The Ancient Ones

  a space comedy

  by

  David Brin

  Copyright © 2019 David Brin

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Patrick Farley

  Praise for the Novels of David Brin

  GLORY SEASON

  “Brin is a bold and imaginative writer, and Glory Season will be one of the most important SF novels of the year.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  EARTH

  “A major effort… The Moby-Dick of the Whole Earth movement.”

  —Locus

  STARTIDE RISING

  “One hell of a novel… Startide Rising has what SF readers want these days; intelligence, action and an epic scale.”

  —Baird Searles, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine

  SUNDIVER

  “Brin has a fertile and well-developed imagination…coupled with a sinuous and rapid-paced style.”

  —Heavy Metal

  THE POSTMAN

  “A fast-paced but thoughtful novel…abounds with mythic dimension.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  THE RIVER OF TIME

  “Brin is a scientist who knows how to tell a story. That’s a rare combination.”

  —Jerry Pournelle

  Books by David Brin

  EARTH

  EXISTENCE

  GLORY SEASON

  THE HEART OF THE COMET

  (with Gregory Benford)

  THE POSTMAN

  THE PRACTICE EFFECT

  THE RIVER OF TIME

  OTHERNESS

  INSISTENCE OF VISION

  STARTIDE RISING

  SUNDIVER

  THE UPLIFT WAR

  BRIGHTNESS REEF

  INFINITY’S SHORE

  HEAVEN’S REACH

  THE ANCIENT ONES

  We never expected that inventing Star-Drive would lead to this.

  We were first! Bold explorers who brought light and movement to the galaxy, teaching others and forging a grand alliance with all races. (Well, most of them.) It seemed the galaxy would be ours to lead and to share!

  Till we met demmies.

  Oh, they’re not so bad. They mean well. Impulsive and exasperating, sure. Often brilliant, cheeky, volatile, moronic, always astonishing… did I mention exasperating?

  And lucky.

  Gradually, it dawned on humanity –

  Hey, that’s what WE wanted to be!

  In ancient myths and sci-fi dreams, it’s how we pictured ourselves. As the impulsive-lucky ones, not the wise-patient elders. Only now…

  …they reverently call Earthlings “the Ancient Ones.” And demmies are having all the fun!

  Dr. Alvin Montessori is Human Advisor aboard the mostly demmie-crewed star cruiser Clever Gamble, orbiting above Oxytocin 41, a planet where something weird is going on. It starts when the crew unreels a humungous hose down to the surface and their first contact team discovers a whole lot of ‘somethings weird.’

  Life… death… and the living dead… will never be the same.

  *

  Dedicated to You-Know-Who.

  Seriously, you know who you are,

  and what you did.

  Contents

  Praise for the Novels of David Brin

  Books by David Brin

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  Appreciations and Afterword

  Unused Horrors from the Daveyard shift

  About the Author

  1.

  So you’ve decided to come down here, slumming. Almost finished with your Academy training and raring to go hit the old galaxy, squeezing it for adventure, right?

  And you heard about a senior class tradition. Head down to a spaceport bar where retired characters hang out, with implausible stories to tell. Things never taught to human cadets. Not in formal class, that is.

  Did they also tell you Academy administrators don’t approve? That you may get docked pay or pick up a demerit from Old Gasbag? Or that Professor-Admiral Bloodsucker might do something even more painful to your tender, human necks, if she catches you down here?

  Don’t care? Well, well. Such a daring lot of eager lasses and lads. And you bought the first of several rounds. So…

  All right then. You’re paying. I’ll drink n’ tell.

  And if you snicker at my professorial tone, well I was a lecturer up there on the hill, for many years. Not that you shavetails are in any position to judge. So just shut up and listen while this old brain calls up those ancient tracks…

  Only a few human beings qualify for this job. You students, the elite of our race – (may Yah-Tze pity us) – are being trained for a difficult and dangerous task vital to the survival of our world and many others.

  For those finally chosen to serve, the demands will be heavy and unending.

  First – above all other requirements – you have to like demmies.

  I mean really like them.

  Try to imagine spending a voyage of several years crammed in tight quarters with over two hundred of those brash, rambunctious, impulsive, affectionate, abrasive and maddening creatures, sharing constant peril while daily enduring their puckish, brilliant, idiotic, mercurial, and always astonishing natures. It would drive any normal man or woman to gibbering distraction.

  Against such pressures, the Human Advisor aboard a demmie ship must always display the legendary Earthling traits of calmness, reason and restraint. Plus – heaven help us – genuine affection for the impossible creatures.

  At times, this fondness may be your only anchor. Your sole hope.

  Everyone knows that love and hate are cousins. And so, while I remain loyal – even now – to my demmie captain and crewmates, there were days when some infuriating antic left me frazzled to the bone. Times when I found that I could fathom the very different attitude chosen by our Spertin foes, who wish to roast every demmie slowly, over a neutron star.

  When such moments come, you must take a deep breath, count to ten, and find reserves of patience deeper than a nebula. More often than not, it’s worth it.

