He glanced over at Byx, who had a knack for comprehending the speech produced by the Illiazyk voicedrum. Her mutterband was rattling as well, and she was stirring in her sleep.
“Hey, squirt,” he whispered, as she yawned in response. “Can you tell me what this nice lady is saying?”
Byx rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and listened to his band in solemn weariness. After a moment, however, she became more animated.
“It’s Uncle Froomie,” she announced, bouncing up and down a bit. “Uncle Froomie’s here!”
“What’s going on?” asked Merinel, shaken awake by Byx’s acrobatics.
Tench was already on his feet. “Y’Phroum has arrived.”
* * *
The three of them went out to find their neighbor Artung waiting for them.
“No time to waste, no time to waste,” chortled the gangling Trylm, squatting on his haunches to regard them at eye level. “The Lieutenant has emerged. Up on my back now, do not be shy! On a night freighted with such portent, I can bear you all with ease.” At his urging, they clambered up upon him, nestling hands and feet into the folds of his clothing.
“Off we go, now!” Artung lurched into motion, almost unbalanced by their weight, and soon reached his full stride.
“How long will it be?” shouted Tench above the wind whistling in his ears.
“Perhaps twenty minutes,” replied Artung.
“Are you sure you can handle us?”
“My blood is charged with purpose! I may sleep for a month, but tonight, I could bear a mountain on my back!”
They raced through the night as the crowded sky veered back and forth to the motions of Artung’s loping gait. Byx laughed wildly and began singing a song about a race between four moons, and Artung roared joyously in appreciation.
In due time a knot of excited Dishfolk appeared on a grassy slope, milling excitedly around a phenomenon that was hidden from the riders’ view. Artung slowed to an exhausted halt at the periphery of the gathering, and his trio of passengers hopped to the ground. The crowd made way for Tench, and finally, when an enormous Hrk-Yuula stepped to one side, the source of the excitement was revealed: Y’Phroum stood halfway emerged from a hatch in the ground, still resting his elbows on the turf as he greeted the folk of Tenbor.
The burly Wuldra turned the smoked-glass orbs of his eyes towards Tench, and the cilia which covered the lower half of his face writhed in a spiral pattern -- a smile. “Greetings, old friend.”
“Hello, Eeph.”
Byx catapulted herself into Y’Phroum’s arms, gleefully ruffling his fur. “Uncle Froomie, Uncle Froomie!” she shouted. “Are you going to stay with us forever?”
“I wish I could, dear one,” chortled Y’Phroum, bussing her cheek with his cilia, “but an Uncle’s work is never done. I think I shall stay a little while, however. I only wish I had a better excuse for visiting.”
“Do you think the Entity will come back, Lieutenant?” asked the Hrk-Yuula in grating tones. The question was taken up by the rest of the assembly.
“Peace, my friends, peace,” urged Y’Phroum. “You know it is not my way to promise that which I do not already possess. But I am confident that Tenbor will endure this trial, endure it and thrive. Now if you will pardon me, I must talk for a while with my old comrade Tench. I will see you all again in the morning, I am sure, and in the meantime I have many things from Mecantrion to share with you, including some logicsets which may be useful in the current emergency, as well as a good deal of non-Verch media offerings.” Y’Phroum hoisted himself out of the hatchway and produced a packet of hard memory, which he delivered into the manipulator arms of a waiting bot. “78-D will see to their distribution,” he said. “And now, Tench, will you walk a ways with the teacher you have so thoroughly surpassed?”
* * *
At Y’Phroum’s request, Tench took him to his favorite spar, where they sat and watched the sun rise over the rim of the Dish valley. As the shadows of night retreated down the length of the antenna, Y’Phroum spoke of events in Mecantrion, and across the hull of the great ship.
“The blister warrens of Denac have been almost completely cleared of rock imps, and settlers from the engine pod of Istillan have begun to make homes there. The Istillan Entity approves of the venture in theory, and lends tepid support, but it is a fusty old thing and not well-suited to such a momentous undertaking. Commander Xixanil is currently trying to rehabilitate a bolder Entity from below decks to look over the new settlement.”
