes they’d chopped in front of the shell. “So far, so good.” She stuck a hand out and dropped some nut meat in front of the snail. “I hope I brought enough.”

The shell glided forward—Greg could tell by the slight changes in pitch as they went over the rough forest floor.

An hour went by, then two. Greg’s rear end was killing him, he tried putting a hand between his rump and the vine. Pretty soon, the hand started hurting. Kanti said they were getting closer to the field, but progress was, well, at a snail’s pace.

Three hours into it, she turned from the eye hole. “Will you shut your eyes for a moment?”

“Huh? Why?” The failing twilight that slipped through the holes in the shell was hardly enough to see anything with.

“Let’s just say I have to feed the snail.”

“But you’re… oh.”

He shut his eyes, there was some rustling, some spraying, and a whiff of ammonia that was almost refreshing compared to the general bouquet of the shell. At length she said she was done, and he opened his eyes again—and saw nothing. Night had fallen.

“Can you see anything?”

“Some stars—maybe a clearing ahead. The Uthers don’t light defense perimeters—their sentries depend on night-adapted vision, and lights would ruin that for them.”

“Great.”

“Don’t worry. These snails wander all over the place at night, though one this big is rare.”

Another hour went by. Greg developed the habit of moving his rear end every five minutes or so, so the vines didn’t always press in the same place, before his rear started hurting. This helped.

“We’re across the clearing. Is the first rocket we get to good enough? I can see its silhouette against the Milky Way.”

There was nothing Greg wanted to do more than get out of this putrid snail. But the Uther perimeter would have the most surveillance.

“Let’s get a little farther in, if we can.”

Kanti shoved more nut meats out the hole in the shell. Gradually, they glided onward.

“We’re about four ranks in now, it’s beginning to get light, and we’re about out of fuel.”

There was no possibility of staying another day in the shell. “OK. Let’s get out,” he said.

Silence.

“Kanti. How do we get out?”

“The way we got in, I think. If I can throw nutmeats far enough ahead of the snail, but…”

“We’re out of nutmeats?” Greg imagined the snail losing the nutmeat trail and stopping with the edge of its shell over his head.

“Just about,” Kanti said in a very small voice, “and I can’t throw them very far through the hole.”

“How did you get out when you were a kid?”

She sighed. “The other kids lifted the shell.”

They would have had to stick their hands right through the outer mantle—but snail flesh parted easily. Maybe… “Maybe we can lift it from the inside?”

“Yuck.” That was heartfelt, but somehow sounded hopeful. “But I think it will work.”

“I agree. Yuck. Let’s get going.”

They eased off their perches and forced their boots through the rubbery slime. With effort, they moved toward the “rear” of the shell.

“Will this kill it?” Greg asked. It seemed they were doing hideous damage to its innards.

“You don’t kill a giant snail. The question is, are we strong enough to lift this shell and tear our way out before it kills us. It took five kids, as I remember.”

“Right. Well, as I see it, to get the edge we have to thrust our hands through this goo—” a springcroc skull stared at him, eyeless—“lift the edge, and then duck our heads through, under and out.”

“Right.” She said. “I’m ready.”

“OK,” he said.

“On the count of three?” she asked.

“Right…”

She started and he joined in. “One… two… three.”

He took a deep breath and shoved his hands through the slippery wet folds of the snail’s stomach. They started burning immediately. He forced them through and out, found and grabbed the rim of the shell. It was slippery and burned, but he hung on, bent his legs, and lifted. Gradually, with an ugly sucking sound, the rim rose with the snail flesh stretching into a mucous curtain between the rim and the main body below. Kanti grunted, straining on the verge of tears. Waist level was as high as they could get the edge of the snail.

“You go first. I’ll hold it up for you. Then you try to slow its fall while I duck through. Hurry.”

Without a word, she plunged her head into the snails stretched stomach wall and struggled through it. When he felt her lifting again from the outside, he took another breath, shut his eyes, and butted his way through it, too.

