













  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  ECHOES OF THE PAST
    by Thomas Nevin Huber
  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  
  
    Finding a habitable system out this far didn't make sense.
  Motliff grimaced at the data staring back at him from the screen.
  Shaking his head, he turned to Navpilot. "Survey orbit on the
  fourth planet."
  
    "Aye, Caleb," Navpilot replied. Hnidix was good, maybe too good
  for the job. Motliff considered himself lucky to have him.
  
    "Two moons, Caleb. Small, possibly from the asteroid belt."
  That was Squab, the Searcher. He was already at his survey
  station, feeding verbal to the daily report.
  
    Motliff barely acknowledged him. It had been a long trip and
  this was the last stop before jumping back to Strevgnot and a
  much needed rest. He stared ahead, not focusing on much of
  anything. By the gods, he was tired. More tired than he need be.
  Standing and rubbing his eyes, he headed for the lock. "Call me .
  . ."
  
    "Ruins, Caleb."
  
    "Already?" Motliff returned. Could it be? On this small planet,
  barely large enough for an atmosphere.
  
    "Yes, Caleb."
  
    Motliff approached the survey station. Squab continued to peer
  into the projection field. "Where, Searcher?" Motliff demanded.
  
    "On the far side. Two, possibly three sites, Caleb," Squab
  replied.
  
    "Then?"
  
    "Unlikely. Just ruins. Nothing recent."
  
    "Ancient? How old?"
  
    "We'll get it on the next pass, Caleb."
  
    Motliff nervously tapped his nails on the wall. Another
  sighting. How many worlds had the vermin polluted? Even here,
  where no race should have been, they had left their mark. At
  least they were gone from here. He turned to the charted system
  on the tactical. Two other possibilities. One hot and dry, the
  other temperate and wet. But both were more attuned to potential
  settlement. The planet below them was too old, too far out, and
  would have to have help to be useful.
    
    The planet spun under them. They held a tight counter orbit to
  the rotation. Common for surveys.
  
    "Ancient, Caleb. Three hundred generations or more."
  
    "The vermin?"
  
    "It is possible, Caleb. But it is fitfully early."
  
    "Um," Motliff responded. They had called the savages a lot of
  names, but vermin seemed to fit the best. Combing the starways
  with their warships, they viciously attacked, conquered, and
  dominated, pushing their ways on others without concern for
  feelings or heritage.
  
    Another pass. More readings.
  
    "Confirmed, Caleb. It is them."
  
    "And?"
  
    "As before, Caleb. Dead and gone. Nothing behind. Probably not
  habitable."
  
    Motliff shrugged at the news. They'd seen it before in this
  region of space. As thinly spread as the habitable systems were,
  the vermin had been here, pillaged, and left.
  
    Motliff studied the readouts. "Mark it," he finally said. "Mark
  it and leave it for later. Maybe, if the other two don't hold any
  promise, we'll take a closer look."
  
    Squab nodded. "Already done, Caleb Motliff."
  
    Motliff turned to Navpilot. "Take us to the next one."
  
    "The inner of the two, then. It is closest."
  
    "Fine. . ." Motliff would have preferred to see the other
  planet -- the wet one, over the hotter, drier planet closer to
  the star. But then. . . something nagged at his conscience. Maybe
  he didn't want to see it, either. What were the gods telling him?
  
    Blinking away the feeling, he took to the door, saying, "I've
  got another matter. Survey orbit, when we get there."
  
    Both Navpilot and Searcher nodded.
  
    Up to the outer skin and Reader. Motliff paused at the arch,
  then tapped on a pillar.
  
    "I've been expecting you, Caleb," came Reader's voice.
  
    Motliff entered and took his place opposite the caped one.
  Once, he had known her only by her title -- Reader. Now, it was
  different.
  
    "You come seeking the knowledge which you fear, Caleb."
  
    Motliff remained silent. Reader stated the obvious. His silence
  was his response.
  
    "You have fear of the wet planet."
  
    Not that he wanted to admit it, he thought.
  
    "Of course," she responded out loud.
  
    Then? ! ?. . .
  
    "What you seek is on the wet planet. It has the knowledge."
  
    "No," Motliff vocalized.
  
    "Yet is it so?"
  
    "How?" Motliff returned.
  
    "I read it so, Caleb."
  
    Why did he bother? The answers. . .
  
    ". . . are never what you want to hear. You only come when you
  doubt yourself, Caleb. You know that. Caleb never comes when
  Caleb has no fears, no doubts. Even if I were not Reader, Caleb
  is plain as a text scroll."
  
    Motliff stood and left. Enough of this foolishness, he thought.
  Why did he bother going? Angry at Reader, angry at himself, he
  stopped in front of his cabin door.
  
