along in the behemoth’s pulling slipstream. They accelerated, faster … faster …
In spite of the absence of direction, he knew, somehow, they were going DOWN.
“Did you hear that-t-t?”
Makanee’s assistant looked up at the tank in which the captain lay suspended. A dim spotlight within the gravity tank shone on the suture scars of repeated surgery. Every few seconds, recessed nozzles cast a fine mist over the unconscious dolphin.
Makanee followed the medic’s gaze.
“Perhapsss. I thought I picked up something a little while ago, like a sigh. What did you hear?”
The assistant shook her head from side to side. “I’m not sure. I thought it sounded like he was talking to somebody—only not in Anglic. It seemed like there was a snatch of Trinary, then … then something else. It sounded weird!”
The assistant shivered. “Do you think maybe he’s dreaming?”
Makanee looked up at Creideiki. “I don’t know dreaming is something to wish for him, or to pray devoutly he doesn’t do.”
45
Tom Orley
A chilly sea breeze swept over him out of the west. A bout of shivering shook him awake in the middle of the night. His eyes opened in the dark, staring into emptiness.
He couldn’t remember where he was.
Give it a moment, he thought. It’ll come.
He had been dreaming of the planet Garth, where the seas were small and the rivers many. There he had lived for a time among the human and chimp colonists, a mixed colony as rich and surprising as Calafia, where man and dolphin dwelt together.
Garth was a friendly world, though isolated far from other Earthling settlements.
In his dream, Garth was invaded. Giant warships hovered over her cities and spewed clouds of gas across her fertile valleys, sending colonists fleeing in panic. The sky had been filled with flashing lights.
He had trouble separating the trailing edges of the dream from reality. Tom stared at the crystal dome of Kithrup’s night. His body was locked—legs pulled in, hands clutching opposite shoulders—as much from a rigor of exhaustion as from the cold. Slowly, he got the muscles to loosen. Tendons popped and joints groaned as he learned all over again how to move.
The volcano to the north had died down to only a feeble red glow. There were long, ragged openings in the clouds overhead. Tom watched pinpoints of light in the sky.
He thought about stars. Astronomy was his mental focus.
Red means cool, he pondered. That red one there might be a small, nearby ancient—or a distant giant already in its death throes. And that bright one over there could be a blue supergiant. Very rare. Was there one in this area of space?
He ought to remember.
Tom blinked. The blue “star” was moving.
He watched it drift across the starfield, until it intercepted another bright pinpoint, this one a brilliant green. There was a flash as the two tiny lights met. When the blue spark moved on, the green was no more.
Now what were the chances I’d witness that? How likely to be looking at just the right place at the right time? The battle must still be pretty hot and heavy up there. It isn’t over yet.
Tom tried to rise, but his body sagged back against the bed of vines.
Okay, try again.
He rolled over onto one elbow, paused to marshal his strength, then pushed upright.
Kithrup’s small, dim moons were absent, but there was enough starlight to make out the eerie weedscape. Water sluiced through the shifting morass. There were croaking and slithering sounds. Once he heard a tiny scream that choked off—some small prey suddenly dying, he supposed.
He was thankful for the obstinacy that had brought him to this modest height. Even two meters made a difference. He couldn’t have survived a night down in that loathsome mess.
He turned stiffly and began groping through his meager supplies on the crude sledge. First priority was to get warm. He pulled the top piece of his wetsuit from the jumbled pile, and gingerly slid into it.
Tom knew he should give some attention to his wounds, but they could wait just a little longer. So could a full meal—he had salvaged enough stores for a few of those.
Munching on a foodbar and taking sparing sips from a canteen, Tom appraised his small pile of equipment. At the moment what mattered were his three psi-bombs.
He looked up at the sky. Except for a faint purple haze near one bright star, there were no more signs of the battle. Yet that one glimpse had been enough. Tom already knew which bomb to set off.
Gillian had