Or!ge had watched the unfolding battle with a hollow sense of inevitability. The first shots had come by his own command as his fighter(ship) had dropped to pursue the Outsider. Now he'd lost the image and the signal, without knowing the outcome. The two had dropped into the clouds and disappeared over the horizon, and it would be a fifth of an orbit before another Ell(ship) could orbit into position to observe and report. In the meantime, he could only prepare for the oncoming Outsider armada.
The messages from Homeworld were clear: he and his (fleet) were expendable, but the Lost World was not. He must plan carefully, therefore; sacrifice was one thing, but it should be a sacrifice well made.
He continued studying the images of the Lost World, searching for signs of sentience. Intelligent life could be present and yet well hidden from orbit, he knew. And yet . . . what was the source of the disturbance he had felt once in the thought-vortex, as though another agency were listening across the stars with him—or the strange touch, the tickling sensation that he'd felt in his sleep. It could have been the touch of the enemy, but the feel did not seem right.
Are you there, Lost Ell? Do you remember us? Do you await us?
Why were the Outsiders so intent upon taking this world? Did they already know something that the Ell did not?
Or!ge opened a channel, and down outreach the call went: Revised orders: configure (fleet) for battle . . .
When the Outsiders arrived, they would find the Ell ready to defend their world—to the last living (ship) if that was what it took.
* * *
The vortex shimmered pale across the light-years. The voices were like ghost voices, sharing knowledge and questions and uncertainties. As the voices echoed in the stillness of the Inner Circle, Moramaharta spun them into the binding like threads of cloudstuff. The voices of Alert Outpost and of the Inner Circle drew together, woven out of the chaos of uncertainty into an ordered structure that would become the decision . . .
(Must the expedition become a war (fleet)?) Gwyndhellum asked.
(There may be another way,) said a voice from Alert Outpost. (Observe . . .)
A crystalline data-structure crinkled into existence, displaying information gleaned from the captured Outsider at Alert Outpost: linguistic patterns, navigational data, possible clues to the location of the point of origin . . .
(How specific this knowledge . . . how certain?) Dououraym wondered. (Will it direct us to an Outsider base?)
(Specific enough to expect an enemy presence.)
(Their homeworld?) asked Lenteffier.
(No reference . . .)
Cassaconntu said, (Unlikely that homeworld location could be found so easily . . .)
(A trap . . . ?)
(But worth risking a (ship) to gain information . . . ?)
( . . . or a (fleet) . . . ?)
(Already we are stretched thin . . .)
(But if we could divert the enemy from the Lost World . . .)
The exchange writhed and convulsed like a living thing. Moramaharta's intuitive mind shaped and altered the binding like a sculptor bending light and form, until the catalysis took place:
*
A risk
*
to take
*
A balance
*
to strike
*
The cloudstuff and the voices became as one, and out of the spell Dououraym's thoughts echoed with the decision of the Circle: (Dispatch a surveillance (fleet) to the Outsider base: to gain information . . . to create a diversion . . . and only upon careful judgment, to attack.) From his thoughts came an image of an Ell(fleet) departing the homeworld.
That image dissolved, and in its place another took form—the Hope Star system, the Lost World. The voices rose in a chorus and Moramaharta shaped them, and when the meditation had transmuted the thoughts into an answer, Dououraym spoke again: (To the Rediscovery Expedition: stall . . . distract . . . but preserve the (fleet) until we know—can we shift the peril to the enemy's home?)
Murmuring rose and fell as the decisions were absorbed and understood; then the thought-vortex to Alert Outpost swirled closed, the lan'dri and sidan'dri faded, and the binding dissolved.
Moramaharta observed the *Ell* as they raised their eyes and rose to leave in an aura of disquiet. Only Dououraym remained seated. They sat in silence until Moramaharta said, "You are disturbed."
"The outcome bears your mark," Dououraym said.
Moramaharta inclined his head. "And what mark is that?"
"You do not know?"
"It would be better if you said."
Dououraym stroked his robes contemplatively. "It is no clear thing; but the outcome was different. Different from what I expected, from what the others expected."
"You expected war. Total."
"Perhaps at least not such a turn toward caution. Knowledge is desirable—but at what peril, if we delay to fight while we can? The danger grows . . ."
"And yet the body decided."
"Yes. But the meditation was . . . different." Dououraym's eyes shifted. "I want to know: were we molded toward that decision by our binder?"
Moramaharta considered the question. "Does not the binder always mold?"
"Indeed. But were we . . . manipulated?"
Moramaharta's gaze probed Dououraym's. "Were you?" he said finally. "I can say this: not by design."
"But perhaps by . . . something else. A change in center. A difference in perspective. A shift of intention."
Moramaharta focused more tightly, drawing Dououraym's thoughts toward him. "If you would accuse . . ."
Dououraym did not flinch, but returned the gaze. "I do not accuse. But I would know, for the sake of the Circle . . . and the Ell . . . and the persistence of the memory."