Tench’s shoulders tightened at this line of conversation, but Y’Phroum did not dwell on the topic.
“On a more disturbing note, the Hjaba Entity has scoured its demesne clear of structures and soil, and polished the hull to a mirror-bright finish. The few brave souls who remain dwell below decks, emerging by night to travel on wind-blown skiffs which mar the hull with their skids. The Hjaba Entity then directs its bots to buff away the skid-marks, which occupies so much of their time that they are not able to drive away the recalcitrant Hjabans. It is a precarious balance.”
“Why is the Hjaba Entity doing this?” asked Tench.
“That is unknown,” replied Y’Phroum. “It is thought by some that it has gone mad, and is trying to use the reflective surface as a signaling device.”
Tench stood up, his hands trembling with unquantifiable emotions. “The Hjaba Entity would never come after Tenbor,” he snapped. “Tenbor isn’t a transmitter. The only big transmitters are in Mecantrion, and the Hjaba Entity would never take on the Septet, either.”
Y’Phroum stood as well, dwarfing Tench with his dawn-limned silhouette. “You race ahead to arguments I do not make,” he said. “And you are correct: the Hjaba Entity will not seek to inhabit Tenbor. But someone must. And even in the best of outcomes, even if the Crew can identify and assign a stable and committed Entity, it will almost certainly be a less ideal guardian than its predecessor. The Tenbor Entity is a model, a paragon among its kind -- the Septet themselves look up to it. Its excellence is apparent even in its absence. Do you have any idea how most of the ‘civilized’ settlements would react, bereft of their all-powerful protectors? It would be chaos. Even in Mecantrion, if two or three of the Septet disappeared, towers would burn. But the Tenbor Entity has preserved your people’s resilience, even while bending the Dish’s systems to their will. To lose such an Entity is not only a loss for Tenbor, it is a loss for every Entity who hoped, through studying Tenbor, to learn how to better fulfill the role for which they were created. To remember the standard of excellence they once claimed.”
“I can’t do it, Eeph. Send someone else. I’m telling you, I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t go back into the depths. I’ll burn up.”
“Are you trying to tell me that your totem glyph has grown weak?”
“Yes,” Tench replied, too quickly.
“Do you know how long it took me to puzzle my way past the seals you placed on Tenbor’s lower accessways? Four hours. I had to dispatch three tunnel wights who came upon me as I sat stymied by your logic. And this was something you had erected within ten minutes, to ward off underdwellers and rogue bots who would be hard-pressed to solve a child’s riddle. So it is my professional opinion that your totem glyph has not faded over the years. Indeed, I think it has only grown stronger.”
“Then I'll maintain the seals,” Tench said. “I'll lock out everything. We’ll live on our own.”
Y’Phroum regarded Tench with furrowed cilia. “You propose to return the Dish to a fallow state? Even if you were capable of such a feat, are you so eager to return to the life into which you were born?”
“Things would be better this time,” Tench insisted.
“Tench, the Entities were made to run the ship, and the ship was made to be run by them. You have done masterful work since the event -- far better than I myself could have done -- but you cannot hold back th
e tide forever. An army of geniuses could not hope to bring stability to an installation this complex. You would be unable to maintain a consistent power supply, let alone contribute to our overarching goal.”
Tench laughed bitterly and turned away to look out over the lake, gnawing on a fingernail.
Y’Phroum sighed. “I know you do not believe the ship will ever fly again,” he said. “I myself do not believe that it will happen in my lifetime. But I am not relying on this to sway you. I will not remind you of the vows you took in Mecantrion. I will not even refer to you as ‘Ensign.’“
Tench winced at these memories, which tugged at him despite Y’Phroum’s assessment of his cynicism. They recalled days when the entire hull had resounded, in his mind, with purpose and valor. But Y’Phroum was right, those days were gone, torn away by the sneers of his comrades and the phantasmagoria of the Verch, banished by the incessant whispers.
