Startide Rising

  The solar plane hummed along at four thousand feet; the little aircraft wasn't designed for breaking records. It was little more than a narrow skeleton. The propeller was driven by sunlight falling on the wide, translucent wing.

  Kithrup's world-ocean was traced below by thin whitecaps. Tom flew to the northeast, letting the tradewinds do most of the work. The same winds would make the return trip -- if there were one -- slow and hazardous.

  Higher, faster winds pushed the dark clouds eastward, chasing him.

  He was flying almost by dead reckoning, using only Kithrup's orange sun for rough navigation. A compass would be useless, for metal-rich Kithrup was covered with twisty magnetic anomalies.

  Wind whistled past the plane's small conical noseguard. Lying prone on the narrow platform, he hardly felt the breeze.

  Tom wished he had just one more pillow. His elbows were getting chafed, and his neck was developing a crick. He had trimmed and retrimmed his list of supplies until he found himself choosing between one more psi-bomb to use at this destination and a water distiller to keep him alive when he got there. His compromise collection was taped to the platform beneath his cushion. The lumps made it almost impossible to find a comfortable position.

  The journey was an unending monotony of sea and sky.

  Twice he caught sight of swarms of flying creatures in the distance. It was his first inkling that any animals flew on Kithrup. Could they have evolved from jumping fish? He was a bit surprised to find flight on a world so barren of heights.

  Of course, the creatures might have been molded by some ancient Galactic tenant of Kithrup, he thought. Where nature's variety fails, sophonts can meddle. I've seen weirder gene-crafted things than fliers on a water world.

  Tom remembered a time when he and Gillian had accompanied old Jake Demwa to the Tymbrimi university-world of Cathrhennlin. Between meetings, he and Jill had toured a huge continental wilderness preserve, where they saw great herds of Clideu beasts grazing the grassy plains in precise and complex geometric patterns. The arrangements spontaneously changed, minute by minute, without any apparent communication among the individual animals -- like the transient weavings of a moire pattern. The Tymbrimi explained that an ancient Galactic race that had dwelt on Cathrhennlin ages ago had programmed the patterns into the Clideu as a form of puzzle. No one in all time since had ever managed to decipher the riddle, if there actually was one.

  Gillian suggested that the patterns might have been adapted by the Clideu for their own benefit. The puzzle loving Tymbrimi preferred to think otherwise.

  Tom smiled as he recalled that trip, their first mission as a pair. Since then he and Gillian had seen more wonders than they could ever catalog.

  He missed her already.

  The local birds, or whatever, veered away from the growing bank of clouds. Orley watched them until they passed out of sight. There was no sign of land in the direction they flew.

  The plane was making nearly two hundred knots. That should take him to the northeast chain of volcanic islands he sought in another two hours or so. Radio, satellite tracking, and radar were all forbidden luxuries. Tom had only the chart pinned to his windscreen to guide him.

  He'd be able to do better on the return trip. Gillian' insisted he take an inertial recorder. It could guide him blindfolded back to within a few meters of Hikahi's island.

  Should the opportunity arise.

  The pursuing clouds grew slowly above and behind him. Kithrup's jet stream was really cooking. Tom admitted that he wouldn't mind finding a landing site before the storm reached him.

  As the afternoon wore on he saw another swarm of flying creatures, and twice he caught a glimpse of motion in the water below, something huge and sinuous. Both times the thing vanished before he could get a better look.

  Scattered among the swells below floated sparse patches of seaweed. Some clusters came together to form isolated mounds of vegetation. Perhaps the flying things perched on those, he thought idly.

  Tom fought the tedium and developed a profound hatred for whatever lumpy object lay directly under his left kidney.

  The glowering cloudbank was only a couple of miles behind him when he saw something on the northern horizon, a faint smudge against the graying sky.

  He applied more power and banked toward the plume. Soon he could make out a dusky funnel. Curling and twisting to the northeast, it hung like a sooty banner across the sky.

  Tom strove for altitude, even as the threatening clouds encroached on the late afternoon sun, casting shadow onto the solar collectors on his wing. Thunder grumbled, and flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the seascape.

  When it began to rain, the ammeter swung far over to the red. The tiny engine began to labor.

  Yes. There it was! An island! The mountain seemed a good way off yet. It was partly hidden by smoke.

  He'd prefer to land on a companion isle, one that wasn't quite as active. Orley grinned at the presumption of anyone in his position making demands. He would land at sea, if need be. The small plane was equipped with pontoons.

  The light was fading. In the growing dimness Tom noticed that the surface of the ocean had changed color. Something about its texture made him frown in puzzlement. It was hard to tell what the difference was.

  Soon he had little time for speculation, as he fought his bucking craft, struggling for every foot of altitude.

  Hoping it would remain light long enough to find a landing place, he drove his fragile ship through the pelting rain toward the smoldering volcano.

  34 ::: Creideiki

  He hadn't realized the ship looked this bad.

  Creideiki had checked the status of every damaged engine and instrument. As repairs were made, he or Takkata-Jim had discreetly triple-checked. Most of the damage that could be fixed, had been.