The goo clung to him momentarily, then he tumbled free outside—the curtain of flesh was thinner than it looked. He didn’t dare open his eyes. A hand put some roundleaf in his and started scrubbing him. He immediately started wiping the slime off his face and hair, then his hands. Gradually the burning feeling departed. He would, he figured, end up with a hell of a rash.

When he finally risked opening his eyes, he found that Kanti had finished cleaning herself and was laying a trail for the snail to take it away from where they were. She looked at him and shivered, then smiled. “Yuck.”

He smiled back at her. “At least we’ve got a tale to tell.”

“Yeah. Which ship are we going to steal… or blow up?”

“They all look the same. The Uther must have an assembly line somewhere. Uh, that one.” He pointed at one of bullet shaped “pagoda tree” trunks at random. Up close, the camouflage wasn’t really that good—a canopy of fine mesh screen braced with sticks of what Greg assumed was fiberglass and painted to look something like a pagoda tree canopy when viewed from above. No, he thought at second look. That was probably a real pagoda tree canopy on top of the screen, cut from some tree. In this season, it would be hard to tell a dead one from a dormant one.

With a start, Greg realized he could actually see the Uther rocket; a glance at the sky revealed only the brighter stars and planets. Dawn was approaching. “Let’s go,” he said.

They ran for the spacecraft, or as close to doing so as they could—the roundleaves were dense and tugged at their feet. The ground beneath was soft and squishy. They made progress, but ten meters from the rocket, the ground suddenly exploded in front of them with a burst of light and a deafening sound. They hit the roundleaf.

Before they looked up, they felt the backwash of Utheran wings above them. Triads of Utheran tone language rained down on them.

“It’s Bach,” Kanti said, her voice breaking ever so slightly. “It says ‘Last song, us human must now sing.’ ”

The Uther glided down out of the dark to a five point landing in front of them and smoothly assumed a high dominant posture with its gun pointed at the humans.

Greg stepped in front of Kanti and braced himself. He had to try to disarm the Uther, then…

Kanti touched his arm. “I, I don’t think we should panic—if we really had to be dead, we would be already. It’s just stating his opening position. It’ll listen, I think.” Kanti was still trembling, but her voice was firm. “Sit down. Now!”

Greg sat. Kanti got down on all fours and sang six triplets. “I said, ‘Right things for all, we humans try to do. Sorry to parent humans, this human is.’ Understand? It knows a little human body language, so try not to look dangerous.”

Greg crossed his legs and held his hands out. It must have worked because the Uther didn’t shoot. Something immediately started trying to gnaw on his boot. He ignored it. Could they just keep the Uther listening long enough to think of something? “Kanti,” he whispered, “tell it to spare us and we’ll leave, and we won’t let them know it let us go. Surely it doesn’t want to kill you. It’s lived with people all its life—try asking it to trust us.”

Bach raised his gun and took aim.

“Huh?”

“Shut up!” Kanti looked at Greg in horror and shook her head. “We’re not in the same flock anymore. That’s a terrible insult, taking it for a fool; and it knows some English. You’re lucky it didn’t kill us right away. Leave this to me, please.”

How many times, Greg thought, had he mentioned trust to Uthers in the course of arranging support for human investigators? Such mentions, he recalled, evoked indifference—a sophisticated Uther tolerance, he now realized, for bad manners. He’d considered himself an expert on Uthers—and compared to Anna, he was. But he hadn’t lived with them like Kanti.

Kanti began singing triads, but the muzzle of the gun stayed pointed.

Bach returned Kanti’s song—Greg thought he could even recognize some motes.

Instead of translating, Kanti sang again. Greg shuddered, utterly helpless in the plants and muck while his fate was being decided in a language he did not understand. He still had thoughts of rushing the Uther—they were relatively slow and weak on the ground, but their reactions were very, very good.

The Uther lowered the gun and motioned to the spacecraft.

“What?” Greg asked, in wonder. “You talked it into letting us go?”

“No, that kind of pleading doesn’t work.” She set off for the spacecraft.

