Infinity's Shore

ME WANTED TO MAKE LOVE AGAIN. Who wouldn’t, after the way Ling had writhed and clutched at him, with animal-like cries that belied her background as an urbane sky god? He, too, had felt a seismic quake of passion. Ardor that reached out of something wild within … followed by a release that was blissfully free of any sapient thought.

Despite their dire circumstance, trapped in a ship filled with mortal enemies, Lark felt fine. Better than he had since—

Since ever. Somehow, this climax did not leave him in a state of lassitude, but filled with energy, a postcoital animation he had never experienced before. So much for my vow of celibacy, he thought. Of course, that vow had been for the sake of Jijo. And we’re not on Jijo anymore.

He reached for Ling. But she stopped him with an upraised hand, sitting up, her breasts still glistening with their commingled sweat.

Ling’s eyes were distant. Her ears twitched, listening.

A jungle surrounded them — supported by lattice scaffolding that filled a chamber larger than the artificial cave of Biblos. A maze of fantastic, profusely varied vegetation nearly filled the cavity. In this far corner, apparently illtended by the maintenance drones, the two fugitive hominids had built a nest. Ling, the trained spatiobiologist, had no trouble spotting several types of fruits and tubers to eat. They might live weeks or months this way … or perhaps the rest of their lives. Unless the universe intruded.

Which it did, of course.

“They’ve turned on their defensive array,” she told him. “And I think they’re slowing down.”

“How can you tell?” Lark listened, but could make out no difference in the mesh of interlacing engine sounds, more complex than the verdant jungle.

Ling slipped into the rag of a tunic that was her sole remaining garment. “Come on,” she said.

With a sigh, he put on his own torn shirt. Lark picked up the leather thong holding his amulet — the fragment of the Holy Egg he had chipped off as a child. For the first time in years, he considered not slipping it on. If the ship had left Jijo, might that make him free at last from the love-hate burden?

“Come on!” Ling was already scooting along the latticeway, heading toward the exit. In a torn cloth sling, she carried the wounded red torus — one of the traeki rings provided by Asx.

He slipped the thong around his neck and reached for the crude sack that contained the purple ring and their few other possessions.

“I’m on my way,” he murmured, clambering out of the nest, wondering if they would ever be back.

Ling had her bearings now. With Lark to sniff scent indicators at tunnel intersections, and the purple ring serving as a passkey, they had little trouble hurrying “north” up the ship’s axis. Twice they sped along by using antigravity drop tubes. Lark’s stomach did somersaults as his body went careening up a jet-black tunnel. The landings were always soft, though. Even better, they did not meet a single Jophur or robot along the way.

“They’re at battle stations,” she explained. “Here. Their control room should be just below this level. If I’m right, there should be an observers’ gallery.…”

Lark smelled an oddly familiar aroma, much like the fragrance traeki used when they referred to Biblos.

Ling pointed to a rare written symbol inscribed on the wall. She crowed. “I was right!”

Lark had seen the glyph before — a rayed spiral with five swirling arms. Even Jijo’s fallen races knew what it stood for. The Great Galactic Library. Symbol for both patience and knowledge.

“Hurry!” Ling said as he applied the purple ring to the entrance plate. The barrier slid open, giving access to a dim chamber whose sole illumination came through a broad window, directly opposite the door. It took just a few strides to cross over and stare through the glass at a bright gallery below. A chamber filled with Jophur.

There were scores of the tapered stacks. Taller and more slickly perfect than any Jijoan traeki, they squatted next to instrument stations, many of them surrounded by flashing panels and lighted controls. At the very center, one gleaming torus pile perched on a raised dais, surveying the labors of the crew.

“A lot of big ships have observation decks, like the one we’re in,” Ling explained in a low voice. “They’re for when legates from any of the great Institutes come aboard — say on an inspection tour. Most of the time, though, they just contain a watcher.”

“A what?”

She gestured to her left, where Lark now saw a roughly man-sized cube with a single dark lens in the middle, looking over the Jophur control room.

“It’s a WOM … or Write-Only Memory. A witness. Any capital ship from a great clan is supposed to carry one, especially if engaged in some major venture. It takes a record that can then be archived in deep storage so later generations may learn from the experience of each race, after a certain time period expires.”

“How long?”