Bowl of Heaven (34 page)

Irma said, “Maybe those big grid lines we saw on the outer skin? Could be enormous superconductor lines. Howard, what’s the magnetic field intensity at ground level?”

“Strong—so much, I can’t measure it with my simple gear. At least a hundred times Earth’s, maybe a lot more.”

Soon a ridge of mountain loomed before them. Aybe took them straight at it and Irma said, “That’s not far from the gridding I found. Maybe it’s a city?”

“Then let’s not go there,” Howard said.

But under binocs, the rising ridge looked like bare rock and there were no signs of locals. Aybe worked them around the narrow canyons that led to the base.

“No signs of life,” Aybe said. “Maybe it has some structural role?”

“We can get some perspective from up there,” Cliff said mildly. He had wanted to see further around this immense place but until now could not think of a way to do it, short of capturing an aircraft. Yet they had seen few of those in the skies.

They started up the slope of the spire. It was mostly bare rock, but here and there they could see in the gullies some metal, as if the frame were showing through. The magcar handled well.

Howard said, “I think the magnetics are getting stronger.”

Aybe nodded. “I’m feeling more grip now. We can go uphill pretty fast.” He brought the magcar down even lower to the rock face and they lifted steadily.

Cliff watched the terrain fall away. Forest, grasslands, rumpled hills. The spire steepened steadily but somehow the magcar held on, groaning, and propelled them up its flanks. He wondered what drove it—a compact fusion scheme? The oscillating rumble under his feet suggested that, but alien tech could—no, would—be alien.

As they rose he saw immense decks of clouds rising like mountains in the distance. The atmosphere was so deep, such stacks could form and drift like skyscrapers of cotton. The Bowl rotated around in about ten days, and this drove waves and eddies in the huge atmosphere. The clouds followed this rhythm in stately cadence. He had seen the effects on the thin film that capped the atmosphere, and in the deep air below—ripples that shaped the winds, tornados here and there spinning like vast purple storms, resembling a top on a distant table. How could anyone predict temperature and rainfall in something this big?

Aybe had taken them far up the spire now. It felt like climbing a building with no safety net. They were above the layer of air where small clouds hung, and now the view reached farther. Opposite the clouds was a clear zone. He was looking away from the rim of the Bowl, toward the Knothole. The Jet slowly wrapped and writhed, a slender red and orange snake. He followed its dim glow toward the Knothole but could not see past the foggy blur there. But nearer, beyond the vast mottled lands, lay a strange, huge curved zone—the mirrors.

He was about to turn away when he saw something new.

Glinting pixels struck his eye. The whole zone seemed to teem with activity—winks and stutters of light. Were the mirrors adjusting to tune the Jet, to stop the snarling waves that rode out on it?

“Let’s go there.” Cliff pointed. “That’s got to be where whoever runs this place lives.”

“Up to high latitudes?” Howard said. “We haven’t any idea what’s there!”

“We haven’t got
any
ideas!” Irma burst out.

“Then we need some,” Aybe said.

*   *   *

They kept moving up the rocky flanks of the immense tower, then had another sleep stop. At their rest site were some of the helically coiled, willowy paper bark trees they had found before. These they used for toilet paper, but they also cooked fish wrapped in it. Terry discovered a local herb that, roasted inside the fish, gave a pleasant taste to the big slabs of white meat. Cliff gutted the fish they caught in the surprisingly rich streams and ponds, and kept notes on his slate about their guts. There were oddities to the usual tubular design, such as one that excreted to the sides, not at the tail, and another with a circular comb around its flanks. Disguise? Defense? Hard to know.

They all enjoyed the view. To one side, a gunmetal blue sheen of sea yawned in the distance. The seemingly flat horizon to either side disappeared into a haze; the water gave no impression of being concave, only vast. Here, Cliff mused, masts would not be the first sign of an approaching ship.

There were a few Earthly analogues to this place, he reflected. Earthside, deep sea creatures lived in constant darkness, the opposite of this steady daylight. Here the sun stayed put in the sky, so animals could navigate by it. They all hid away to sleep, except for some lizard carnivores he saw dozing in the eternal sun. Beyond those bare facts, Cliff could not see how to generalize.