Greg followed her, with a look back to Bach, who was walking behind on the three-fingers of his rear wing in a way that should have been as clumsy as a human on crutches, especially in the roundweed, but somehow wasn’t. Instead, the Uther seemed to flow forward, the folds of its furled rear wings draping down like a skirt and giving the impression of a medieval bishop in robes. Greg had never seen an Uther take this dominant moving posture with humans before. Perhaps, he thought, it was for the benefit of any other Utheran sentries who might be watching.

“It’s not letting us go? But it hasn’t killed us. What did you do?” Greg asked.

“I bribed it. I promised that it could go to Earth and hear Bach played on the original acoustic instruments. I promised it membership in our flock, if our airlords agree.”

An Uther on a starship? Was that a promise that they could keep? “Why the gun?”

“It’s not a fool—it’ll hold the power of life or death over us until we fulfill our part of the bargain.”

“I see.” This was, in some respect, more of a kidnapping and hijacking than an altruistic aiding of friends—but, of course, that was how a human thought. The Uther, who had already deserted one flock for survival, was simply doing the same for fresher meat. “If we don’t take it?”

Kanti spread her hands. “It’ll be killed here, and if it tries to go back to GCH it will be killed there as well. It might join some metaflock military, but at a much lower position than what the Fay D-flat Seege offered it. It’s taking a terrible risk.”

It needs a flock, Greg thought. Well, in theory, the human station belonged to one. “Maybe Fay Seeffay would take it, since we’re supposed to be part of that metaflock, now.”

“No, Bach needs more than to be the lone subordinate of an alien subordinate. It’s a proud Uther now, a flock of one—I had to offer it a bribe that would not be an insult.”

An expensive bribe in terms of resource allocation. Greg pondered what would be required for life support of the alien for the thirty-year voyage, even with most of it in suspended animation. Did we even know how to do suspended animation of an Uther? He didn’t know. His mind spun.

Then they were under the ship. Beneath the pagoda tree leaf umbrella disguise, it was the typical Uther blunt wedge design, but Greg had never seen one from this perspective before. Set up in its base were ten rocket engines mounted 2-3-3-2 on a triangular grate with slanted truss rods taking the thrust loads to a central pivot point, which, from the plumbing, appeared to pass fuel as well as loads.

Five huge propellant tanks loomed above this, four hydrogen peroxide and one of light oil. The life support area would be in the nose, of course, twenty meters or so up. Standard Uther designs had a hatch up there on the outside that swung down to form a landing balcony. But the sides of the ship were clean of anything to climb, and too flimsy anyway—made of thin, horny refractory material that was only slightly stronger than cloth. When fueled, they relied on internal pressure for rigidity.

“OK,” Greg asked. “How do we get in?”

Kanti sang triads, the Uther sang back.

She translated. “Spacecraft humans try to steal without knowing how?”

“Providence!” This was not going to be easy, Greg realized, not in a long shot. The Uther had all the options—and if they failed, it could always shoot them and claim to have just captured them.

He thought furiously, conscious of the lightening day and increasing danger around him. The Uther ships had airlocks somewhere—but that flight balcony did not have an airlock door. It led directly to the main cabin. He tried to remember. Had he seen Uthers emerge from the base of their spacecraft in orbit?

He studied the tangle of pipes, cylinders, and cables above. There was nothing resembling a ladder, but various pipes and struts were in reach.

“I think they have an airlock leading to the propulsion section.” He pointed up. “Ask him.”

Kanti sang a few notes and Bach looked up the central shaft for a moment, then replied, softly.

“It said ‘a door, up there, is but—up there, Uthers, cannot fly to. Up there, this human, climb?’ ”

Greg shook his head. “Up there, this human will try to climb. Kanti, I’ll need to stand on your back to get a handhold. Can you handle that?”

“I’ll try. Where?”

The bell-shaped engine expansion nozzles had a ridge around their lower rims. He might be able to grab that and pull himself up. “Let’s try here,” he said, indicating a spot below an engine nozzle.

Kanti knelt down on all fours and Greg put his hands on her shoulders, then, as gently as he could, stepped up on her back. He straightened up slowly, fighting for balance. The rim of the bell was just beyond the reach of his fingers.

