Infinity's Shore

Huck carried her own emblem of maturity — a narrow wooden tube, sealed with wax at both ends. Though humble looking, it might be the most important thing we brought with us from the Slope.

Huphu rode my shoulder as I stepped inside the whale sub. I noted that the tytlal-style noor, Mudfoot, had also rejoined us, though the creature seemed decidedly unhappy. Had he been exiled by the others, for the crime of letting their ancient secret slip? Or was he being honored, as we were, with a chance to live or die for Jijo?

Sara Koolhan stood between her chimp and the wounded starman as the great doors closed, cutting us off from the wharf lanterns, our village, and the thundering sky.

“Well, at least this is more comfortable than the last time we submerged, inside a dumb old hollow tree trunk,” Huck commented.

Pincer’s leg vents whistled resentfully. “You want comfy? Poor little g’Kekkie want to ride my back, an’ be tucked into her beddie?”

“Shut uf, you two,” Ur-ronn snapped. “Trust Ifni to stick ne with a vunch of ignoranuses for confanions.”

Huphu settled close as I umbled, feeling a strange, resigned contentment. My friends’ bickering was one unchanged feature of life from those naive days when we were youngsters, still dreaming of adventure in our Wuphon’s Dream. It was nice to know some things would be constant across space and time.

Alas, Huck had not mentioned the true difference between that earlier submergence and this one.

Back then, we sincerely thought there was a good chance we’d be coming home again.

This time, we all knew better.

Ewasx

ALARMS BLARE! INSTRUMENTS CRY OUT SIRENS OF danger!

Behold, My rings, how the CaptainLeader recalls the robots and remote crew stacks who were engaged in probing the deep-sea trench.

Greater worries now concern us!

For days, cognizance detectors have sieved through the deep, trying to separate the prey from its myriad decoys. It even occurred to us/Me that the Earthling ship may not be one of the moving blips at all! It might be sheltering silently in some dross pile. In operating the swarm by remote control, they might bypass all the normal etheric channels, using instead their fiendish talent at manipulating sound.

I/we are/am learning caution. I did not broach this possibility to the CaptainLeader.

Why did I refrain? A datum has come to our attention. Those in power often ask for the “truth,” or even the best guesses of their underlings. But in fact, they seldom truly wish to hear contradiction.

Anyway, the tactics stacks estimated improved odds at sifting for the quarry. Only one more day, at worst. We of the Polkjhy could easily afford the time.

Until we detected disturbing intruders. Interlopers that could only have come from the Five Galaxies!

“THERE ARE AT LEAST SIX SIXES OF THEM!”

So declares the cognizance detector operator. “Hovering, almost stationary, no more than fifteen planetary degrees easterly. One moment they were not there. The next moment, they appeared!”

The etherics officer vents steam of doubt.

“I/we perceive nothing, nor have our outlying satellites. This provokes a reasonable hypothesis: that your toruses are defective, or else your instruments.”

But routine checks discover no faults in either.

“They may have meme-suborned our satellites,” suggests one tactician stack. “Combining this with excellent masking technology—”

“Perhaps,” interrupts another. “But gravitics cannot be fooled so easily. If there are six sixes of ships, they cannot be larger than hull type sixteen. No match for us, then. We can annihilate the entire squadron, forthwith.”

“Is that why they operate in stealth?” inquires the CaptainLeader, puffing pheromones of enforced calm into the tense atmosphere. “Might they be lingering, just beyond line of sight, while awaiting reinforcements?”

It is a possibility we cannot ignore. But, lacking corvettes, we must go investigate ourselves.

Reluctantly, gracefully, the Polkjhy turns her omnipotence around, heading toward the ghostly flotilla. If they are scouts for an armada — perhaps the Soro or Tandu, our mortal foes — it may be necessary to act swiftly, decisively. Exactly the kind of performance that best justifies the existence of master rings.

Others must not be allowed to win the prize!

As we move ponderously eastward, a new thought burbles upward. A streak of wax, secreted by our oncerebellious second torus-of-cognition.

What is it, My ring?

You recall how the savage sooners called to our corvette, not once, but twice, using minute tickles of digital power to attract our attention?

The first time, they used such a beacon to bribe us with the location of a g’Kek hideout.

The second time? Ah, yes. It was a lure, drawing the corvette to a trap.

VERY CLEVER, MY RING!

Ah, but the comparison does not work.

There are many more sources, this time.

They are stronger, and the cognizance traces have spoor patterns typical of starship computers.

But above all, My poor ring, did you not hear our detection officer stack?

These signals cannot come from benighted sooners.