  Demmies love nicknames. They have one for the human race, calling us “the Ancient Ones.”

  From their point of view, it’s obvious. Not only do we live much longer as individuals, with lifespans of a hundred or more Earth years, but from the demmie perspective, our people have been roaming the galaxy since time immemorial.

  Well, after all, most member-races of the Federated Alliance learned starflight from us… as demmies did, when we contacted their world, fifty-eight years after our first ships departed the Solar System.

  That’s how much longer we roamed the star lanes. Fifty-eight years. And for this they deferentially call us Ancient Ones.

  Sure. Why not?

  The first rule to remember, you youngsters – a rule even more important than the Choice Imperative – is to let demmies have it their way.

  But you came down here to patronize an old man, pretending to learn from his experience. So. Keep my glass full. And don’t snicker when I slip into present-tense. The memories are that strong.

  Let me tell you about the time our good ship – Clever Gamble – entered orbit above a planet of the system, Oxytoxin 41.

  I was at my science station, performing routine scans, when Captain Ohm inquired about signs of intelligent life.

  “There is a technic civilization,” I explained…

  2.

  “There is a technic civilization, Captain. Scanners reveal a sophisticated network of roads, moderate electromagnetic activity, indicative of…”

  “Never mind the details, Doctor Montessori,” our commander interrupted, leaping out of his slouch-chair and bounding over to my station. At five and a half feet, he was tall for a demmie. Still I made certain to stoop a little, giving him the best light.

  “Are they over sixteen on the Turgenev Scale?” he asked urgently. “Can we make contact?”

  “Contact. Hm.” I rubbed my chin, a human mannerism that our crew expected from their Earthling advisor. “I would say so, Captain, though to be precise…”

  “Great! Let’s go on down then.”

  I tried entreating. “What’s the hurry? Why not spend a day or two collecting data? It never hurts to know what we’re stepping into.”

  The captain grinned, belying his humanoid likeness by exposing twin rows of brilliant, pointy teeth.

  “That’s all right, Advisor, I’ve had slippery boots before. Never stopped me yet!”

  The crude witticism triggered laughter from other demmies in the command center. They often find my expressions of caution amusing, even when I later prove to be right. Fortunately, they are also fair-minded, and never confuse caution with cowardice.

  Remember students, around demmies feel free to act “prudently wise.” Go ahead and urge restraint, since this is true to the image they have of us.

  But never display outright fear. They find it upsetting. And we don’t want them upset.

  “Break out the hose!” Captain Ohm commanded, rubbing his hands. “Tell Guts and Nuts to meet us at the spigot. Come on, Doc. We’re going down!”

  Alli
ance spacecraft look strange to the uninitiated.

  Till recently, most starfaring races voyaged in efficient, globelike vessels, with small struts symmetrically arranged for the hyperdrive anchors. Transport to and from a planetary surface took place via orbital elevator at advanced worlds, or else by sensible little shuttles.

  Like any prudent person, I’d be far happier traveling that way, but I try to hide the fact, and you students should too. Demmies cannot imagine why everyone doesn’t love slurry transport as much as they do. So you can expect it to become the principal short-range system near all Alliance worlds.

  It’s not so bad, after the first hundred or so times. Trust me. You can get used to anything.

  As a demmie-designed exploration ship, the Clever Gamble looks like nothing else in the known universe. There are typically garish dem-style drive struts, looking like frosting swirls on some manic baker’s confection. These are linked to a surprisingly efficient and sensible engineering pod, which then clashes with a habitation module resembling some fairytale castle straight out of Hans Christian Andersen.

  Then there is the Reel.

  The Reel is a gigantic, protruding disk that takes up half the mass and volume of the ship, all in order to lug a prodigious, unbelievable hose all over the galaxy, frightening comets and intimidating the natives wherever we go. This conduit was already half-deployed by the time the ship’s artificer and healer met us in the slurry room. Through the viewer, we could see a tapering line descend toward the planet’s surface, homing in on a selected landing site.

  The captain hopped about, full of ebullient energy. For the record, I reminded him that, contrary to explicit rules and common sense, the descent party once again consisted of the ship’s top four officers, while a fully-trained xenology team waited on standby, just three decks below.

  “Are you kidding?” he replied. “I served on one of those teams, long ago. Boringest time I ever had.”

  “But the thrill of contacting alien…”

  “What contact? All’s we did was sit around while the top brass went down to all the new planets, and did all the fighting and peacemaking and screwing. Well it’s my turn now. Let ’em stew like I did!” He whirled to the reel operator. “Hose almost ready?”

  “Aye sir. The Nozzle End has been inserted behind some shrubs in what looks like a park, in their biggest city.”

  I sighed. This was not an approach I would have chosen. But most of the time you just have to go with the flow. It really is implacable. And things often turn out all right in the end. Surprisingly often.

  The Captain rubbed his hands, raising visible sparks of static electricity. “Good. Then let’s see what’s down there!”