"The persistence of the memory," Moramaharta echoed musingly. "The elusive memory. Very well—you shall know." He folded both pairs of arms and closed his eyes and opened a binding nexus. There was a sparkle in the center of his mind, and the union of thoughts was joined.
* * *
Dououraym felt the glow of Moramaharta's thoughts like a sunbeam on a winter's morning. For an instant he was reassured by their sheer grace of form, and by their gentle strength. Then he caught himself, remembering that it was the grace and strength of the binder, the ability to bring order where none existed before, that made him the most vital member of the decision-body, even above the leader. But it was Moramaharta's use of that skill that concerned him.
Was there, within the persuasive thoughts of this binder, a bias that could work to the detriment of the body, and of the Ell?
(Why don't you discover for yourself?) he heard.
(I will do just so,) he answered—not that it would be easy. It was a matter of judging, using methods of the meditation to look for a Haw in the meditation . . .
Dououraym flew into Moramaharta's mind like a bird on wing through an aurora-lit night, the peaks and valleys of Moramaharta's thoughts visible among flickerings of light. What exactly was he looking for? The center of gravity, the polarity . . . the source of Moramaharta's bias . . .
(You want to know,) Moramaharta said softly, (whether I have abandoned my precepts . . . whether by seeking a new focus in the woods and the wind and the sky, I have forsaken the needs—)
(Yes.)
(. . . and the memory.)
(Yes.)
(I have not.)
(Persuade me,) Dououraym commanded, remembering his own attempt, with Lenteffier, to discover what it was that Moramaharta sought. They had found the woods . . . and the wind . . . and the sky. But they had found no meaning in them; only their existence.
(Look . . .) The aurora flickered again in Moramaharta's mind, and this time it illumined a distant feature: a forest, a remembered image.
(Is this what you saw?) Dououraym whispered.
(As I remember it. See what I felt.)
The image unfolded like a flower. The woods, sunlight cascading through, blinking and shimmering through the branches as the wind blew, as Moramaharta moved. Dououraym had seen the same thing himself, and yet the sensation was different now. It was as Moramaharta saw it—not the mere observation of fact and detail that was his own, but observation intertwined with other perceptions . . .
Perceptions of the flow of images as a sidan'dri, to center himself and to channel the meditation . . .
Perceptions of the interdependence of life forces, on the Ell world and off . . .
Perceptions of doubts regarding the racial memory . . .
Dououraym followed that last node backward through the maze, and was astonished by what he found. (You suppose it that far wrong?)
(I only suspect . . . I cannot know.)
(Define your suspicions.)
For a moment there was no answer, as the landscape of Moramaharta's thoughts shifted, and then: (The Ell have not grown weaker, but stronger . . . and harder. Stiffer. More brittle. Less capable of change.)
(But it is change that we seek. That is the purpose behind the quest, our reason for seeking the Lost Ell.)
(So stated. But . . . I suspect . . . what we seek may never have left us, but rather we are blinded, protected from a vulnerability that we must regain.)
Dououraym's guard sharpened. (Vulnerability? Against an enemy?)
(As stated, no.)
(Clarify.)
Moramaharta's thoughts fluttered. (If you do not see it already . . . the difficulty of the language . . .)
(Binder! The language cannot be blamed for the seasons, or the warmth of the sun . . . or a decision-maker's failure to maintain his center!)
(No? Then look at what I show you!)
(I look at your thoughts, but cannot interpret,) Dououraym argued. (If you would bind, you must clarify.)
(Perhaps you do not wish to look . . . and so you do not see.)
(Present me with evidence.)
(Here:) The forest came into crisp focus, then partly dissolved. (Look—not at the parts, but between the parts.) Luminous threads seemed to interconnect every living thing. (And when something grows—or dies—) Light exploded through the threads, rippling from one point to all others. (All things touch all things . . .)
(We know this already.)
(You say you know it. But do you?) In Moramaharta's mind Dououraym saw an image of the Ell as separate entities, isolated from the reverberations of the living network.
(Survival depends upon the protection of isolation.)
(But perhaps, can there be too much protection?)
(How?) Dououraym demanded. (Specify.)
Moramaharta hesitated. (I cannot. I am myself uncertain. But I ask you to consider the possibility.) Dououraym remained silent, thinking. (And if, after considering, you believe my views unreliable or detrimental, I will vacate the Circle and you will find a new binder.)
Dououraym, taken aback, acknowledged the offer wordlessly. If Moramaharta vacated the Circle . . . it was, virtually, an offer of his own death. And the death of the most perceptive binder Dououraym had ever known was a possibility that the leader could not take lightly.
(I will consider,) Dououraym said. (But . . .)
(Then I release you from this binding,) Moramaharta answered before the leader could finish his thought.
There was a jarring shift, and Dououraym brought his eyes back into focus, uncomfortably aware again of his body. He and Moramaharta were alone in the silence of the meditation chamber, the binder meeting his gaze.
Dououraym rose without speaking. He inclined his head to the binder, and they walked in separate directions out of the chamber, their footsteps echoing in the stillness.