    "Time enough for sleep," and with that, he entered and retired
  for a season.
  
    In her cabin, Reader saw, and uttered, "But as to Motliff --
  that is another matter." She turned inward and smiled.
  
    The gleaming planet rolled below them. "Survey," Motliff
  ordered as he entered. But without hearing them, he knew
  something was wrong.
  
    "We feared. . . " That was Squab.
  
    "You had retired. . ." Navpilot added.
  
    "Enough! What did you find? Life?"
  
    "Torture and pain," Squab said. He turned to his viewer.
  
    "And?"
  
    "No life -- none possible, ever."
  
    Motliff frowned. How could one have torture and pain where
  there is no life? He made the motion of spitting.
  
    "Decogues upon decoques of it. Deeper than the deepest sea."
  
    "What? What in the name of the seven gods are you speaking?
  Make sense, Searcher Squab!"
  
    Navpilot took a ragged breath. "It is a garbage planet. They
  dumped their garbage there."
  
    "They? Who? The vermin?"
  
    "Without a doubt, Caleb," Squab replied staring with blank eyes
  at the unthinkable.
  
    "Show me."
  
    Squab moved to one side and there, in the viewer, it lay. Not
  just piles of trash here and there upon a barren plain, but
  mountains of it with valleys full of more. They couldn't probe to
  the planet's surface, it was so deep.
  
    As he watched, it rolled underneath them. Onward forever. It
  was endless.
  
    Motliff staggered back from the sight. "Kalesbreath," he swore.
  
    "There's more," Squab said, and kicked in the spectrum filter.
  
    Motliff came forward and looked again. Darkness, punctuated by
  light, then almost blinding places, here and there. As he watched
  there came a general rise in the colors, from deep purples,
  through the reds, on into the oranges and yellows, toward
  blinding white. The image had reversed itself and now, here and
  there, were spots of darkness, tiny spots. Black pits of despair
  in a white light.
  
    "Pockets of. . . what?"
  
    "The viewer doesn't lie, Caleb. You see what you see. The
  darkness is barely safe. . . "
  
    A tear made its way from watery eyes. Such bestiality!
  Whoremongers! Rapists! Only far, far worse than he'd ever seen,
  or heard of others speak.
  
    Several lights started flashing and the filter snapped off.
  Once again, Motliff watched the raw images from the planet's
  surface roll by. A strange light was casting long shadows amongst
  the rubble. He pointed at the viewer.
  
    Squab bent over it for a moment, then turned to Navpilot and
  motioned him over. Taking one glance, Navpilot responded, "What.
  . . ?"
  
    Squab added, "My response, also. Caleb?"
  
    "What happened to the filter?"
  
    "Overload, Caleb."
  
    "Overload. . . " Motliff mulled that over for a moment.
  "Overload?"
  
    Squab sat -- just for a moment, then got a panicked look on his
  face. "Get us out of here," he ordered Navpilot. "Back -- at
  least the to orbit of the third planet."
  
    Navpilot nodded and bent to his controls. Squab turned to
  Motliff. "What does Reader say of this?"
  
    "Riddles, Searcher Squab. Only riddles."
  
    Squab swallowed visibly. "This system isn't safe, Caleb."
  
    Motliff frowned. "I don't understand."
  
    "The second planet will explode. A reaction kicked off the
  filter. It's gone awry."
  
    "The atomics?"
  
    "Of course, Caleb. They dumped their atomics and waste there."
  
    Motliff felt for his chair. "And now," he said as he backed
  into it. He glanced toward Navpilot. "Will we clear?"
  
    "Why ask him?" Squab replied with disdain before Navpilot had a
  chance.
  
    Motliff glared at his Searcher. "Squab, what would you know of
  the currents. . .?"
  
    "They aren't the currents, Caleb. That planet will blow and
  take the star with it."
  
    "Nova?"
  
    "Aye, and probably within a generation."
  
    "Then? We have some time?"
  
    "To explore the third planet, but that's about all."
  
    "Why not the second?"
  
    "No time. It has already started. There will be a time before
  the reaction reaches critical, then the planet will blow and
  spread its reaction into the star."
  
    Motliff nodded grimly. "Take us to the third planet, Navpilot."
  
    "You'll get a reading, Caleb?" Squab made it more of a
  statement than a question.
  
    Motliff looked at him. "Of course."
  
  
  
    "Ten turns, Caleb," Reader said as he entered her chamber.
  
    "Ten?"
  
    "Until we must leave."
  
    "Nova?"
  
    "In fifteen. But we'll need time to clear. Ten is the most we
  can spend here."
  
    "So soon, then." Caleb looked at the viewscreen showing the
  receding planet. He didn't like Reader's comments, but how could
  he argue? Maybe, though. . . "Could you?"
  