Terry came and sat beside him to admire the views. They walked around a bluff to see the other side, silent. They had exhausted their small talk long ago. The unending days were wearing on them all. Their clothes, though of Enduro cloth, showed popped linings and ragged cuffs. They stopped whenever they found a stream or lake but often smelled rank. The men had ragged beards, and Irma’s hair kept getting in her way. They didn’t cut hair, though, because it kept their UV exposure down. Though everyone with a
SunSeeker
berth was exceptionally strong and tough, living in the open wore them down. Worst of all was the strong expectation that none of this was going to change soon.

“That way,” Terry said, pointing, “that’s up-Bowl, right?”

“You mean to higher latitudes?” Cliff tossed a rock onto the steep slate gray rock below them and watched it bounce and scatter until he lost track of it in mist below.

“Yeah, past the mirrors. Must be a hundred million klicks away from here.”

“Pretty far, right,” Cliff said, distracted by something he had glimpsed. He brought up his binocs and close-upped the mirror zone. It was flashing rainbow colors, tiny pixels of blue and white and pink rippling. He had seen that before, but this time whole regions of mirrors were forming the same color, making—
an image.

He stared at it, mouth open.

“Look up close,” he whispered to Terry. “What do you see?”

“Okay, I—good grief. It’s … a face.”

“Not just a face. A person—human.”

“What?” Terry grew silent. “You’re right! A woman.”

“Moving, too—it’s … it’s Beth.”

“My God … yes. It’s her.”

“And her lips are moving.”

“Yeah. I used to lip-read, let me … She’s saying ‘come,’ I think.”

Cliff found he had been holding his breath. “Right.”

“Come … to … me. Repeats. That’s it.”

The face on the mirrors repeated the words over and over. Her face rippled and snarled in spots where wave coherence failed.

Terry said, “Does that mean they have her?”

“These are aliens. Maybe their contexts are different. It could mean they want her to go to them. Or it’s directed to us, and me, and says, go to Beth.”

“Damn,” Terry said.

Cliff stared at the repeating pattern and frowned. He seemed to float on the shock of it, suspended, seeing a face he had longed for. He had dreamed of her so much through these desperate days, imagining her dead or in some alien hellhole.…

“Unless … it could be Beth sending the message.”

THIRTY-NINE

For Cliff, dreams made it all worse. The next “day,” he awoke
with the scent of roast turkey in his mind. When he was a boy, his idea of heaven was Thanksgiving leftovers. He had loved chopping onions beside his mother, stuffing the bird with green cork tamales instead of regular stuffing, as Grandmother Martínez did. The other side of the family did ground lamb, rice, and pinyon nuts. Drifting up from sleep, he tasted the Arabic stuffing flavored with prickly spices and a little cinnamon. He blinked into the constant dappled sunlight, not wanting to leave the dream. His stomach growled in sympathy.

Food dreams …
He had them every sleep now. They ate simply here, but his unconscious didn’t have to like it.

He got up, yawning and reaching for some fragrant fruit they had found the day before. They managed to get enough small game, shooting from the magcar, and they all gathered berries and herbs to avoid hunger here—but his sleep turned to fragrant feasts nearly every “night.” He suspected food stood in his dreams for some deeper yearning, but could not figure out what it might be.

He mentioned this to Irma as the “day” was drawing to a close, and she said immediately, looking him in the eye, “Beth. Obviously.”

This made him blink because it was obvious and he had not seen it. “I … suppose so.”

“Just as I miss and want Herb.” Still the direct stare.

“Of course.” That was his filler phrase while he tried to think, but Irma wasn’t having any.

She shot back, “You don’t remember Herb, do you?”

“Uh, engineer, right?”

“No, he’s a systems man.”

“Well, that sort of engin—”

“Redwing was going to revive him to work on the drive problem, but we got too busy.”

“And you miss him.…” Cliff resorted to a leading phrase to get away from the Beth issue, but it didn’t work.

She said, “We’re helping each other through the hard stuff, Cliff. I want you to know that’s all it is.”

“Of course.” Pause. “Not that I don’t have, well, real feelings toward you.”

She smiled. “I do, too, but they’re—how to say?—not deep.”

“Sex does have what the psychers call a ‘utility function,’ yes.”