“I will not do these things,” continued Y’Phroum, “because they have nothing to do with why you will go. You will go because you do not wish Abixandra to grow up in a world where she could die of disease, or be enslaved, or be ignorant of the great artists of her people. You will go for your daughter.”
Tench thought of Byx, so bright with joy it sometimes hurt to look at her, already starting to put together her first simple glyphs: childish things which evoked badly sung songs or misshapen rabbits within the Verch. He thought of her having a childhood like his, where every day was part of the long slow struggle against dissolution; never being sure if life as she knew it would last the year out, or the month.
“You could do it, Eeph,” he said quietly, not looking at his friend. “You could do it, and I could go on running the Dish while you did.”
“You know that I am not Tenbor’s best hope of restoration,” Y’Phroum replied. “Take today to prepare. 78-D and I will see to everything else. Then, tomorrow morning, you must make your way to a nearby Verch node, either below decks or in the heights of the antenna.”
“How are things below decks?”
“Restless.”
Tench looked up, joylessly, at the tower’s soaring mass.
* * *
Comprehension filled Merinel’s eyes as soon as she saw Tench’s face. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow,” he replied, taking her hands in his own.
“Where will you go?”
“To the top of the antenna.”
“How long will it take?”
Tench shrugged. “Half a day to climb. After that, I don’t know.”
“What do you need?”
“Your promise, that you’ll both be safe.”
Merinel smiled. “I think I can make you an ironclad guarantee. Artung hovers over us like a mother hen, 78-D had a long talk with a vicious-looking bot which now makes a discreet pass over the farm every seven minutes, and Bandalonon sent a pretty little whiz-gig to watch over Byx night and day. Half the Dish have appointed themselves our personal guardians.”
“When the other half signs up, I’ll relax.”
“Stop it. We’ll be fine. Now get inside and eat something.”
In the kitchen, Byx was sharing a bowl of soup with a brilliantly colored beetle the size of her hand. “Look, Daddy! Banda-pylx has come to play with me!”
“Can I see?” asked Tench as he sat down. The beetle amiably waddled over to his forearm.
“Can you deliver a message to Bandalonon?”
Banda-pylx gave a little chirp of affirmation.
“Tell her I will visit her later for a traveling companion.”
The beetle bobbed up and down, vibrating her feathery antennae mightily as she memorized the message. She then opened her iridescent shell-case and buzzed away on surprisingly agile wings.
Byx pouted significantly. “You sent my friend away.”
“She’ll be back, honey,” Merinel assured her.
“Where are you going, Daddy?”
Tench kept his eyes on his soup. “On a little trip.”
“Can I come?”
“‘Fraid not, squirt.”
“Oh.” Byx toyed absently with her napkin. “Are you going to bring back the Endity?”
Tench looked up at his daughter, caught off-guard by how much of the world she understood. “Yes, Byx,” he replied. “I’m going to try.”
“Goodie! Tell him he needs to finish helping me with my sunflower glyph.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, quite seriously. Any task left undone, any reminder of the Entity’s commitment to Tenbor, might serve to lure it back from whatever quirk or whimsy had led it to abandon its people.
* * *
Later in the day, Tench commandeered the services of a heavy lifter bot to convey him to Bandalonon’s nest. The bot behaved well, except for an episode when it began to rotate slowly on its longitudinal axis. This in itself was no great cause for concern, for Tench was held securely in the bot’s padded grippers, but he cringed at the thought of a fall should the erratic machine decide to drop him.
After twenty seconds, however, the bot righted itself, and 78-D’s mellifluous voice emanated from Tench’s band:
“A regrettable parsing flaw which sometimes crops up in logicset Stalwart-5. I have remedied the error.” The rest of the flight occurred without incident.
Tench was deposited near the nest’s entry, and he stood for a moment watching the wide variety of broodlings arriving with supplies or leaving on new errands. He looked for any signs that the unsettled atmosphere of the Dish had evoked a defensive response in the semi-sentient creatures, but they seemed to be behaving normally, and when a dog-sized beetle approached him and thrummed its wings affectionately, he knew that Bandalonon’s offspring were unfazed by the crisis. He ducked his head under the nest’s threshold and made his way into its warm, moist interior.