    "Change things? I would that this was not, Caleb. You know
  that."
  
    "Maybe there is a way."
  
    "Yes, but not for us. Not for us on this trip. And not for us
  at this time."
  
    As Reader, she always spoke in riddles, but it answered his
  question. The question of who? And when? He didn't know and they
  might never know -- not unless they could find the vermin's home
  planet. Then they might have a chance -- a chance to stop this
  madness.
  
    He hit the desk with his fist. 
  
    Reader jumped at his action. "No," she said.
  
    "Why can't we warn them?"
  
    "No matter how far I search or seek, I cannot read the answer
  to that."
  
    "A hidden matter?"
  
    "Precisely, Caleb. Because if so, we might never be here."
  
    Stop the vermin before they spread into space. Why hadn't
  someone considered that before? But what was he missing? Of
  course! She couldn't get a reading because they -- they would
  carry the word back and there would be action. Somehow, some way,
  the great council will find a way to send back observers, and
  manipulators. All with a mission. Stop the vermin from ever
  achieving space travel. At least the type and kind they had now.
  
    Motliff stood quickly. "Thank you, Reader," he said.
  
    "As now and as to be," she replied.
  
    Motliff gave that little thought. Now, he had a mission. Now,
  he would no longer worry about what he might find. Now, he knew
  what must be done. Now, he knew exactly what the third planet
  was. Homeworld! Home world to the vermin -- to those that
  polluted and destroyed the second planet -- to those that were
  going to destroy this system -- to those that would forever
  plague the starways. But they wouldn't stop them, unless --
  unless, he could finish his mission and accomplish what Reader
  could not see.
  
    He stopped at his cabin and posted a wake-up call for later --
  when they reached the third planet. It was time for rest.
  
    "The single moon has bases, Caleb," Squab reported.
  
    "An atmosphere?"
  
    "No, Caleb. They are like the fourth planet -- sealed."
  
    "We have nine turns to explore and leave."
  
    They understood. If Motliff was to accomplish his mission, he
  must leave when Reader said to leave. To do otherwise, was to
  invite disaster and death.
  
    "We will explore for a turn. Park us."
  
    "On our way down, Caleb." Navpilot said and he directed the
  ship toward the moon.
  
    Squab glanced up from his equipment. "Land at the second
  installation. There is no life, but there is air inside."
  
    "Conditions?" Motliff asked.
  
    "Bearable. Cold, but bearable."
  
    "Penetration?"
  
    "Yes, the shield should hold," Squab replied.
  
    "Let's do it and get it over with."
  
    Squab turned and faced him. The figures were with Navpilot now
  and there was nothing more for Searcher to do. "What did Reader
  say?"
  
    "Not much," Motliff returned, "as usual."
  
    Squab considered his words for a moment, then grunted and
  stood. "Long watch. It will be good to explore."
  
    "The planet holds what we want."
  
    "I know."
  
    Motliff stared at Searcher and raised an expectant eyebrow.
  
    Squab smiled but said nothing. Reader came into the room.
  
    Motliff turned to her. "What will we find, Reader?"
  
    "I cannot see, Caleb. Our mission here will not remain through
  time."
  
    "Can you see what will?"
  
    "No, which means we will continue as a team."
  
    Squab grinned. "You cannot see our destiny."
  
    "It takes a different path in our alternate life."
  
    She seemed relaxed. Readers were a funny lot. Sometimes they
  could see the future and at other times, the future was blind. In
  almost all those instances, it was because of a time wave,
  usually created by the Reader's mission. It also spelled success
  at whatever lay in the future. And that was a good sign.
  
    Turns, what are they? Ways of measuring time. Motliff continued
  to stare at the ceiling as he thought on the meaning of Reader's
  words. They would take an alternative path in something caused by
  a time wave. Readers could see a short distance into the future,
  but when they sensed nothing? Like now?
  
    He continued to lay there, pondering. Turns. Why turns? Because
  that was the way they measured time. But on what basis? Turns of
  what? Had they been in space so long that they no longer knew?
  
    The soft voice of Reader interrupted his thoughts. He glanced
  at her, laying next to him. "Um?" he mumbled.
  
    "I said it must be close to time."
  
    "Searcher Squab is competent. He will return."
  
    "That's not what I mean, Mottle."
  
    Motliff smiled at her, but said nothing.
  
    "You know what I mean."
  
    "Do I?"
  
    "Of course, just as I can always predict you?"
  
    "This?"
  
    "Us? Of course not."
  
    "But I am part of you and you, me."
  
    "That is why."
  
    Motliff nodded. "What is time, Ead?"
  
    Reader looked at him. "What? Why?"
  
    Motliff looked away. "Just curious. One of those things."
  