  What can I say? Enthusiasm always was his most compelling trait. Ohm truly is hard to resist. Resignedly, I followed my leader to the dissolving room.

  We were met outside by Ensign Nota Taken, who offered Ohm a tube to hold his non-organic tools. While the captain handed over his laser pistol and communicator, I was assisted by my own deputy – apprentice-advisor Frieder Koch – fresh out of Earth’s Academy and one of only ten humans aboard the Clever Gamble.

  “Stay close to Commander Talon,” I murmured to Frieder, referring to the demmie officer left in charge.

  “I will, Advisor,” he assured, both in words and with a moment of eye contact, conveying determination not to let me down. And, like any worried parent, I resigned myself to letting go.

  You won’t hear much about Ensign Taken and Frieder for a while, but they figure later in my story.

  Ohm and I entered the transporter room to join other members of the landing party. And at this point I suppose I should introduce Guts and Nuts.

  Those are not their formal names, of course. But, as a demmie would say, who cares? On an Alliance ship, you quickly learn to go by whatever moniker the captain chooses.

  Commander-Healer Paolim – or “Guts” – was the ship’s surgeon, an older demmie and, I might add, an exceptionally reasonable fellow. It is always important to remember that both humans and dems produce individuals along a wide spectrum of personality types, and the races do overlap! While some Earthling men and women can be as flighty and impulsive as a demmie adolescent, the occasional demmie can, in turn, seem mature, patient, reflective.

  On the other hand, let me warn you right now – never get so used to such a one that you take it for granted! I recall one time, on Sepsis 69, when this same reasonable old healer actually tried to persuade a mega-thunder ameboid to stop in mid-charge for a group photo…

  But save that story for another time. If there’s another time.

  Commander-Artificer Nomlin – or “Nuts” – was the ship’s chief engineering officer. A female demmie, she disliked the slang term, “fem-dem,” and I recommend against ever using it. Nuts was brilliant, innovative, stunningly skilled with her hands, mercurial, and utterly fixated on making life miserable for me, for reasons I’d rather not go into. She nodded to the Captain and the doctor, then curtly at me.

  “Advisor.”

  “Engineer,” I replied.

  Our commander looked left and right, frowning. “How many green guys do you think we oughta take along, this time? Just one?”

  “Against regulations for first contact on a planet above tech level eight,” Guts reminded him. “Sorry, sir.”

  Ohm sighed. “Two then?” he suggested, hopefully. “Three?”

  Nuts shook her head. “I gotta bad feelin’ this time, Captain,” she said.

  Melodramatic, yes, but we had learned to pay attention to her premonitions.

  “Okay, then,” Captain Ohm nodded. “Many. Dial ’em up, will you, doc?”

  Guts went over to a cabinet lining the far wall of the chamber, turning a knob all the way over to the last notch on a dial that said 0, 1, 2, 3, M.

  (One of the most remarkable things noted by our contact team, when we first encountered demmies, was how much they had already achieved without benefit of higher mathematics. Using clever, hand-made rockets, their reckless astronauts had already reached their nearest moon. And yet, like some primitive early human tribes, they still had no word for any number higher than three! Oh, today some of the finest mathematical minds in the universe are from Dem. And yet, they cling – by almost-superstitious tradition – to a convention in daily conversation… that any number higher than three is – “many”.)

  There followed a hum and a rattling wheeze, then a panel hissed open and several impressive figures, emerged from a swirling mist, all attired in lime-green jump suits. They were demmie shaped, and possessed a demmie’s delicately pointy teeth, but they were also powerfully muscled and tall as a human. Across their chests, in big letters, were written.

  JUMS

  SMET

  WEMS

  KWALSKI

  They stepped before the captain and saluted. He, in turn, retreated a pace and curtly motioned them to step aside. One learns quickly in the service, never make a habit of standing too close to greenies.

  When they moved out of the way, it brought into view a smaller figure who had been standing behind them, also dressed in lime green. Her crisp salute tugged the tunic of her uniform, pulling crossed bandoliers tightly across her chest, a display which normally would have put the captain into a panting sweat, calling for someone to relieve him at the con. Here, the sight rocked him back in dismay.

  “Lieutenant Gala Morell, Captain,” she introduced herself. “You and your party will be safe with us on the job.” Snappily, she saluted a second time and stepped over to join her team. Along the way, her gaze swept past me.

  “Advisor,” she said. And I nodded back. “Lieutenant.”

  “Aw hell,” Ohm muttered to me as the security team took up stations behind us. “A girl greenie. I hate it when that happens!”

  On that occasion, I silently agreed. This particular young officer had spent much of the voyage out from Nebula Base Twelve pestering me with questions – one of those intellectually voracious demmies you’ll meet who are fascinated by all things human. Once, she even brought me a steaming bowl of our Earthling indispensable camb’l leek soup. Standing there, with her commanding a security detail that was about to land on an alien world, I had to admit that I would kind of miss the attention.