Bugs of all shapes and sizes made way for him as he approached the main chamber, where he found Bandalonon reclining on her enormous divan, fussing over a clutch of eggs.
“Tench, you old thing!” she boomed. “It has been far, far too long since I have seen you. Come here and give an old woman a hug!”
Tench picked his way through Bandalonon’s retinue and obliged her, giving her gargantuan abdomen a thump for good measure. “A new batch?” he asked, looking at her eggs.
“Yes indeed,” replied Bandalonon with quasi-motherly pride, “mostly generalists, but one of them will be well-adapted for underwater work. There may be a good market for that.”
“There may be a good market for all your troop, if the bots get much worse.”
“Ha! The thought had crossed my mind. Indeed, the current crisis has evoked within me a bit of atavism, a nostalgia for the early days of my species, when our broods went out foraging for food rather than odd jobs. But when all is taken with all, I much prefer the modern life, and I have no wish to see the bots become ashtrays and umbrella stands. That is part of why you are here, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Tench, trying not to squirm as a groomer bug went to work on his hair. “I am going to pay a visit to the Iron Goats, and I’d rather not go alone.”
“Is that so?” asked Bandalonon, clacking her mandibles. “Would the Iron Goats resent your presence?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, well, well,” said Bandalonon, waggling her antennae thoughtfully as she looked over her brood, “Who would be appropriate for such a journey? Someone smart, of course, and agile enough to navigate the upper reaches. But not a flyer, I think, for their freedom tends to make them irresponsible. You need someone quiet, in case the Goats prove to be good hosts. And someone dangerous enough to be useful if they do not.” Bandalonon rattled the empty husks of her wing-cases as she pondered. Finally she chirped, and one of her brood leapt forward: a bright green creature almost as high as Tench’s knee, who resembled a beetle standing upright on grasshopper legs.
“This is Banda-sarg,” Bandalonon
explained. “She is a very special creature, possessed of many unusual qualities: judgement, initiative, discretion, and a formidable soporific agent in her saliva. I bred her as a precaution against unlikely circumstances, but in the present set of unlikely circumstances, I think she will serve me best by serving you. She has a sizeable vocabulary, although she can only form words in the language of our kind, and in any case she seldom has much to say. Nevertheless, she is capable of great loyalty, and even affection.”
“She sounds like the right girl for the job,” replied Tench.
“She is the right broodling for the job,” Bandalonon corrected him sternly. “Do not humanomorphize her. She is not truly sentient, in the sense that you or I or even a dog is sentient. If need be, she will readily sacrifice herself for you, and you must not prevent it. I can always produce another Banda-sarg; you, however, are unique.”
Bandalonon chittered to Banda-sarg in her rapid native tongue while Tench struggled for a framework in which to place the engaging little drone. “It’s hard not to think of your brood as your children.”
“Ha! One day I will have a real child, and ask you to babysit. The difference will be most clear to you then!”
“Is it lonely for you, cut off from the Verch?”
“Not terribly, no. My kind was meant for solitude. In truth, the brood make for good company despite their limitations. I also amuse myself with memories of the old days, when I was sleek and mobile. Oh, the times I had! And of course, when I think of my beloved Hyrgam, and our glorious flight...”
“Does Banda-sarg have any needs I should know about?” Tench broke in hurriedly. Bandalonon was capable of reminiscing upon her first and only sexual experience for hours on end.
“She doesn’t require much in the way of food, if that’s what you mean. I will provide you with three trophic eggs; that should keep her going for several days. Shall I lay some for you as well? I have been hard at work on the flavoring!”
“I leave tomorrow.”
“Hmph. I can see the relief in your eyes. You must not blame me for the last time -- many species enjoy the taste of their own fecal matter. How was I to know that you Humans were so picky? Well, if you are leaving so abruptly, I am sure you have more preparations to make. You are going after the Entity, yes?”