    "We can change time."
  
    "I know that. What is time, that we change it?"
  
    "Mm. Like the wind? In that we know not where it starts, nor
  where it ends?"
  
    "Perhaps, but there is a beginning and end to all things."
  
    "And in between? Is that what you want? What is time, between?"
  
    "Yes. Something like that."
  
    He continued to study her face, his mind blank, lest she read
  him. She turned and smiled. "What are you doing?" she asked.
  
    "Looking at you," he smiled back.
  
    A greenish tinge crossed her features -- a blush.
  
    "I've made you blush," he said.
  
    The tinge deepened and he grinned broadly, then leaned over and
  touched in intimacy.
  
    Turns pass slowly when you are waiting, and the one turn was
  forever. The results were predictable.
  
    Squab shed the shield. "Proof? You wanted proof?" He
  practically yelled at Motliff.
  
    Reader lay a stilling hand on his arm, but that didn't temper
  his response by much. "You may go the way of your ancestors,"
  Motliff shot back.
  
    Squab spat in disgust. "It is them, Caleb. Them and their trash
  and their corruption and their filth and their. . . " He was
  green with anger and now, speechless.
  
    "You knew that going in," Motliff reminded Searcher.
  
    That didn't appease Squab at all. His face turned darker at the
  suggestion. He was getting ugly.
  
    Motliff ignored him and turned to Navpilot. "Take us into
  orbit." Maybe a survey pass would help. He turned back toward
  Squab. "And you," he said with controlled passion, "you search,"
  he swallowed, then pointed toward Squab's station, "with that!"
  
    He looked at Reader, who nodded silently.
  
    "You saw?" he asked.
  
    She nodded and left them.
  
    Motliff followed, after making sure Squab took his station.
  
    A few moments later he looked in on her room. She wasn't there.
  
    So he chose his own cabin. "Why?" he asked when he saw her on
  his bed.
  
    "Privacy and this," she motioned to her own nakedness, "should
  help you bear the truth."
  
    He watched her. . .
  
    "Rid yourself of suspicion, Mottle. I know you."
  
    He shook his head and sat bedside.
  
    "Join me," she requested.
  
    He closed his eyes.
  
    "I understand," she responded, and proceeded to tell of her
  reading. "Squab found what they left behind."
  
    "Predictable."
  
    "Isn't it, though?"
  
    The question caught him off-guard. He hadn't expected that. But
  he didn't turn -- she'd know his thoughts even now. "Continue the
  report."
  
    "Complete facility. Lots of examination chambers. They are
  thorough."
  
    He looked at her and raised his eyebrow.
  
    "As predictable," she responded.
  
    As predictable. It was as old an answer as the vermin
  themselves. Even on airless moons, or hostile environments, they
  could not leave well enough alone. Gather information, they had
  said. Sure, and destroy all that the gods had provided. Drill the
  patient. Cut it, carve it, mold it, all in the name of progress.
  If a land bridge is in the way of a waterway, blast your way
  through it. If a waterland is inconvenient, still it with a wall
  and pump it dry. If a vegetated stand is needed for something
  else, rape the mountain for its bounty, then leave it to bleed
  before wind and rain.
  
    Why always like this? Why could not they learn to live with
  their sister, their brother? Why destroy, just to satisfy their
  own insatiable appetite?
  
    "How much damage?" he asked.
  
    "Much. That is what disturbed Searcher."
  
    "Time?"
  
    "They are gone. What you seek is on the planet."
  
    He turned to her and looked into her eyes. "What will I find?"
  
    "Your answer."
  
    "And?"
  
    "It is not what you expected."
  
    "Are you saying this, just to occupy my time?"
  
    "Maybe," she toyed with him.
  
    "You are being like them."
  
    "We are cut from similar molds. Are not the gods the same?"
  
    "But why has theirs left them to do this?"
  
    "Has it?"
  
    "Reader. . ."
  
    "Call me by my name. . . like you did earlier."
  
    "Ead."
  
    "Yes."
  
    "Well?"
  
    Reader turned to him with her large eyes. "You were rough on
  him, when he returned."
  
    "I am Caleb," Motliff replied.
  
    "Even now?"
  
    That stopped him. His relationship to Reader was. . . not. . .
  He looked at her -- her large eyes. "No," he said in a flat tone.
  
    "Is it not better this way?"
  
    "He is Searcher and I am Caleb."
  
    "And I, Reader. We each have our place."
  
    "You are saying. . . "
  
    ". . . that you need to mend."
  
    "He was angry."
  
    ". . . that you need to offer peace."
  
    "The peace of the survey."
  
    "Your peace, Mottle."
  
    "It is awkward."
  
    "Now, of course. Earlier, no."
  
    "You did not read this?"
  
