ground-quakes, foul volcanoes, and hammering ocean waves that often dashed their hopes and their subsurface homes to oblivion?
These, however, had a touch too much of their crafty independence. They were in a nearby chamber with transparent walls, where another research team had tried to correct the mental errors in the snakes. Apparently, this corrective experiment had failed. The researchers were exterminating them by gas, and Memor paused to watch the agonies of these smart serpents, who under duress flung themselves into twisting knots. It was revolting, writhing bodies and pain-stretched mouths. At least she could not hear them, as she had Tananareve’s shrieks. Gazing through the wall at this, she could not help but reflect upon the fate of the primates, should they continue to provoke.
They would face the fate of the Sil, whose rebellion had united with the renegade primates and brought down Memor’s skyfish. That had made the reprisal destruction of the Sil city inevitable—though it came first as an idea sprung from the slim though weighty head of Asenath, the reigning Chief of Wisdom.
Memor sighed and trudged on, putting the image of the snake agonies behind her. Now she must go to Asenath and confer, though she sorely disliked and feared the Chief of Wisdom, who was known to be capricious.
An oddity of long history had placed the confinement and punishment chambers together with ancient honoring sites. They were all now encased in a great Citadel that loomed above the lush green landscapes here. She lumbered past large, luxuriant stone structures of vast age, moss clinging to the doorways of crypts polished by time. Some bore blemishes of tomb raiders, but even those harsh, jagged edges had smoothed. These chambers held ancient dead who had been allowed burial, in a far-distant time when that was possible, and before the realization that all mass and vital elements must be reprocessed. Surely that was the highest honor, to be part of life eternally, not a mere oxidized relic. The bodies inside had long returned to the air, of course, with only shriveled bones remaining as a small, unharvested calcium deposit. No doubt the grave goods—ornaments and valuable family remembrance-coffers that some added to the sepulchers of that age—had disappeared long ago, at the hands of vagrant intruders. The past was the easiest venue to rob, after all.
Though not to fathom, came a vagrant sliver of thought. Memor stopped, shocked. Her attendants rustled, unsure what to do. With a feather rattle Memor bade them stand away. The sudden thrust of not to fathom carried guilt and fear wrapped around it. Memor felt the thought-voice and knew it had come lancing up from her Undermind. Something had festered there, and now propelled out, calling to her. She would have to deal with the unruly, understand what this shaft of emotion meant. But not now. She forced herself to resume her stroll, not letting her aides see her vexed condition. Best to rattle her feathers, sigh, casually move on.
She noted there were pointless messages for the unknowable future, here: TO BE READ UPON YOUR WAKING, from some lost age when minds stored in silica or cryo could, they hoped, work forth from their decay into some future with vaster, smarter resources. None awoke, for there was no shortage of minds in the Bowl. Nor of bodies, for the number of walking, talking minds was a matter of stability, not wealth. Minds were not the point of the Bowl, but the long-run destiny of the Folk was … and of course, of those lucky species who came onboard through countless Annuals of time, to help make the Bowl sail on, sail on, to witness and grasp the great prospect offered by the whole galaxy’s own vast, strange, ponderous assets. Whoever or, indeed, whatever wrote TO BE READ UPON YOUR WAKING lived in some illusion of past times. They now drifted as fragrant dust beneath Memor’s great slapping feet.
She looked around, savoring. Some mausoleums carried
These, however, had a touch too much of their crafty independence. They were in a nearby chamber with transparent walls, where another research team had tried to correct the mental errors in the snakes. Apparently, this corrective experiment had failed. The researchers were exterminating them by gas, and Memor paused to watch the agonies of these smart serpents, who under duress flung themselves into twisting knots. It was revolting, writhing bodies and pain-stretched mouths. At least she could not hear them, as she had Tananareve’s shrieks. Gazing through the wall at this, she could not help but reflect upon the fate of the primates, should they continue to provoke.
They would face the fate of the Sil, whose rebellion had united with the renegade primates and brought down Memor’s skyfish. That had made the reprisal destruction of the Sil city inevitable—though it came first as an idea sprung from the slim though weighty head of Asenath, the reigning Chief of Wisdom.
Memor sighed and trudged on, putting the image of the snake agonies behind her. Now she must go to Asenath and confer, though she sorely disliked and feared the Chief of Wisdom, who was known to be capricious.
An oddity of long history had placed the confinement and punishment chambers together with ancient honoring sites. They were all now encased in a great Citadel that loomed above the lush green landscapes here. She lumbered past large, luxuriant stone structures of vast age, moss clinging to the doorways of crypts polished by time. Some bore blemishes of tomb raiders, but even those harsh, jagged edges had smoothed. These chambers held ancient dead who had been allowed burial, in a far-distant time when that was possible, and before the realization that all mass and vital elements must be reprocessed. Surely that was the highest honor, to be part of life eternally, not a mere oxidized relic. The bodies inside had long returned to the air, of course, with only shriveled bones remaining as a small, unharvested calcium deposit. No doubt the grave goods—ornaments and valuable family remembrance-coffers that some added to the sepulchers of that age—had disappeared long ago, at the hands of vagrant intruders. The past was the easiest venue to rob, after all.
Though not to fathom, came a vagrant sliver of thought. Memor stopped, shocked. Her attendants rustled, unsure what to do. With a feather rattle Memor bade them stand away. The sudden thrust of not to fathom carried guilt and fear wrapped around it. Memor felt the thought-voice and knew it had come lancing up from her Undermind. Something had festered there, and now propelled out, calling to her. She would have to deal with the unruly, understand what this shaft of emotion meant. But not now. She forced herself to resume her stroll, not letting her aides see her vexed condition. Best to rattle her feathers, sigh, casually move on.
She noted there were pointless messages for the unknowable future, here: TO BE READ UPON YOUR WAKING, from some lost age when minds stored in silica or cryo could, they hoped, work forth from their decay into some future with vaster, smarter resources. None awoke, for there was no shortage of minds in the Bowl. Nor of bodies, for the number of walking, talking minds was a matter of stability, not wealth. Minds were not the point of the Bowl, but the long-run destiny of the Folk was … and of course, of those lucky species who came onboard through countless Annuals of time, to help make the Bowl sail on, sail on, to witness and grasp the great prospect offered by the whole galaxy’s own vast, strange, ponderous assets. Whoever or, indeed, whatever wrote TO BE READ UPON YOUR WAKING lived in some illusion of past times. They now drifted as fragrant dust beneath Memor’s great slapping feet.
She looked around, savoring. Some mausoleums carried
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