  But as ship's master, he was the one who also had to deal with the intangibles. Someone had to pay attention to aesthetics, no matter how low their priority. And however successful the functional repairs were, Streaker was no longer beautiful.

  This was his first trip outside in person. He wore a breather and swam above the scarred hull, getting an overview.

  The stasis flanges and the main gravity drives would work. He had Takkata-Jim's and Emerson D'Anite's word on that, and had checked himself. One rocketry impeller had been destroyed by an antimatter beam at Morgran. The remaining tube was serviceable.

  But though the hull was secure and strong, it was not the delight to the eye it had once been. The outer skin was seared in two places, where beams had penetrated the shields to blister the skin.

  Brookida had told him that there was even one small area where the metal had been changed from one alloy to another. The structural integrity of the ship was intact, but it meant that someone had come awfully close to them with a probability distorter. It was disturbing to think that that piece of Streaker had been swapped with another similar but slightly different ship, containing similar but slightly different fugitives, in some hypothetical parallel universe.

  According to Library records, no one had ever learned to control cross-universe distorters well enough to use them as anything but weapons, though it was rumored that some of the ancient species that "outgrew" Galactic civilization from time to time discovered the secret, and used it to leave this reality by a side door.

  The concept of endless parallel universes was one known by dolphins since long before humans learned fire. It was integral to the Whale Dream. The great cetaceans moaned complacently of a world that was endlessly mutable. In becoming tool users, amicus dolphins lost this grand indifference. Now they understood the whales' philosophy little better than did men.

  A tame version of the probability distorter was one of the dozen ways the Galactics knew to cheat the speed of light, but cautious species avoided it. Ships disappeared using probability drives.

  Creideiki imagined coming out of FTL to find a convention of "Streakers" -- all from different universes, all captained by slightl
y altered versions of himself. The whales might be able to be philosophically complacent about a situation like that. He wasn't so sure of himself.

  Besides, the whales, for all their philosophical genius, were imbeciles on levels dealing with spaceships and machines. They wouldn't recognize a fleet of ships any better than a dog knew its reflection in the water.

  Less than two months ago, Creideiki had faced a derelict fleet of ships the size of moons, as old as middle-aged stars. He had lost a dozen good fen there, and had been fleeing fleets of ships ever since.

  There were times when he wished he could be animal blind to some things, as were the whales. Or as philosophical.

  Creideiki swam up to a ridge overlooking the ship. Bright heliarc lamps cast long shadows in the clear euphotic water. The crews below were finished installing the booty Suessi had found at the Thennanin wreck. There remained only clearing the landing legs for movement.

  Hikahi had left just hours ago, with a picked crew and the ship's skiff: Creideiki wished he could have spared more to go help Suessi, but Streaker was already well below minimum complement.

  He still saw no alternative to Thomas Orley's plan. Metz and Takkata-Jim had been unable to come up with anything short of outright surrender to the winner of the battle overhead, and that was one thing Creideiki could never permit. Not while there was any chance at all.

  Passive sensors showed the fight in space peaking in fury. Within days it might climax, and the last opportunity for an escape in confusion and disguise would be upon them.

  I hope Tom arrived safely, and his experiment is successful.

  The water echoed with the low grumbling of engines being tested. Creideiki had calculated the acceptable noise levels himself. There were so many forms of leakage -- neutrinos from the power plant, gravitonics from the stasis screen, psi from everyone aboard. Sound was the least of his worries.

  As he swam, Creideiki heard something above him. He turned his attention surfaceward.

  A solitary neo-fin drifted near the detector buoys, working on them with harness manipulators. Creideiki moved closer.

  * Is there a problem --

  Here to bother

  * Duty's patterns? *

  He recognized the giant Stenos, K'tha-Jon. The bosun started. His eyes widened, and momentarily Creideiki could see the whites around the flat, boat-like pupils.

  K'tha-Jon recovered quickly. His mouth opened in a grin.

  * Noise buzz bothered --

  Neutrino listener

  * She could not hear --

  The battle raging

  * Now she tells me --

  Static has fled

  * I'll to my duty, --

  Now be leaving

  This was serious business. It was vital that Streaker's bridge know what was going on in the sky and be able to hear news of Thomas Orley's mission.

  Takkata-Jim should have detailed someone else to do the job. The buoys were the responsibility of the bridge crew. Still, with Hikahi and Tsh't gone, and most of the elite bridge crew with them, perhaps K'tha-Jon was the only petty officer who could be spared.

  * Good as jumping --

  Big wave rider

  * Now hurry back --

  To those who await you *

  K'tha-Jon nodded. His harness arms folded back. Without another word, he blew a small cloud of bubbles and dove toward the bright opening of Streakers lock.

  Creideiki watched the giant go.

  Superficially, at least, K'tha-Jon appeared to have reacted more resiliently than many of the other fen to Streaker's predicament. Indeed, he had seemed even to relish the fighting retreat from Morgran, and manned his gun battery with fierce enthusiasm. He was an efficient non-com.

  Then why do my hackles rise whenever I'm near him? Is he another of Metz's sports?

  I must insist Dr. Metz stop stalling, and show me his records! If necessary, I'll override the man's door-locks -- protocols be damned!