    "Even a peek ahead is blind for me. I am. . . as you," she
  concluded in a low voice.
  
    He arose from their place. "A Reader that is blind, a Caleb
  that cannot lead in peace." He turned back to her, looking down.
  "What good are we?"
  
    She tilted her head. He nodded and departed for his meeting
  with Searcher.
  
    Searcher Squab was bent over his instruments. Searching in his
  viewer. Navpilot glanced up and shook his head at Motliff as the
  Caleb entered.
  
    Motliff joined him at his station. "How long?"
  
    "Moments ago."
  
    Squab was green with anger.
  
    "Again?" Motliff asked.
  
    Reader entered the room, glanced at Squab, then joined the
  others.
  
    Motliff glanced at her. She made a motion toward Squab.
  
    Motliff grimaced as best he could, after the manner of the
  vermin, and rose to give her his seat. She would not let it rest
  until they had peace -- his peace.
  
    "We land," Squab said before Motliff could approach him.
  
    Navpilot looked surprised.
  
    "We land," Squab said again. "You have the coordinates-ordinates."
  
    Motliff raised his hand to touch and heal, but Squab would have
  nothing of it. "You, Motliff, will come with me."
  
    Motliff stared in disbelief. "Searcher. . ."
  
    Squab spat. "Enough!" he raged. "You and I will go as equals.
  It is too late for the healing touch. Not after what I saw in
  their moon settlement. . . Here, you, Motliff sela Caleb will see
  as I saw, will suffer as I suffered, will feel the coldness of
  your own blood!"
  
    Motliff felt the cool waves wash over him as his anger grew to
  match that of Squab's. The room took on a greenish cast as only
  it could when one of his kind saw hatred. And Squab was forcing
  him into this.
  
    The heat of Reader's voice broke through his vision. "Yes, it
  must be so, Caleb."
  
    At least she had the courtesy to address him with his title.
  But this, this, vermin would not survive their journey home. Not
  after that sedition!
  
    But Reader must have known his thoughts. She said, "Give it
  time, Caleb. See what must be seen. Then, decide."
  
    She knew how to reach him. The warmth of more natural fires
  returned as he returned the stare given him by the ver. . .
  
    "No," Reader warned.
  
    . . . by Squab, Motliff resigned. "Yes," he allowed. "We will
  journey as brothers, you and I."
  
    The anger drained from Squab's face. "As. . . brothers?"
  
    "Is that so unusual, Searcher?" Motliff returned, glad to have
  the upper hand through surprise. He held his own mystification
  well enough.
  
    Squab bowed his head, hiding his large eyes. "It is enough, my
  Caleb."
  
    "Rise, and stand beside me," Motliff ventured.
  
    The eyes gazed in wonder. "May you have peace, Caleb," Squab
  said as he came to stand next to Motliff, his equal.
  
    Motliff turned toward Navpilot. "How long?" he asked.
  
    Reader responded. "Time for rest. It will drain you -- both of
  you."
  
    "That is good," Motliff retired.
  
    "A quarter turn," Navpilot said. Motliff knew the lie, but
  understood why without question. Both would need the rest.
  
    Motliff heard the compensators whine as they dove deeper into
  the gravity well. Soon, the deep-throated hum of the shields
  would send sympathetic vibrations through the ship. The sounds
  unnerved him as he realized that time was close. He glanced at
  the time-tell and knew that the orbit had been held. Navpilot was
  true to his word. A quarter turn had passed.
  
    Motliff stared at the ceiling of the sleep-chamber. Like a
  cocoon, its ceiling curved close overhead. The warmth surrounded
  him, protected him, and gave him peace. What would he find on the
  surface? Pain? What? With Squab at his side -- the searcher -- he
  shook his head at his half-formed thoughts.
  
    He keyed open the chamber and rose to meet Reader. Her love was
  strong, and concern pained her features and wide eyes.
  
    "What?" Motliff asked.
  
    She shook her head and turned away.
  
    His unfinished thought brought her back. "I, I," she stammered.
  
    "Death?" he asked the unthinkable.
  
    "No, but pain. Pain. . ."
  
    He nodded, understanding that she was speaking of the horrors
  Squab had witnessed. "No mind," he told her. "I will be fine,
  unless you see otherwise."
  
    "No," she admitted. "As before, the decision has been made.
  When you? committed your thoughts, my view of the future became
  a, a mystery."
  
    He ignored her question. "Worry not, then. It contains all of
  us. Do you see any of our deaths?"
  
    "See? I read nothing of any of us. Either we all die or we all
  live."
  
    "But. . . ?"
  
    "You thought wrong, Caleb. If a Reader cannot see the future,
  there are two possible paths, not one."
  