“I’m going to have to jump for it.”

“OK,” she gasped.

He jumped, grabbed the bell, and held on for a moment. Then there was a loud crack, like a gunshot, and the engine nozzle tore off, dumping him on top of Kanti and tumbling them both into the broadleaf.

Bach warbled and pointed his gun at them.

Kanti picked herself up and sang some plaintive notes back at it.

“We’d better do something fast.”

“Yeah. Look for another rocket.”

“Are we going to try to sabotage all thousand of them this way? I don’t think my back will take it.”

“Maybe you can climb up and open the lock?”

The teenager shook her head. “I wouldn’t have any idea of what I was pushing, or climbing on. It’s almost light.”

Greg thought furiously. “Maybe Bach could find one with its balcony-hatch open.”

Kanti shook her head. “It wouldn’t be able to get us in if it did. And it won’t leave us alone.”

Greg shot a glance at the Uther and its gun. “We’ll just have to try another rocket. Maybe we can find some rope or vines and hook them on something more solid.” He looked around, and saw nothing but roundleaves.

“Greg, look!” Kanti pointed back the way they’d come.

Greg didn’t see anything. “What?”

“The snail, it’s gone under a rocket. You could climb on that!”

The shell was almost two meters high at the top of its dome, less than half a meter under the exhaust nozzles. In an instant of clarity, he understood why the nozzles were so far off the ground.

“Tell Bach and let’s go.”

Kanti sang a translation and started off at a run. Greg followed. The Uther passed over him, gliding toward the peripheral spacecraft. The horizon was light blue now, and only a couple of planets were visible. Various diurnal life forms were starting to stake out their territories with various noises.

Slow as it was, the snail had almost passed under the edge of the rocket by the time Greg reached it. Without hesitating he took three huge squishy strides right at the thing and tried to run up the shell, grabbing for the parasitical vegetation that covered it.

His hands slipped—then found one of the eye holes they’d punched through the shell earlier. Using that purchase, he reached one of the swing-anchor holes. Holding on there, he was able to swing his foot up to the eye hole. With that anchor point he was able to grab a thick layer of “moss” on the upper flatter part of the dome. From there, he belly-crawled to the top of the dome.

It had almost passed under the side of the rocket. Then it stopped. Greg looked down—Kanti held her bare arm flat on the path of flattened roundleaf—and the snail started to crawl back over it. She pulled it back and it flowed a little closer.

Greg turned his attention upward. In a minute, he was able to stand up between the hull of the rocket and the outboard engine. The engine gimbal arrangement became clear—the entire engine platform could pivot in one direction, and the pivot axis itself could tilt in the other. It looked as if the arrangement could allow maybe 15 degrees of gimballing in all directions.

There were no gimbal motors that he could see, but there were what looked like tension cables running just inside the hull. Those should be strong enough to support his weight. He grabbed hold of one of them and pulled. It was bowstring taut and held his weight easily. He grabbed higher up with his other hand and squeezed himself slowly upward, pulling hand over hand on the cable, shuddering as various projections on his suit rubbed the pressure-taut tanks and created an ominous bass groan. There was a smell of clean Eponan fiber to the air here, with just a hint of oil vapor. He worried about sparks far too late to do anything about it.

Finally Greg emerged, carefully, into a crawl space below the pressure cabin. It was meant for zero gravity use—no solid handholds. But he could see what looked like a hatch cover near the center of the cabin s rounded bottom. Maybe, he told himself, just maybe this was going to work.

He rested his sore arms as he studied the arrangement. The control cables ended on levers attached to rods that projected from the cabin floor surrounded by what looked like the concentric circles of a constant volume joint. No electronics, no optics, and no sliding bearings through the sealed cabin floor—the levers could be worked from inside by flexing the floor at the point where the control rods penetrated.

Greg’s respect for Uther engineering went up a couple of notches. He’d known, intellectually, that they’d achieved space flight without electronic control systems, but he’d never appreciated just how clever they’d been to do that.

