"He's seen more urs! They're here already, swinging south to take us from behind!"
Kurt blinked a couple of times, then began to open his mouth-but was cut off by a fluting whistle of jubilation from the prisoners.
Ulgor stretched her neck toward them. "I told you our allies would not take long arriving. Now cut these cords so I can intercede, and fersuade our Urunthai friends not to treat you too badly."
"Sara," Kurt said, taking her elbow. But she shrugged him off. There was no time to spare.
"Kurt, you take Jornah, Prity, and the Stranger into the rocks. The Urunthai can't follow well in rough terrain. You might reach high ground if Blade and I stall them. Try to find a cave or something. Go!"
She swiveled to face the blue qheuen. "Are you ready, Blade?"
"I am, Sara!" The blue clacked two fierce pincers and stepped forward, as if prepared to fight the Battle of Znunir Trading Post all over again.
More laughter made her turn around. This time it was Dedinger. The former sage chortled amusement.
"Oh, don't mind me, sister. Your plan sounds delightful. It'll save my life and those of my men. So by all means, Kurt, do as she says! Head for the rocks. Go!"
Sara quickly saw what Dedinger meant. If Urunthai reinforcements found they could not follow the fugitives through a boulder field, or down some narrow grotto, or up a garu tree, that could force them to renew their broken alliance with the band of human radicals, forgoing vengeance-at least for as long as it took the desert trappers to hunt Kurt and the others down.
She sagged, seeing the futility of it all.
We've been through so much, only to come right back where we started.
"Sara-" Kurt said again. Then the old man stopped what he had been about to say and cocked his head. "Listen."
The clearing went silent. Moments later, she heard it too-the approaching clatter of rushing hooves. A great many of them. She could feel their rumbling haste through the soles of her feet.
Too late to come up with another plan. Too late for anything but dignity.
She took the Stranger's arm. "Sorry I didn't catch on when you first tried to warn us," she said, brushing the worst streaks of dust off of his clothes and straightening his collar. If he was to be their prize, he should at least look the part of a valuable hostage, not some ragamuffin drifter. He repaid her with a tentative smile. Together, they turned south, to face the onrushing cavalry.
The newcomers swelled out of the darkness, from between giant pillars of stone. They're urs, all right, she thought. Burly, powerful and well-armed they spilled into the clearing in a disciplined skirmish pattern, taking positions on all sides, brandishing their arbalests, scanning for danger signs. Sara was startled, and a bit insulted, when the vanguard simply ignored the standing humans and Blade, finding them no threat at all.
More surprisingly, they paid little more heed to the trussed-up prisoners, leaving them right where they were.
Sara noticed that the war paint of the new arrivals was unlike that of UrKachu's band-more restrained, dabbed in smoother, more flowing lines. Could that mean they weren't Urunthai, after all?
From the dismayed look on Ulgor's face, Sara realized this was not the band of "friends" the tinker was expecting. She nursed a slim reed of hope. Could they be militia? They wore no formal brassards or tunics, nor did they act like the typical urrish militia unit-local herdsmen who drilled for fun every eighth day, when the weather was good.
Who are these guys?
Skirmishers whistled that the area was clear. Then a senior matron with a gray-fringed muzzle sauntered into the firelight. She approached the Dolo Villagers and lowered her neck, respectfully.
"We regret our tardiness, friends. It is sad you were inconvenienced, vut we are glad to see you overcane your trouvles, without helf."
Sara stared as Kurt touched noses with the aged urs. "You're not late if you arrive in the nick of time, Ulashtu. I knew you'd scent our affliction and come for us. . . ."
At that point, Sara lost track of the conversation. For the Stranger pulled her about, squeezing her arm tight while a nervous, excited quaver throbbed along his skin.
More figures were approaching out of the darkness.
Perplexing shapes.
At first she thought it was another party of urs, outfitted for war. Very large urs, with strange, stiff necks and an odd way of moving. For an instant she recalled the ancient illustration that once rimmed the Parthenon-the one depicting savage, mythical centaurs.
A moment later, she sighed.
Silly thing. It's only men riding donkeys. Ifni! This darkness would make anything ordinary seem mysterious, especially after all we've been thr- She blinked and stared again.
They were big donkeys. The human riders' feet did not drag but perched high off the ground, astride great torsos that seemed to pulsate with raw animal power.
"It's them!" Jomah cried. "They're real! They weren't all killed off, after all!"
To Sara it felt like witnessing dragons, or dinosaurs, or stag-griffins come alive off the pages of a storybook. A dream made real-or a nightmare to some. The Urunthai prisoners let out a howl of anger and despair when they realized what was stepping into the firelight. This meant their one great achievement-their league's sole claim to fame-was in fact a failure. A farce.
The riders dismounted, and Sara realized they were all women. She also saw that several more of the great beasts followed behind, bearing saddles but otherwise unburdened.