    Now, more than ever, Caleb Motliff wanted to crawl back into
  the protection of the sleep chamber.
  
    "That, you will not do. Your sense of duty will prevent it,"
  she reminded him.
  
    Motliff blinked slowly at Reader, then went into his personal
  chamber. There, after a few moments, he was clean and dressed. As
  he stepped out, he looked again at his companion. She watched in
  silence.
  
    "It is best this way," he said.
  
    She nodded in reply, this time not interrupting and completing
  his thoughts for him.
  
    "You have nothing to say?" he asked.
  
    "Only," she replied, "come back. With Searcher."
  
    The vastness of the planet's surface surprised Motliff. He
  hadn't expected to see the continent -- not like this. Lush
  beyond belief, yet dozens of dozens of decoques from the nearest
  sea.
  
    "A land of promise," Reader had told him. "Unbelievably rich in
  life and vegetation."
  
    "Yet they left it. We have found none of them here," Motliff
  replied.
  
    "Only their ruins," Squab said.
  
    Motliff turned. "Where?"
  
    "At the horizon," Squab replied, pointing toward the distant
  hills.
  
    "Why do we start here, then."
  
    "We approach from the rising sun, Caleb."
  
    "Caution," Motliff frowned.
  
    "Caution," Squab agreed. "The instruments are not -- reliable
  in this climate."
  
    The ground shook and a low pounding reached them. "Tremor?"
  Motliff asked.
  
    "No!" Squab said with concern.
  
    A moment later they were inside their ship, watching and
  waiting for the mighty beasts to thunder past them.
  
    "How many?" Motliff asked in wonder at the sight.
  
    "As far as eye can see," Reader responded. "At one time, they
  nearly were not."
  
    "And now, with the vermin's absence, they return in force."
  
    "Yes, Caleb. Magnificent, aren't they."
  
    "Of all the beasts, they are truly. Look!" Motliff pointed
  toward even fleeter four-footed animals, bounding as it were,
  along the perimeter of the pounding herd.
  
    "Incredible."
  
    Motliff looked for a few moments more, then turned to Squab.
  "We take the scout, otherwise, we waste time."
  
    Squab did not move. Motliff looked up at him. His eyes were
  sad. "What?" Motliff asked.
  
    "You feel nothing for them -- for their future?"
  
    Motliff felt the heat of emptiness fill him. He'd forgotten the
  second planet, so rich was this one.
  
    "It will be different, Searcher," Reader interjected. "Though I
  cannot see the future, I feel we will see these live on past our
  time."
  
    Squab looked at Motliff. "Is it true?"
  
    Motliff nodded. "Yes, if this is what I think it is, then we
  shall return throughout all time to change what has happened."
  
    "Forgive me, my Caleb, for my earlier incontinence."
  
    Now, slowly and deliberately, Motliff raised his hand and put
  it on Squab's shoulder. Squab did the same. And between them
  flowed peace.
  
    Across the vastness of open prairie, their scout craft sped. On
  wings of gravity and magnetic forces they approached the distant
  hills. Below them, the plains gave way to ancient ruins, barely
  discernible from the heights.
  
    "Lower, Squab," Motliff requested. "Slow it down. I want a
  closer look at those ruins."
  
    "At least we won't be trampled," Squab commented as he dropped
  their air speed and height.
  
    Motliff chuckled. "Yes, friend. Let's put it down over there."
  He pointed toward a wide expanse, devoid of any vegetation.
  
    A few moments later, they were standing outside their scout.
  Motliff was kneeling feeling the surface. Squab had his back to
  him, facing the distant snow-capped hills.
  
    "By the gods," Motliff muttered. He sat heavily on the ground
  and stared at Squab's back. "Get me a reading, Squab."
  
    "Huh?" Squab said as he turned.
  
    "Get a reading," Motliff said a little more gently. He put his
  hands to his head, feeling sick to his stomach. "I want to know
  the atomics."
  
    It didn't take long. "Melted. . . Slab, decaying past danger,
  Caleb."
  
    "Those ruins," Motliff said. "They were natural. You saw that?"
  
    "Here and on the moon, Caleb."
  
    Motliff looked at Squab with curiosity.
  
    "Smaller, probably hand weapons, Caleb. Not enough to blow the
  seal, but enough to destroy themselves."
  
    "Why?"
  
    "What are they doing as they expand?"
  
    Motliff nodded. That was the way it was with the vermin. "Put
  your lenses on the distant hills. What do you see?"
  
    "Ravaged rock," Squab reported.
  
    "To the right and left?"
  
    "More of the same."
  
    "Then -- we go elsewhere."
  
    "Caleb, do you expect to find. . . what? More of the same? As
  here, it will be everywhere."
  
    Motliff turned slowly and looked toward the rising sun. "How
  long, Squab, how long?"
  