All the more reason, he realized, to keep the starbase away from the Fay D-flat Seege.

By squirming so his back fit between the rounded domes, he pulled himself forward a few centimeters at a time. The tanks protested loudly, but he made progress.

When he got to the hatch, he could see that it opened up, into the cabin—as a pressure hatch should, of course. He twisted his head to look down—there was a clear passage some twenty meters down to the ground, which was, by now, quite light. He would have to cantilever himself over this shaft, somehow, to get into the hatch. If he could open it.

“Kanti,” he whispered, hoping his voice would carry, but not too well. “I’ve reached the door.”

“Greg? Greg, hurry! Bach’s getting very nervous. The sun’s rising!”

“I’m trying,” he replied. He grabbed a cable lever with his left hand, hoping fervently that his weight wouldn’t damage it. His right hand could reach the door this way for as long as he could hang on. But there were no external controls, locks, or anything. More in frustration than as a considered act, he simply pushed on the door.

It rose, a little, but felt very heavy. It seemed hopeless to lift it by main strength from this position, but he pushed again—and, out of the corner of his eye, caught one of the nearby cables moving. He grabbed it and pulled experimentally.

The hatch swung up slowly and smoothly with relatively little force. Of course—anything heavy needed in the cabin probably came up this way, and provision had been made for ground crew access.

But they would have had ladders. Hanging onto a cable rod with the left hand, he was able to grasp the hatch rim with his right. With his foot pressing gently on the dome of the nearest tank, he eased himself through the opening, got his elbows on the inside of the hatch rim, got his legs free of the crawl space, and pulled his rear end in. Then he hit his head on something swinging over the hatch opening. As his eyes adapted to the illumination level, he recognized a lightweight block and tackle.

Light trickled in from his left—a shaded port in bright sunlight. The inner door of the airlock was open! In a minute he was able to find the cable reel for the block and tackle and drop the hook through the central shaft down to Kanti and Bach. There was a moment of song while they discussed the logic of who would go up first—but finally Kanti began pulling herself up. He helped as he could, and soon she squirmed in beside him.

They looked at each other, thinking escape. Was Bach taking a chance? No. They would never have time to figure out how to fly this thing if it gave the alarm now Their only hope was to have the Uther with them—and it knew that.

The cabin was roughly conical on the inside, with the airlock a flat, low cylinder set in the floor. The top of this was apparently configured as the control deck, with an Uther couch and a set of levers within easy reach of it. There were also small black boxes fixed to the deck next to the levers with what looked like push rods running to the levers.

“Kanti, this ship was designed to be flown manually, without electronics. The electromechanical control system is clearly an afterthought. Ask Bach if it can read the labels.”

In short order they had identified: “boost liquid little doors this thing opens-adjusts,” “artificial updraft direction this thing modifies,” “burning slick stuff little doors this thing opens-adjusts,” and “wing-level this thing tilts.”

On one side of the cabin was what was clearly an electronics rack, with infrared connect windows. There was a battery powered Uther radio—without batteries now, of course. Then he found what was clearly a manual of some kind.

Kanti gave that to Bach, who issued a stream of notes.

“It says it doesn’t even know how most of these words are pronounced, let alone what they mean. It sounded out a couple of them, and I don’t know what those motes mean either.” Bach issued another stream of notes, flowed up into dominant stature and brought up its gun.

Kanti translated in a trembling voice. “It said ‘This vehicle, other guards’—the next mote means ‘ranging’ I think. Then, ‘Up we three fly now or dead you two must be. Killing it regrets, but otherwise dead all three of us will be.’ ”

Greg was, by now, beyond fear and into deep fatalism. Either he could fly it or not. “Tell him not to panic. I’ll think of something, just hold on.”

Right, Greg thought. Think of something. Opening the propellant valves manually might just fire the rockets—there had been, he recalled, a similar arrangement on the first human-carrying spacecraft to land on the Moon, for emergencies only, of course. The directional controls, if that’s what they were, might let him steer. One of them had two degrees of freedom—pitch and yaw? He thought about the gimbals he had seen, but there wasn’t time to trace the levers and cables now.

