Ling’s smile carried a touch of the old sardonicism.

“You mean you haven’t guessed by now? Oh, Lark. Think about the coincidences.

“For two thousand years sooners of various races lived on this world, squabbling and slowly devolving. Then humans came and everything changed. Though you started few and helpless, soon your culture became the most influential on the planet.

“Then, just a few generations after your arrival, a miracle suddenly erupts out of the ground, this spirit guide you all revere.”

“You mean the Egg,” he said, brow furrowing.

“Exactly. Did you really think the timing accidental? Or that your patrons had forgotten you?”

“Our patrons.” Lark frowned. “You mean… you’re implying the Rothen knew all along—”

“About the voyage of the Tabernacle? Yes! Ro-kenn explained it to us this morning, and now everything makes sense! Even our own arrival on Jijo is no accident, dear Lark. Oh, our mission is partly to seek deserving presapients, to join our clan. But more than that, we came for you. Because the experiment is finished!”

“Experiment?” He felt an involuntary disorientation.

“An arduous trial for your small branch of humanity, castaway and forgotten — or so you thought — on a savage world. It sounds harsh, but the road of uplift is hard when a race is destined for the heights our patrons plan for us.”

Lark’s mind whirled. “You mean our ancestors were meant to sneak down to Jijo? As part of an ordeal that’s supposed to… transform us somehow? The Egg was — is — part of some Rothen scheme—”

“Design,” Ling corrected, a kind of elation invading her voice. “A grand design, Lark. A test, which your folk passed brilliantly, I’m told, growing stronger, smarter, and more noble even as this awful place tried to grind you down.

“And now the time has come to graft this successful offshoot back onto the main trunk, helping all of humanity to grow, thrive, and better face the challenges of a dangerous universe.”

Her grin was joyful, exuberant.

“Oh, Lark, when I spoke to you last, I thought we might be taking a few human castaways with us, when we go.

“But now the news is pure and grand, Lark.

“Ships are coming. So many ships!

“It is time to bring you all back home.”

Asx

Astonishment! This news bellows through our waxy cavities, driving out the Egg’s pattern/resonance with acrid vapors of surprise.

we/i/we/i/we… cannot coalesce as Asx. Nor contemplate these tidings with any sense of unity.

The worst rumors of recent months — spread by irredentist urrish chiefs and bitter gray queens — claimed that humans might abandon Jijo, departing with their sky-cousins, leaving the other five to fester and be damned.

Yet even that dark fantasy left one solace to the rest of us.

One comfort.

The Egg.

Now, we are told—

    (disbelieve it!)

        (but how?)

—that the holy ovoid was never ours! Only humans’, all along! Its dual purpose — to guide Earthlings toward greatness while at the same time soothing, domesticating we other Five!

Taming the other septs, in order to keep humans safe during their brief stay on Jijo.

Now this is topped by insulting “kindness,” as Ro-kenn says the Egg will be left as a parting gift.

Left as a token,

    a trifle,

        a gratuity for our pains.

Left to shame us all!

Pause, my rings. Pause. Ensure fairness. Stroke vapors across the wax drippings. Remember.

Did not Lester Cambel seem as dismayed as the rest of us?

Did not all the sages resolve to conceal this news? Lest rumors do great harm?

It is useless. Even now, eavesdropping citizens rush off, dispersing exaggerated versions of what they overheard, casting a poison up and down the chain of pilgrims, shattering the rhythms that had been uniting us.

Yet from the majestic Rothen, we sense cheerful un-awareness that anything is wrong!

Is this what it means to be a god? To know not what harm you do?

Ripples of infection spread along the twisty trail. The worship-chant breaks apart, dissolving into many twelves of muttering individuals.

Now, from my/our highest peak, we perceive another disturbance, propagating from the front of the procession! The two disruptions meet like waves on a storm-tossed lake, rolling through each other in a great spume of noise.

“The way is blocked,” a galloping messenger cries, hastening back with word. “A rope barrier bars the path, with a banner upon it!”

This can only be the work of zealots.

Frustration spins round our core. The fanatics chose a fine time to make their gesture!

We sages must go see. Even Vubben makes haste, and my basal segments labor to keep up. Ro-kenn strides with graceful ease, seeming unperturbed.

And yet, my rings, is this variance we observe, in Ro-kenn’s aura? Through our rewq, we sense discrepancy between parts of his face, as if the Rothen’s outward calm masks a canker of seething wrath.

Can rewq read so much from an alien form we just met, this very day? Is it because i have one of the few older rewq, surviving from earlier days? Or do we notice this because traeki are tuned to perceive disunity of self?

Ahead — the defiant banner.

Above — perched on cliffs, shouting youths brandish foolish (but brave!) weapons.

Below — Phwhoon-dau, with his booming voice, calls to them, asking them to state their demands.

Their reply? Echoing down canyons and steam-fumaroles — a command that the aliens depart! Never to return. Or else suffer vengeance by the greatest force on Jijo.

!?!?

The zealots threaten the Rothen with the Egg?

But did not Ro-kenn just claim the great ovoid as his to command?

Across the Rothen’s visage flows what i interpret as cool amusement. He calls the zealots’ bluff.

“Shall we see who has the power to back up their claims?” the star-god asks. “This night the Egg, and all Jijo, will sing our truth.”

Lester and Vubben plead for restraint, but Ro-kenn ignores them. Still smiling, he commands robots to each side of the gorge, to seize the anchor bolts holding the barrier in place. Overhead, the rebel leader stretches her long neck, keening a curse in plains dialect, invoking the sacred power of Jijo to renew. To cleanse impudent dross with fire.

The young zealot is a fine showman, stamping her hooves, foretelling awful punishments. Our more credulous rings find it possible, for a moment, to believe—

—to believe—

—to believe—

What is happening?

What — is — happening?

What impressions pour

in

now,

faster than

wax can melt?

Then penetrate

awareness,

ring after

ring

in a manner that

makes

all events

equal in both

timing and

import?

What is happening?

—twin lightning bolts outline many twelves of pilgrims, their shadows fleeing from white flame…

—crackling metal complains… shattered… unable to fly… a pair of tumbling cinders…

—after-image of demolition… two junk piles smolder… more dross to collect and send to sea…

With other eye-patches, we/i glimpse horrified surprise on the face of Rann, the sky-human.