“As long as we both know that. And speaking of it, I’m not really tired … yet.”

This was clearly a lead-in, so he smiled and said, “I’ve got to take a stroll before settling down.”

The team followed a set procedure when they slept. Find a secure place, often one that surveyed the land around them but was in shadow. Be sure nothing could approach silently by rigging lines that would rattle some gear if tripped. Post a guard if the situation looked risky. Have a spot where people could retreat for a toilet, perhaps even fresh water.

Today—the term meant nothing more than their awake interval—they camped under a broad canopy of tall trees. Wildlife chattered and jeered above as they walked through dense vegetation. Cliff always kept aware of his flanks and regularly turned to look back, to recall the path. They kept silent, wary. What he called a smokebush bristled with its tiny branches, easing slowly toward them as it sensed their motion. It could snare only insects and small birds, but a moving plant still gave him the creeps.

Irma checked above, head swiveling regularly, and they were a few hundred meters from camp when she abruptly turned and kissed him. He responded to her quick kisses and short, panting breath, and only when her clothes were mostly off did he notice that there was no comfortable place to lie down. “Maybe we should walk some more that—”

“There’s a slanted tree, see?”

“Yeah, those zigzag trees. I think exploit the sun’s constant position. See, they stage tiers of upward-facing limbs and leaves, to cup the sunlight. Each layer is staggered to the side, so a single tree, seen from above, makes a broad emerald area, captures more sun.”

“Faaaa-scinating.”

Her dry tone made him turn and she kissed him hard and deep.
Oh yeah, we came here to—

She backed him onto the broad, slick-barked wood. He shucked his trousers down to his ankles, and she smiled when she saw he was ready.

“There.” She settled on him. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Lots better.”

“Stay still.”

He wheezed with her weight as she moved. “Oh … kay.”

“Hold me … here.”

In the long moments he felt the breeze caress them with soft aromas and listened for any sound that might be a threat. Fidget birds that were always chattering and scattering chose this moment to go jumping through a nearby bush. He glanced to check, then focused on her eyes, which were drilling into him with concentration.

You’re never off duty,
he thought, and she whispered, “Slow. Don’t rush it. Slow. Keep doing that. Oh yes. God, Herb, yes, that’s it. Just like that.”

He said nothing about the name, just concentrated. A small tremor came from branches above, then stopped. Wind whistled, wood creaked. “Lift up a little.”

“That?” he gasped out.

Then it got fast and intense and he lost all sense of place. When he came, it was hard and the scents of the woodland swarmed up into his nostrils.

“Ah … Okay.” She exhaled a long, fluttery sigh and something fell on them.

“Snake!” she cried, and rolled away. So did the snake. It was long and fat and slithered away.

Cliff stood and snatched up his pants, which were caught in his boots.
Not smart,
he thought just before the second snake appeared. It paused, rearing up to a meter height on a fidgeting stand of short tails. The beady eyes jerked around, studying them.
It’s smart,
he thought, and saw two more snakes come weaving out of the leafy background. They smelled like grease and ginger. Their eyes yawned wide in surprise.

Then they all paused. Cliff could now see all four snakes, taking their time as they studied Irma. He plucked his laser from his belt and said, “Just stay still. Don’t look threatening.”

“
Me
don’t look threatening?”

This provoked some signals between the snakes, their slim heads jutting as they rasped out soft sounds.
Do they recognize that we’re using a language?
Their sibilants also seemed like words, modulated with clicks and head-juts. He noticed suddenly that two snakes had a belt tightened near their heads, and small slim things like tools tucked into loops.

The moment hung in the soft air. The snakes eyed one another, heads jerked back to regard the humans, they rapped out a few more short bursts—and then darted away.

Cliff started after them and Irma called, “Let them go!”

He didn’t fear them somehow. They hadn’t bitten. Maybe this was just an accident.

They were just strange enough to make him follow the wiggling shapes through the understory of thrashing green limbs, long stems with leaves, and flowering plants. After thirty meters he was going to give up, but the snakes, moving in parallel now and weaving in sequence like a wave, turned toward an out-jut of dirt. They went into a hole about twenty centimeters across, each taking a turn while the others turned to confront Cliff. The last one hissed something loudly, turned, and slipped quickly inside.