How much delta-V did they have? The tanks easily occupied 80 percent of the volume of the ship, and hydrogen peroxide was a very dense fuel, though low on exhaust velocity. The cured organic membranes and fiberglass rod framing of the ship was obviously very light. Did it have a mass ratio of as much as thirty? That would get them, he thought, beyond escape velocity.

This was designed to attack a space base at Epona’s L5 point—it should be capable of escape velocity and then some. If so, it didn’t really matter what trajectory they went, as long as he kept it going in the same direction until he’d used all the fuel, or nearly all. East. He’d go east at die rising sun to pick up some of the planet’s spin velocity too, just to be sure.

“Shut the airlock door, and brace yourselves. This will be a little rough.” If it didn’t blow them up immediately. Greg climbed up on the Uther acceleration couch, and lay on it face down. He could reach what he thought was the direction control. He moved it experimentally, worried that the rods in the blade boxes might be frozen without power—but no, it moved smoothly. Greg smiled in thanks to the Uther engineer who had anticipated failure of the newfangled electronics.

But he couldn’t reach the presumed valve control levers from the couch.

“Kanti, I’ll need you and Bach up here to work the propellant valves. It seems clear that all that has to be done, initially anyway, is to push them forward as far as they’ll go.”

There was an exchange of song.

“Bach says no, humans fly. Greg, I think it’s scared crazy.”

Great, just great, Greg thought. OK, two valve controls. One for “burning slick stuff” which was probably the hydrocarbon fuel. By itself, that wouldn’t move the ship, whereas the peroxide decomposing might.

“OK, we’ll turn the hydrocarbon on full first, then add peroxide.”

A sudden thud shook the ship. Bach warbled crazily—no translation was necessary.

Greg ignored it and thought. Once they started acceleration, the only way he’d know what real “down” was would be through an external reference. The window had to be open. If he could see both the sun and the horizon and keep them there… His best chance for control would be to accelerate up as fast as possible, giving him a little time to find balance. He moved what he hoped was the gimbal control to what he hoped was dead center.

“Kanti, here’s what you have to do,” Greg said as calmly as possible. “This couch has straps; whatever happens, I can’t be sent flying around the cabin. Strap me in. Then open the window cover, and get up here. Then push this lever all the way forward fast, then get over to the other side and push the other one the same way as fast as it will let you and brace yourself. If I’m right, the engines will fire as soon as the propellants mix.”

She nodded very seriously. “Got it.” She went over to the covered viewport and looked at the cover helplessly. The ship shook again, and Uther song penetrated its hull.

Then an amplified hoot from outside demanded attention. “INSIDE HUMANS, IF TALK NOW—THEN—YOU NOT BE INSTANTLY KILLED.”

He didn’t need Bach’s hoots to tell him that there was no possibility that the promise would be kept, nor, if it were, would they be allowed to warn others of the fleet.

Greg allowed himself a little smile. “Don’t panic. I think they’re trying to scare us out. The last thing they want is for this thing to explode in the middle of a thousand other fueled spacecraft. Tell that to Bach.”

Kanti sang triplets, then repeated them.

Bach, stopped its panicky warbling, and sang a few chords.

Kanti sang again, then Bach.

“Bach says it will open the window when we’re ready. It knows how to work the latch.”

“OK. We’ll do it this way. Fuel, Window, Peroxide. Get up here and grab the left lever! Push it forward, tell Bach to open the window, then go over and push the other one forward.”

Kanti sprang up onto the control deck as if on wings and pushed the indicated lever.

“It won’t move!”

Bach warbled insistently—again there was no need for translation. The cacophony outside was increasing. Why wouldn’t the lever move? Come on, he told himself, the idiots that made this thing were bright. They had redundancy, they were concerned about hull integrity—safety.

“Check for some kind of safety latch—something mechanical to insure no one opens the valves accidentally. Probably down by the base.”

After a too-long five or ten seconds, she said, “Found it, just a little hook. I unlatched it. Push the lever now?”