    "Many generations, Caleb."
  
    "How many? How old are the ruins?"
  
    Squab shook his head. "The ages are all over the place, Caleb.
  Perhaps Reader?"
  
    "Mm, yes. Reader. Take us back to the ship, Squab."
  
    Reader saw the past. "Ancient, and more ancient. As Searcher
  said, Caleb, all over the place."
  
    "Then? Could this be? The home of the vermin?" Motliff asked.
  
    "The vermin, as you call them, are closely akin to a number of
  races. How can we be sure this is their home or the home to any
  other race?"
  
    Motliff eyed Reader. "Sometimes, I wish for less of your
  wisdom, Reader."
  
    "We must be sure -- whether they came and conquered or
  originated from here."
  
    "Then, in the time remaining, let us search all the continents,
  search for ancient storehouses of wisdom and learning. Of such,
  we know the vermin have, but do not follow."
  
    Reader laughed a dry laugh. "If they weren't so brutal, they
  would be pathetic."
  
    Squab had a far-off look in his eyes. "What if," he started to
  say.
  
    Motliff glanced at him. "What if what, Squab?"
  
    He turned toward Reader. She responded, "Yes, ancient and more
  ancient, and yes, they could be a multi-race people. We've seen
  some evidence of that in what they are now."
  
    "And?" Motliff extrapolated.
  
    "And, yes, they could have fought a last war over race."
  
    "The slaglands, Caleb?" Squab asked.
  
    Motliff nodded. "But," he sighed, "Reader has it right. We must
  be sure."
  
    "Navpilot," Motliff said, "you haven't added anything. What say
  you?"
  
    "Only this," Navpilot ventured slowly, "could they have
  originated on more than one planet?"
  
    "This is the earliest read, Caleb," Reader replied. "The most
  ancient in this land is far before they leapt into space, seeking
  the stars."
  
    Motliff approached Reader, and took her with his hands, holding
  her at the shoulders. "Read me and my future," he instructed. To
  himself he committed, `I come to seek out the ancestors of these
  people -- none other.'
  
    "You commit?" Reader asked.
  
    "Of a surety," Motliff responded.
  
    "Then, it is of a surety, Caleb. This is their home and only
  home."
  
    "Here? In this sun-drenched land?"
  
    "Not here, but here," she responded in her way.
  
    "Where, then?"
  
    "Toward the rising star lies a land of rivers. There is one
  where four came forth before. . . it is the ancient of ancients
  only," she paused, "they knew it not at the end."
  
    "The forgetfulness."
  
    She nodded in silence. Then added, "It was to be the gathering
  place, but they fled before their time."
  
    Motliff stared at her. "A gathering? Like," he fell silent and
  dared not say it.
  
    Again, she nodded in silence, this time remaining mute.
  
    "So," a plan made it way into his brain.
  
    "Yes, if we can trap them here, here they will stay."
  
    The other two -- Searcher and Navpilot -- gathered from either
  side. Together the four made their pact and together they would
  approach the council. But only when they had their evidence.
  
    The turns came and went as they searched the ruins. But what
  ruins they found. Ancient wars had torn apart this world. This
  home that was no more. Mighty cities melted before the waves of
  the weapons that they took with them into space. Weapons that
  they used on their enemies. . .
  
    Now Motliff and the three others were here, in their ship that
  rode the magnetic and gravitonic forces of the universe. From
  glass-bound city to glass-bound city, it was the same. The ruins
  were their record. They'd done it to themselves, but only after
  leaping into space and spreading their poison across the heavens,
  across world after world.
  
    The tears flowed freely from the great eyes of Searcher,
  Navpilot, Reader, and Caleb. Why? Why were the vermin like this?
  Of that question, they had no answer, at least until they came to
  a dry and desolate land.
  
    Heat -- it was terrible in the cloudless sky. And through the
  desert flowed a river. Southward, they followed the mighty flood,
  and passed ancient works that amazed even Reader.
  
    "They didn't destroy these," Motliff remarked as they stared in
  wonder at the great ruins.
  
    "No," Squab whispered in awe. He turned to Reader.
  
    "No," she repeated. "It is the ancient place that they fled
  under cruel task masters."
  
    "Then they came here even earlier?" Motliff asked.
  
    "Yes, Caleb. From a land that suffered under this, this heat. A
  land of false gods."
  
    A chill ran down Motliff's back. "Say more, Reader."
  
    "They worshipped. . . " She turned and looked toward the sky,
  shielding her eyes ineffectively against the glare of the star.
  
    "Where? Where will we find the evidence?"
  
    "One city. . . north and toward the rising star. A city that,
  that was home to -- He was here, Caleb."
  
    She sank to her knees.
  