No, she thought, realizing what was about to be asked of her. They can't seriously expect me to climb onto one of those things!
The nearest beast snorted as the Stranger reached up to stroke its mammoth head. The creature easily out-massed four or five urs, with jaws big enough to swallow a person's arm, whole. Yet, the man from space pressed his cheek against its great neck.
With tears in his eyes, he sang again.
"When you wake, you shall have cake, and all the pretty little horses."
Epilogue.
It is a strange universe.
He ponders this without putting it in words. It's easier that way.
Lately, he has found quite a few means to express ideas without the swarm of busy, smacking, humming, clattering noises that used to run through all his thoughts.
Music and song. Numbers. Pencil sketches. Feelings. And the strange colors cast by those funny living-visors people sometimes wear on this world.
Rewq.
He can think the name of the beasts and is proud of the accomplishment.
As he slowly gets better, he finds he can contemplate important names more clearly.
Sara, Jomah, Prity . . .
And some other words, occasionally two or three at a time.
Memory, too, is becoming more clarified. He can recall the scoutship, for instance, blasted as he tried a futile diversion, attempting to draw a hunter ship away from its prey.
He failed, taking a jolting series of blows, and there had followed a period that was still a blur to him, a vague impression of rapid movement and change . . . after which he found himself plummeting, on fire, crashing- No, no. Think of something else.
Riding. That was a much nicer thing to muse upon.
Riding a saddled animal. A spirited horse. The heady, surprising joy of it, with cool wind in his face, bringing a thousand amazing smells.
How strange to find so many things to like about this new world! About a life robbed of the one thing that makes most humans human. A command of words.
And now he remembers. Something very much like this injury of his happened before. To a friend.
To his captain.
An image swirls through his mind. A handsome, sleek-gray figure. Flukes thrashing through water filled with tiny bubbles. A narrow, bottle-shaped jaw, filled with pointy, grinning teeth. A brain, wounded, but still profoundly wise.
Silently, he mouths three syllables.
Crei . . . dei . . . ki . . .
And all at once this triggers more memories. More friends. A ship. A mission. A need.
An image of watery depths. So deep and black that no light could ever penetrate-a hiding place, but no sanctuary. In all the vast cosmos, there is no sanctuary.
But now, as if released from the prison of his illness, one more thing swarms through his mind, surprising him with sudden recognition.
A name.
My . . . name.
Slippery from pent-up frustration, it shoots out from wherever it had lain, dammed up for so long. Caroming back and forth, it finally settles down within reach.
It ought never have gone away. It should be the most familiar word in a person's life, yet only now does it return, as if to say "welcome back."
Riding through a night washed with exotic moonlight, surrounded by curious beings and a culture unlike any he had ever known, he now laughs aloud, ecstatic to be able to do this simple thing. This one, cherished act.
My . . . name . . . is . . . Emerson.
The End of Part One
Acknowledgments.
For those familiar with my other work, this volume may seem a departure from my normal custom of trying to write novels that stand on their own. That was my intention this time, but the story kept growing, evolving beyond even the length of huge tomes like Earth and Glory Season, leaving me no alternative but to "go the trilogy route." There is no shame in the practice-trilogies have their own lavish, wide-screen, Technicolor attraction. But in future I trust that I'll plan better.
I hope to bring out volumes two and three promptly.
I'd like to thank the following people for helping with their comments and criticism to make this complicated story work, among them-Gregory Benford, Anita Everson, Joy Crisp, Mark James, Dr. Bruce Miller, Jim Richards, Prof. Jim Moore, and Dr. Steinn Sigurdsson. Also, my gratitude to members of SPECTRE, the Caltech science fiction club: Aaron Petty, Teresa Moore, Dustin Laurence, Damien Sullivan, Micah Altman, John Lang-ford, Eric Schell, Robin Hanson, Grant Swenson, Ruben Krasnopolsky, and Anita Gould. Special thanks are due Stefan Jones and Kevin Lenagh for helping enhance and embellish my poor efforts. My deep appreciation also goes to Jennifer Hershey, Ralph Vicinanza, and Cheryl Brigham, for their dedication and wisdom.
David Brin, March 1995 In Memory of Dr. James Neale, Kiwi third-baseman, healer and friend.
About the Author.
DAVID BRIN is the author of eleven previous novels, Sundiver, The Uplift War, Startide Rising, The Practice Effect, The Postman (which was adapted for film by Warner Brothers), Heart of the Comet (with Gregory Benford), Earth, Glory Season, Brightness Reef, Infinity's Shore, and Heaven's Reach, as well as the short-story collections The River of Time and Otherness. His most recent work of nonfiction is The Transparent Society: Will Technology Force Us to Choose Between Freedom and Privacy? He has a doctorate in astrophysics and has been a NASA consultant and a physics professor. He lives in southern California, where he is at work on his next novel.