“Yes!—No! Wait! There’ll be a safety hook on the other lever too. Unlatch that first, then open this one.”

Kanti bounded over his Uther couch, where he held onto the directional controls with white knuckles. Bach had stopped its panicky warbles—what Kanti was doing was simple enough for it to see and understand, and it was bright enough not to interrupt in the crisis.

Then Kanti was back across the couch again and at the first lever, and looked at him.

He was probably about to be blown to bits, and his life should be passing in front of his eyes, but the thought barely passed through his mind. He was concentrated on direction. Try to go straight up, roll to find the sun, lock in and keep it there. He nodded sharply to Kanti. She shoved the lever all the way forward. A sound like a toilet flushing ran through the ship.

“Window!” he yelled. She warbled to Bach as she jumped over to the peroxide lever.

Bach flung open the window shade, and let loose a blast of sound at the Uther face that appeared in it.

Surprising himself, Greg thought he recognized the tone mote for “far, far, far.” The Uther in the window vanished, as if pulled by a string. The loudest roar Greg had ever heard let loose as Kanti pushed the peroxide lever forward and fell back with the sudden acceleration.

Up they went. In less time than it took him to think about it, the horizon vanished from Greg’s sight. In an instant he realized his control idea was wrong. First, keep the horizon level in the window; that was straight up. Then worry about the sun and roll. He couldn’t be too far off; the pitch control was still near center and the window still showed distant land. He edged the control slightly in the direction away from the window and got the horizon again, but tilted.

Inertia helped—the massive ship didn’t change direction quickly and his reflexes were easily fast enough. He had to remember that he had time to think and not overcontrol.

Pushing the “roll” control forward rotated the ship counterclockwise. He rolled the window toward the ground, and gingerly pitched until the horizon was level in the port again.

Whoever was watching this was seeing some crazy corkscrews, he thought. But the controls felt very smooth and responsive; the designers had built some inherent stability into this rocket—after that initial tilt, it didn’t change directions easily. When he got good at keeping the horizon level, he rolled to find the sun.

The gap between the sun and the horizon had grown significantly already. Soon, the sun would be out of view high, if he kept the horizon. But he would lose his “down” reference if he lost the horizon.

The glare was nearly blinding him; he’d keep the horizon. But what about direction? He looked down. The flight deck was a brilliant green in the bright sunlight.

He didn’t have to see the sun—he could track the spot of sunlight the sun cast into the cabin! Keep the spot on the floor, in the same place near and left of the window, and they’d be on an eastward vector!

He rolled the spot onto the bulkhead left of the window, then gradually tilted the horizon. The spot of sunlight wobbled along the floor to a point beneath the port as the horizon tilted to just short of vertical.

It wobbled around as he made continual corrections—the steering was getting more sensitive. Also, Greg’s arms were getting very heavy.

The ship was getting lighter, of course, as they burned fuel, and acceleration was up.

He tried to think: a mass ratio of, say, thirty with an initial acceleration of something like fifteen meters per second squared, two Eponan gravities? With a little over half the fuel gone, acceleration would double.

“Kanti!”

Groan.

“You have to ease the peroxide lever back. Push yourself up and do it! Now!”

Groan.

How stable were these controls? Could he get up and do it himself? They must be up to three gravities—but he had to.

No, Kanti was crawling over to the lever. She pulled it back, and acceleration eased.

“Pull it back slowly until you’re comfortable.”

This, he realized, wasn’t very efficient. They should be reducing the hydrocarbon too, or soon they would be too fuel rich and waste delta-V.

“Can you go over to the other lever now? Reduce thrust by pulling that one back until it’s about the same position as the other one. Then keep going back and forth, OK?

“Got it,” she answered. Thrust went way down, then started to build back up again. In a minute, Kanti established a routine, going from one lever to another. Acceleration stabilized.

They must have wasted one hell of a lot of fuel, Greg thought. But at more or less constant acceleration, the lever positions at least gave him some idea of how much fuel he had left.

In a tribute to the engineers, the levers stayed where they were unless moved. Greg quickly discovered that he could keep his hands off the directional levers too, except when he needed to make a slight change, and the ride got much smoother.