    "What? Tell us who?"
  
    "They murdered him. These are they -- the only ones that would
  kill their own god."
  
    "What?" the three echoed in unison.
  
    "These vermin -- we have found them. I read true, Caleb. They
  killed their god."
  
    "And the gathering?"
  
    "Never happened, for they had found the way to the stars and
  destroyed all that they left behind."
  
    "How long?" Motliff asked, glanced toward the sky, fear
  spreading over his body.
  
    "We have less than a turn left, Caleb," Navpilot replied. We
  must hurry.
  
    "Then, to the ship and to the city to the north and east!"
  
    The three males, so frail, helped the female, even frailer, to
  her feet and toward the ship.
  
    The walled city was as it had been forever. Reader stood on the
  hill. "It is here," she added, "that they killed him -- the god-
  child."
  
    Squab came hurrying up from the city. He carried ancient books
  that looked like they would not stand the strain. "I've found
  them!" he said, "just as you said I would."
  
    Navpilot was a pace behind, bringing works of metal, curiously
  bound and sealed. "And more! Here are the most ancient, made of
  precious metals."
  
    Motliff led them back to the portal of their ship.
  
    As they sped from the star, the second planet exploded and fed
  that star to critical and beyond. Detectors dead to the outside,
  Motliff trusted that they would survive the nova as it formed
  behind them.
  
    He was more interested in the works they had recovered. In
  sealed chambers sat the books of wood, fabric, and leather. But
  before him were the works of metal. He carefully opened the first
  and stared at the marks.
  
    Reader moved to join him. "And what do you see," she asked.
  
    "I see not, but I feel much," he replied. "What see you?"
  
    "I see the ancient words, as they were recorded and then buried
  in the city."
  
    "How ancient?" he had to ask.
  
    "As ancient as our most ancient works, Caleb. They are as old
  as we."
  
    "And?"
  
    "And this is their record. Do you need me to read for you? Do
  you not know the words as well as any of us?"
  
    Motliff nodded. "In a beginning. . ." he tentatively began.
  Reader nodded.
  
    He continued, "they, that is, the gods, created the heavens and
  the. . . " He stopped, not willing to say it.
  
    "Say it," she urged. "Say the ancient term."
  
    ". . . the earth." He stared at the plates. This was it -- this
  ancient work of metal was the proof of the origin. It was of the
  planet, of the system. This is where it all started. Motliff
  slammed the plates closed. He would not read, nor would reader.
  "It is all here," he said with finality.
  
    "Yes, Caleb. This is what the council will need."
  
    Many turns later, they neared the end of their journey home,
  leaping from star to star. Caleb entered the room. Navpilot was
  eagerly searching for homesignal. Squab was relaxed, his
  instruments on auto-detect. Reader was there with them, dreaming
  of home, so transparent were her thoughts. He smiled at them as
  they turned toward him.
  
    "Faerie's Ring," Squab said.
  
    "What?" Motliff asked.
  
    "They -- the vermin -- the earthers -- are as a Faerie's Ring,
  Caleb. You know they've come from somewhere, but they're already
  spreading by the time you realize what's happened."
  
    "I wonder," Motliff pondered. "Suppose. . . No, it couldn't
  be."
  
    "Couldn't be what, Caleb?"
  
    "They couldn't be related to Faeries, could they?"
  
    Navpilot shrugged. "Anything's possible."
  
    "What's the source of the 'Faerie's Ring' story?" Motliff asked
  Reader.
  
    "Caleb Motliff," she smiled. "Why ask? You know that they are
  the source. The evidence has always been there. They are fleeing
  their own destiny."
  
    Motliff felt fear chase his spine. "And. . . we?"
  
    She nodded. "Yes, Caleb. We are their future, their destiny. I
  read now that we will live and we will approach home again. . ."
  
    "From Mother Earth," Caleb replied softly. He knew, even as
  Reader nodded, they'd travel the time waves back, back to stop
  them before the Earthers made the jump to the stars -- to spread
  their poison and their death. They, of all peoples. They, the
  ones that had killed their own god.
  
    And now, Caleb Motliff and his crew knew their destiny. They
  would be the ones to play the part of the gods -- riding their
  chariot, their wheel of fire -- to damn the children from their
  awful course.
  
                                 (DREAM)
  
  Copyright 1996 Thomas N. Huber, All Rights Reserved.
  -------------------------------------------------------------------
  Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with 
  computers since the early '60's & employed as a technical writer 
  for a major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works
  include user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine 
  articles. Hobbies, genealogy and running his BBS. Look for his major 
  series of SF novels, prerelease title, STAR SPAWN. With many shorts 
  related to the series. Email:  dfi@dreamforge.nauticom.net
  =====================================================================
  