  K'tha-Jon had become Lieutenant Takkata-Jim's constant companion. Together with Metz, the three were the chief opponents to Tom Orley's plan. There was still bad bile over it. Takkata-Jim had become more taciturn than ever.

  The vice-captain was becoming a real problem. Creideiki felt compassion for the lieutenant. It was not his fault this test cruise had become a crucible. But pity would not prevent Creideiki from promoting Hikahi over his head as soon as the crew was reunited.

  Takkata-Jim was likely aware of what was coming, and of the report the captain had to write on each of his officers for the Uplift Center. Takkata-Jim's right to have special, bonus offspring might be in jeopardy.

  Creideiki could imagine how the vice-captain felt. There were times when even he felt oppressed by the towering invasiveness of uplift, when he almost wanted to squawk in Primal, "Who gave you the right?" And the sweet hypnosis of the Whale Dream would call to him to return to the embrace of the Old Gods.

  The moment always passed, and he recalled that there was nothing in the universe he wanted more than to command a starship, to collect tapes of the songs of space, and to explore the currents between the stars.

  A school of native fish swam past. They looked a little like mullet, kitsch mullet, in garish, metal-flake scales.

  He felt a sudden urge to give chase, to call his hardworking crew out to join him in -- a hunt!

  He envisioned his stolid engineers and techs dropping their harnesses to join in the squealing pack, nimbly driving the poor creatures, catching them in midair as panic drove` them leaping above the surface.

  Even if a few fen got carried away and swallowed some metal, it would be worth it for morale.

  * All the rains of Spring,

  And then, one secret evening,

  Riding waves, the Moon ... *

  It was a Haiku of regret.

  There was no time for hunt-games, not while they themselves were quarry.

  His harness chime announced that he had only thirty minutes' air left. He shook himself. If his meditation had gone any deeper Nukapai might have come. The chimerical goddess would have teased him. Her gentle voice would have reminded him of Hikahi's absence.

  The observation buoys bobbed nearby, tethered by slender strands to the seabed below. He swam closer to the smooth red and white ovoid K'tha-Jon had worked on, and noticed that the access plate had been left ajar.

  Creideiki's head bobbed as he cast narrowly focused sound. The odd geometry of the buoy and guy wires was mildly disturbing.

  His sonar-speak receiver buzzed. An amplified voice came to him over the neural patchline.

  "Captain, thisss is Takkata-Jim. We've just finished testing the impellers and the stasis generators. They're working up to your new specs. Also, Suessi called to say that the ... the Trojan Seahorse is coming along. Hikahi has arrived there and sends greetingsss."

  "Good." Creideiki sent the words directly along the neural link. "Has there been anything from Orley?"

  "No, sir. And it's getting late. Are you sure you want to go with this plan of his? What if he can't get a psi-bomb message back to us?"

  "We have already discussed the contingencies."

  `And we're still going to move the ship? I do think that we ought to talk it over one more time."

  Creideiki felt a wave of irritation. "We'll not discussss policy over an open channel, Pod-second. And it's already decided. I'll be back shortly. Meanwhile, search for loose ends to bite off: We must be ready when Tom calls!"

  `Aye, sir." Takkata-Jim didn't sound at all apologetic as he switched off.

  Creideiki had lost count of the number of times he had been questioned about this plan. If they lacked faith because he was "only" a dolphin, they should have noted that the original idea was Thomas Orley's! Besides, he, Creideiki, was captain. He was the one saddled with saving their lives and honor.

  When he had served aboard the survey vessel James Cook, he had never witnessed its human master, Captain Alvarez, questioned this way.

  He slashed his tail through the wa
ter until his temper cooled. He counted until the calming patterns of Keneenk settled over him.

  Let it go, he decided. The majority of the crew did not question, and the rest obeyed their instructions. For an experimental crew, under immense pressure, that would have to do.

  "Where there is mind, there is always solution," Keneenk taught. All problems contained the elements of their answer.

  He commanded his manipulator arms to reach out and grab the access panel to the buoy.

  If the buoy was in good order, he would find a way to praise Takkata-Jim. There would be a key to reach the lieutenant, to pull him back into the ship's community and break his vicious cycle of isolation. "Where there is mind ..."

  It would only take a few minutes to find out if it was in I working order. Creideiki plugged an extension from his neural socket into the buoy's computer. He commanded the machine to report its status.

  A brilliant arc of electric discharge flashed in front of him. Creideiki screamed as the shock blew out the motors of his harness and seared the skin around his neural tap.

  A penetrator bolt! Creideiki realized in stunned rigidity.

  How ...?

  He felt it all in slow motion. The current fought with the protective diodes of his nerve amplifier. The main circuit breaker threw, but the insulation almost immediately buckled under backlash.

  Paralyzed, Creideiki seemed to hear a voice in the pulsing, battling fields, a voice taunting him.

  # Where there is mind -- is mind,

  is -- also deception

  # Deception -- is, there is #

  In a body-arching squeal of agony, Creideiki screamed one undisciplined cry in Primal, the first of his adult life. Then he rolled belly-up, to drift in a blackness deeper than night.