Free Infinity's Shore by David Brin Page A

checked his friend’s breathing, and found it no worse. Uthen was simply tired.
    So strong
, he thought, stroking the rigid shell.
    We picture grays as toughest of the tough. But chitin won’t slow a laser ray.
    Harullen found that out. Death came to Uthen’s cousin during the brief Battle of the Glade, when the massed militia of Six Races barely overcame Ro-kenn’s robot assassins. Only the advantage of surprise had carried that day. The aliens never realized that savages might have books showing how to make rifled firearms—crude, but potent at short range.
    But victory came late for Harullen. Too dedicated or obstinate to flee, the heretic leader spent his last frenzied moments whistling ornate pleas for calm and reason, crying in five directions at once, beseeching everyone to lay down their arms and talk things over—until Harullen’s massive, crablike body was cleaved in uneven parts by a killer drone, just before the machine was itself blown from the sky.
    There will be mourning among the gray matrons of Tarek Town
, Lark thought, resting both arms across Uthen’s broad shell, laying his head on the mottled surface, listening to the strained labor of his friend’s phlegmy breathing, wishing with all his heart that there was more he could do.
    Irony was but one of many bitter tastes in his mouth.
    I always figured, if the end did come, that qheuens would be the last to go.
Emerson

    J IJO’S COUNTRYSIDE FLOWS RAPIDLY PAST THEM now, as if the mysterious horsewomen fear any delay might turn faint hope to dust.
    Lacking speech, Emerson has no idea where they are riding in such a hurry, or why.
    Sara turns in her saddle now and then, to give an encouraging smile. But rewq-painted colors of misgiving surround her face—a nimbus of emotion that he can read the way he used to find meaning in letters on a data display.Perhaps he should find her qualms unnerving, since he depends on her guidance in this strange, perilous world. Yet Emerson cannot bring himself to worry. There are just too many other things to think about.
    Humidity closes in as their caravan veers toward a winding river valley. Dank aromas stir memories of the swamp where he first floundered after the crash, a shattered cripple, drenched in agony. But he does not quail. Emerson welcomes any sensation that might trigger random recall—a sound, a chance smell, or else a sight around the next bend.
    Some rediscoveries already float across a gulf of time and loss, as if he has missed them for quite a while. Recovered names connect to faces, and even brief snatches of isolated events.
    Tom Orley
 … so strong and clever. Always a sure eye for trouble. He brought some back to the ship, one day. Trouble enough for Five Galaxies.
    Hikahi
 … sweetest dolphin. Kindest friend. Dashing off to rescue her lover and captain … never to be seen again.
    Toshio
 … a boy’s ready laughter. A young man’s steady heart. Where is he now?
    Creideiki
 … captain. Wise dolphin leader. A cripple like himself.
    Briefly, Emerson wonders at the similarity between Creideiki’s injury and his own.… But the thought provokes a searing bolt of pain so fierce that the fleeting thought whirls away and is lost.
    Tom … Hikahi … Toshio
 … He repeats the names, each of them once attached to friends he has not seen for … well, a very long time.
    Other memories, more recent, seem harder to reach, more agonizing to access.
    Suessi … Tsh’t … Gillian
 …
    He mouths each sound repeatedly, despite the tooth-jarring ride and difficulty of coordinating tongue and lips. He does it to keep in practice—or else how will he ever recover the old handiness with language, the skill to roll out words as he used to, back when he was known as sucha clever fellow … before horrid holes appeared in both his head and