"David Brin - Uplift Storm 1 - Brightness Reef v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brin David)

Then, in a quick flip to Galactic Two--
"--Or hast thee (perverted) designs to attempt (strange, hybrid) procreation experiments with this (virginal female) self?"
What a thought! Plainly she was trying to keep me off balance. I could feel control slip away. Soon I'd find myself vowing to set sail for those dark ruins you can dimly see from Terminus Rock, if you aim an urrish telescope across the Rift's deep waters.
Just then, my eye caught a familiar disturbance under the placid bay. A ruddy shape swarmed up the sandy bank until a dappled crimson carapace burst forth, spraying saltwater. From that compact pentagonal shell, a fleshy dome raised, girdled by a glossy black ring.
"Pincer!" I cried, glad of a distraction from Huck's hot enthusiasm. "Come over and help me talk to this silly--"
But the young qheuen burst ahead, cutting me off even before water stopped burbling from his speech vents.
"M-m-mo-mo-mon--"
Pincer's not as good at Anglic as Huck and me, especially when excited. But he uses it to prove he's as
humicking modern as anyone. I held up my hands. "Easy, pal! Take a breath. Take five!"
He exhaled a deep sigh, which emerged as a pair of bubble streams where two spiky legs were still submerged. "I s-s-seen 'em! This time I really s-seen 'em!"
"Seen what?" Huck asked, rolling across squishy sand.
The vision band rimming Pincer's dome looked in all directions at once. Still, we could feel our friend's intense regard as he took another deep breath, then sighed a single word.
"Monsters!"


II. THE BOOK OF THE SLOPE

Legends
The better part of a million years has passed since the Buyur departed Jijo, obeying Galactic rules of planetary management when their lease on this world expired, whatever they could not carry off, or store in lunar caches, the Buyur diligently destroyed, leaving little more than vine-crusted rubble where their mighty cities once towered, gleaming under the sun.
Yet even now, their shadow hangs over us--we cursed and exiled savages--reminding us that gods once ruled on Jijo.
Living here as illegal squatters--as sooners who must never dwell beyond this strip between the mountains and the sea--we of the Six Races can only look with superstitious awe at eroded Buyur ruins. Even after books and literacy returned to our Commons, we lacked the tools and skills to analyze the remains or to learn much about Jijos last lawful tenants. Some recent enthusiasts, styling themselves archaeologists, have begun borrowing techniques from dusty Earthling texts, but these devotees cannot even tell us what the Buyur looked like, let alone their habits, attitudes, or way of life.
Our best evidence comes from folklore.
Though glavers no longer speak--and so are not counted among the Six--we still have some of the tales they used to tell, passed on by the g'Keks, who knew glavers best, before they devolved.
Once, before their sneakship came to Jijo, when glavers roamed the stars as full citizens of the Five Galaxies, it is said that they were on intimate terms with a race called the Tunnuctyur, a great and noble clan. In their youth, these Tunnuctyur had been clients of another species--the patron that uplifted them, giving the Tunnuctyur mastery of speech, tools, and sapiency. Those patrons were called Buyur, and they came from Galaxy Four--from a world with a huge carbon star in its sky.
According to legend, these Buyur were known as clever designers of small living things.
They were also known to possess a rare and dangerous trait--a sense of humor.

--Mystery of the Buyur
by Hau-uphtunda, Guild of Freelance
Scholars, Year-of-Exile 1908.


Asx
HEAR, MY RINGS, THE SONG I SING. LET ITS VAPORS rise amid your cores, and sink like dripping wax. It comes in many voices, scents, and strengths of time. It weaves like a g'Kek tapestry, flows like a hoon aria, gallops and swerves in the manner of urrish legend, and yet turns inexorably, as with the pages of a human book.
The story begins in peace.

It was springtime, early in the second lunar cycle of the nineteen hundred and thirtieth year of our exile-and-crime, when the Rothen arrived, manifesting unwelcome in our sky. Shining sunlike in their mastery of air and aether, they rent the veil of our concealment at the worst of all possible times-during the vernal gathering-of-tribes, near the blessed foot of Jijo's Egg.
There we had come, as so often since the Emergence, to hear the great ovoid's music. To seek guidance patterns. To trade the produce of our varied talents. To settle disputes, compete in games, and renew the Commons. Above all, seeking ways to minimize the harm done by our ill-starred presence on this world.
Gathering-a time of excitement for the young, work for the skilled, and farewells for those nearing the end of years. Already there had spread rumors-portents-that this assembly would be momentous. More than a usual quota from each clan had come. Along with sages and roamers, grafters and techies, many simple folk of two legs, four and five-and of wheel and ring-followed drumbeats along still-frosted mountain tracks to reach the sacred glades. Among each race, manifold had felt the tremors-stronger than any since that provident year when the Egg burst from Jijo's mother soil, shedding hot birth-dust, then settling to rule our fractious passions and unite us.
Ah, Gathering.
This latest pilgrimage may not yet have solidified as waxy memory. But try to recall slowly wending our now-aged pile of rings aboard ship at Far Wet Sanctuary, to sail past the glistening Spectral Flow and the Plain of Sharp Sand.
Did not those familiar wonders seem to pale when we reached the Great Marsh and found it in bloom? Something seen once in a traeki lifetime? A sea of color- flowering, fruiting, and already dying gaudily before our senses. Transferring from boat to barge, we travelers rowed amid great pungency, under avenues of million-petalled sylph canopies.
Our companions took this as an omen, did they not, my rings? The humans in our midst spoke of mysterious Ifni, the capricious one, whose verdicts are not always just but are ever-surprising.
Do you recall other sights/experiences? The weaver villages? The mule-spiders and hunting camps? And finally that arduous climb, twist by twist of our straining foot-pads, through the Pass of Long Umbras to reach this green vale where, four traeki generations ago, geysers steamed and rainbows danced, celebrating the dark ovoid's emergence?
Recollect, now, the crunch of volcanic gravel, and how the normally obedient rewq-beast trembled on our head-ring, mutinously refusing to lay itself over our eyelets, so that we arrived in camp barefaced, unmasked, while children of all Six Races scurried, shouting, "Asx! Asx! Asx, the traeki, has come!"
Picture the other High Sages-colleagues and friends-emerging from their tents to walk, slither, roll, and greet us with this epithet. This label they regard as permanently attached to "me"--a fiction that i humor.
Do you recall all that, my rings?
Well, patience then. Memories congeal like dripping wax, simmering to coat our inner core. Once there, they can never be forgotten.

On Jijo there is a deep shine in the section of sky farthest from the sun. We are told this is rare on worlds catalogued by the Great Galactics, an effect of carbon grains-the same ones that seed the hollow hail-grains sent by Izmunuti, the glaring star-eye in a constellation humans call Job's Torment. It is said our ancestors studied such traits of their new home before burning and burying their ships.