The sky outside was black now. They had been rising for what, five minutes? It seemed to Greg like an eternity. Keep going, he said to himself—keep it going. Crazily, he noted that, in the confines of the cabin, he and Kanti still stank from the insides of the snail.

When the propellant valve levers had gone about 90 percent of the distance back to where they had started, Greg had Kanti pull them all the way back, peroxide first. Acceleration vanished. Hopefully, they were in orbit, or at least on a trajectory high enough to it to be rescued.

Had he saved enough fuel to manage a powered reentry? Greg hoped he wouldn’t have to find out. Of course, better that than running out of whatever air they had sealed in with them. What the Uther provision of life support systems was, he had no idea—but maybe, just maybe, they were designed to operate without power. He was certainly breathing OK for now.

A tortured hoot reminded him that they had an Uther on board. Kanti sang at it, and it sang back.

“It’s OK, just stunned,” she said. “ ‘Space, this blackness, is?’ it asks.”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “Space, this blackness is.”

“We’ve got company!” Kanti announced. “Come over here!”

Greg, belatedly, released himself from the couch and pushed himself over to the port. Not a kilometer away was a human shuttle, growing closer. Their launch, Greg thought, must have given the cyberservants quite a surprise—and their human masters nothing less than a shock once their liftoff plume revealed the rest of the disguised fleet.

Bach toned several chords. Kanti translated. “Fay D-flat Seege plans other humans now know. Spacecraft Fay D-flat Seege not now launch. Too late that action would be.”

An idiot that Uther was not, Greg thought. “If they wanted any chance at the station at all, Fay D-flat Seege’s best move would be to launch immediately. But I think that would still be too late—the base should have effective countermeasures together in hours.”

“Effective? You mean to kill all the attackers?”

“I wouldn’t think so. I’m not sure what they’d come up with, but it might be that our replicators are already turning out hundreds of tiny robot tug spacecraft that would rendezvous with the Fay D-flat Seege ships and push them back toward Epona. Knute won’t kill anyone if he doesn’t have to.”

Kanti frowned. “Not so simple. The Fay D-flat Seege would be humiliated—other flocks would do the killing.”

Greg shook his head. “Maybe they’ll work out some kind of face-saving compromise.”

Kanti didn’t look hopeful. “Maybe,” she said. “Meanwhile, I think it’s going to be a disaster for human-Uther relations down there.” Then she translated for Bach.

The Uther hooted, then spoke in triads.

Kanti laughed herself. “I guess I don’t know everything. What Bach said was ‘Fay D-flat Seege ship you humans scavenge. Much respect outside Fay D-flat Seege you humans win now. ’ Now that it said that, I can see it. But that creates another whole set of relationship questions, doesn’t it?”

Greg nodded. Be careful of what you wish for; you may get it. “Yes, it will take some time for all the ramifications of our little adventure to work themselves out.”

Bach glided over to the viewport with a ripple of its forewings. Then it took, from its ventral pouch, a small transparent box with rounded corners. In that, on a bed of what looked to be packed dirt, were a few flecks of green, gold, and crimson, and with its roots wrapped around a small rock, a tiny pagoda plant.

Kanti looked at Greg. There was no spontaneous outburst, as there might have been from the child he knew only two days ago. Instead, he met the eyes of a woman who had learned to deal with consequences. Her voice was quiet. “Fair play, I suppose. It’s going to be hard on Mom. At least it looks like we’ll get to the starbase before her. We can try to explain.”

Greg nodded; it would be hard on Kanti, too. He wished he had a human comm set.

The blue white orb of Epona turned slowly below them as the human rescue spacecraft matched their course. As if by common consent, the three of them savored a few moments of silence before the universe of events devoured them again.

Bach spoke. The three tone groups it uttered were, as usual, devoid of emotion in human terms, but Kanti whispered the translation: “Too heavy a carcass this Uther may try to carry, but into that carcass my teeth are forever sunk. My wings, providence must lift.”

That, Greg Konstantis thought, made two of us.