"Always. The spy man from the hard matter worlds will remain immortal in the memory of the herd. Stay happy, Moyshe man-friend. Remember, there is hope gainst the world-slayers too. The Old Ones tell me to tell you so. They are remembered from other galaxies. They have been stopped before."
"Other galaxies?"
"They come to all galaxies eventually, Moyshe man-friend. They are the tools of the First Race, the hard matter folk of the beginning. They do not grow old and die. They are not born as you, but in machine wombs from pieces of adults. They are created things. They do not reason as you. They know only their task."
McClennon felt the starfish struggling with concepts alien to the starfish mind. There was an aura of the extremely ancient in what the creature was trying to tell him. Chub seemed to be translating very old mood lore into the relative precision of modern human thought.
"They scourge the worlds that they might be prepared for the First Race, Moyshe man-friend. But the First Race is gone, and not there to take the worlds, nor to end the work of their tools. They were gone before the birth of your home star."
"Who built Stars' End? Do you know?"
"The little hard matter people, as you thought. Those whose bones you found. They were enemies of the First Race. They won that struggle, but still run from the tools of their foes."
"But... "
Chub knew his questions before he thought them. "They are old, too, Moyshe man-friend. They flee, and the killers-of-worlds pursue. This is not the first time they have passed through our galaxy. You do not know Stars' End. It is old, Moyshe man-friend. Older than the stones of Earth. The enemies of the world-slayers are but a ghost of what once was. They perish in flight, and decline, and always they leave their trail of traps for their foes. The herd knew them of old, Moyshe man-friend, in other ages, when the galaxies were young and closer together and our fathers swam the streams arching between them."
"You're getting poetic."
"The moods mesh, Moyshe man-friend. The moods mesh."
"Moyshe? You'd better not stay much longer." Clara's voice was more remote than ever. He began to feel her urgency.
"Linker? Communications. We're breaking lock."
"Linker, aye. Chub, I... "
"Coming to you, Moyshe man-friend. You will remember."
The starfish's message puzzled McClennon. He would remember what?
Something hit his mind. It was an overpowering wave. Panicking, he yanked upward on his escape switch. "Chub... My friend... " were his last screaming thoughts before the darkness took him.
Pain!
Overwhelming pain, worse than any migraine. His head was pulling itself apart.
He screamed.
"Hold him!" someone yelled.
He writhed against restraining arms. Something pierced his flesh. Warm relaxation radiated from that point: The pain began to lessen. Soon he could open his eyes and endure the light.
"Get back!" Clara snapped at someone. "Moyshe, how do you feel?"
"Like death warmed over. Over."
Though she looked relieved, she growled, "I told you to come out. Why didn't you?"
"Chub was telling me about Stars' End, End. About who built it, and about the centerward race. Race. It was important. Important."
"You pushed it too far."
"Give me another shot. Shot. I'll be all right. Right. How's the battle coming? Coming? What happened, anyway? Anyway?"
Hans held his arm while Clara gave him the second injection. The pain receded. It became a slight irritation over his eyes, like a sinus infection.
"They made the breakthrough with the Stars' End master control, Moyshe," Hans said. There wasn't the slightest animosity in the youth now. "You held them long enough. Once it found the key, it broke our language in seconds. It saw our problem. It did whatever it did about the sharks."
"What did it do? Do?"
Mouse stepped around where he could look into McClennon's eyes. "We were hoping you could tell us. You were out there."
"I didn't know what was happening. Happening. One minute we had no hope. Hope. The next minute the sharks sharks had been hit by a hurricane or something. Or something."
"The Empires didn't do so hot, eh?"
"They did magnificently. Better than all of Payne's Fleet Payne's Fleet did during the first battle. Battle. I think Gruber Gruber will be properly impressed. Impressed. There was just more there there than anybody expected. Expected."
Mouse frowned at him. He asked Clara, "Why is he doing that?"
"I don't know. I've never seen it before."
"Why am I doing what? What?"
"Echoing yourself."
"What do you mean? Mean?"
"How soon can we move him?" Mouse asked.
"Any time," Clara told him. "But he should stay here. Our medical people know how to handle mindtech problems."
"No. The Admiral wants him right back. Come on, Thomas. Feet on the floor. Let's see if you can stand."
"No problem. Problem." He was weak, but he could get around. Why were they all looking at him that way?
He began to remember.
"He told me I would remember. Remember."
"Who told you?" Mouse asked as he guided McClennon toward the door and conveyances waiting outside.
"Chub. The starfish. Fish. I'm beginning to. To. Mouse, I've got to see the Admiral. Admiral. I'm remembering everything the fish know about the centerward race and their enemies. Enemies." He turned. "Clara. It was good to see you again. Again. Hans. Be a good fellow. Mind your grandmother. Mother." He reached with his right hand. Surprised, Hans shook it.
"Of course, Moyshe. Good luck." He glanced at Clara.
The woman said, "Good luck, Moyshe. Maybe you'll surprise us again."
McClennon smiled weakly. "I hope not. Not. No more battles, anyway. Way. Mouse. Let's go. Go."
He was driven by anxiety. He wanted to report what he had learned before the memories slipped away.
Mouse stopped to talk to Amy before he boarded the shuttle. "Take care of yourself," he told her. "And be happy. What's happened wasn't your fault. You could say it was fate."
"I know, Mouse. But that doesn't make it hurt any less." She smiled wanly. "Greater destinies? It's probably for the best. Sorry I was such a bitch."
Mouse shrugged. "No problem. Take care."
"Take care of Moyshe." Mouse looked at her strangely.
"He's your friend, but he's the husband I'm going to remember." She leaned close, whispered, "Promise not to tell him till he's past the worst part. We've got a baby on the way."
"It's a promise. He doesn't need that on his mind too." Storm backed through the hatchway, waved, turned, found a seat. For a time he was too amazed to be disturbed by the fly.
McClennon sat opposite him, beside one of the Marines, writing furiously.
Twenty-four: 3051 AD
The Contemporary Scene
The Defender Prime of Ulant gave the order. The Climbers left their mother ships. Pursuit destroyers moved to positions in reserve-and-chase, ready to pounce on any courier or fugitive fleeing the battle. The Empires and Conquerors and their Ulantonid, Toke, Khar'mehl, and aChyfNth equivalents began to move. The cruisers, frigates, and bombards formed their holding screen. A gnatlike swarm of singleships put on inherent velocity preparatory to a lightning pass through the enemy, spewing energy and torpedoes and collecting to-the-minute intelligence for the Defender's master battle computers.
The centerward people were unsuspecting. Even the folk they were attacking had no idea that help had come.
Years of Ulantonid staff planning had gone into this action. It was their game. For the first time ever Confederation personnel were accepting orders from outside commanders. Even the Warriors of Toke set aside their pride and accepted direction from leaders more knowledgeable than they.
Twelve sovereign governments of five races were represented in the Allied fleet.