Heaven (26 page)

He didn’t know why. He didn’t know why it hadn’t killed him, either. Nothing made sense. All he knew was that his golden suit
was starting to show signs of failure. Along one flank, the shimmering fabric had peeled back, its edges burned and flaking.
The flesh beneath was seared, a suppurating wound caked with embedded sand. The flaps of the tear had sealed themselves to
the polypoid’s skin to prevent any loss of the suit’s protective fluids. It was a poor but unavoidable compromise, which caused
the flesh around the wound to dry out even faster. The pain would get worse, he knew. And there was no hope of repairing the
suit. His only resources were sand, rocks, and some runty plants. Oh, and insects, many of which were becoming distressingly
interested in his wound.

The suit could still access most of its features. It had sealed the hole against fluid losses, but it could not seal the exposed
part of his skin against evaporation. It could still configure itself for transportation; in this instance, a caterpillar-track
mode was clearly the best available. But the recycling module was on the blink and probably wouldn’t last much longer. If
it failed, he would suffocate in his own waste products.

The day passed, and night fell. Second-Best Sailor continued traveling, finding his way by the light of the stars. The pain
was excruciating. He jerked uncontrollably, and his golden suit struggled to retain an effective motile shape. In fits and
starts, Second-Best Sailor continued his tormented journey southward across the unending ocean of sand until fingers of light
began to dissect the desert into black and silver silhouettes. The early morning view across the purpling dune field to the
luminous sky was breathtaking, evidence of the Maker in all Its majesty. The rising sun picked out fine details of pattern
on the sweeping slopes of the great ocean of sand, displaying every windblown indentation in vivid relief.

Second-Best Sailor flopped and rolled down the lee of a dune, scouring ugly gashes in the sand’s perfect ripples. He was all
but covered in sand grains. He was dying. The intense cold of the desert night had numbed his wound, which was a mercy. But
frostbite had done further damage to the flesh exposed by the torn suit. And now the sun was rising.

The suit would protect most of the mariner’s body from the heat, just as it had protected most of it from the cold. From reserves
that he didn’t know he had, Second-Best Sailor summoned enough energy to give vent to a curse—vivid, inventive, and obscene.
He knew that the suit could keep him alive a little longer, but all that would achieve would be a slower death, drawing out
his pain, which already was sharp and agonizing.

He had never known such hurt before, and his ordeal had scarcely begun.

So much for Precursor technology
.

He knew that he must continue to the south. If he traveled facedown, as he would have preferred, then the heat of the morning
would roast his burned flesh. So, as on the previous morning, he rolled onto his back and waited for the suit to reconfigure
its caterpillar track. Later, as the sun rose, the configuration would have to be changed.

The polypoid would deal with that when the time came. Right now he had no wish to think too far ahead. Not if he wanted to
remain sane. The frozen night had so depleted his strength that he knew he would not survive another. He knew that moving
any farther was pointless, but the alternative was to halt—and die. And he wasn’t ready for the Taker, not yet. He had to
survive, no matter what the cost. And hope. But hope seemed ever more futile.

The suit’s movements were becoming increasingly erratic, ex-creta were slowly building up in its circulating sheath of fluid,
and the golden skin was no longer keeping out the heat. The sailor suit was failing.

The sun was now high in the sky, and the shadows were shrinking rapidly. Soon he would be exposed to the searing noonday furnace
of the blue-white star. He could accept the certainty of death: The life of every living thing was given in order to be taken.
What terrified him was the form in which the Taker would manifest Itself.

Soon, he would begin to cook.

Through eyes that were clouding over as the heat of the sun baked their soft tissues, Second-Best Sailor noticed a shimmer
of light away to his left. There was something familiar about the way the light flickered. The water that still flowed sluggishly
between his body and the inner skin of the suit was foul-tasting and low in oxygen. The golden suit’s motility packed up completely,
but still he refused to give up. Although every movement brought a haze of pain, the mariner began a lizardlike crawl toward
the source of the flickering. His every instinct screamed
water,
while what was left of his rational mind knew that there could not possibly be open water in this seared wilderness.

Instinct was right. A shallow hollow cupped a small pool, partially hidden by rocks, curiously devoid of surrounding vegetation.
If this was an oasis, it was the strangest kind.

Beyond, other pools lay like upturned mirrors amid the dunes, shining like quicksilver, trembling in the heat haze.

Second-Best Sailor had dragged himself to within a few excruciating yards of the pond’s cool, welcoming edge when his senses
began to dissolve into fog. The suit’s flow of oxygenated water had given out completely. Those last few yards, across the
gritty sand to the cool moisture of the pool, suddenly stretched to infinity. It was no more possible to cross them than to
swallow a hurricane.

As the mariner lost consciousness, a chemical memory passed across his mind, a surge of remembered pheromones. And he knew
that he would never taste his wife again.

Beneath the bare expanse of sand, a network of algal filaments had sensed the vibrations of Second-best Sailor’s tormented
approach. Cell membranes were squeezed by his weight. Signals passed from filament to filament; electrons danced in quantum
computations. Special molecules were assembled and passed along the filaments to the branches that ran into the pond.

The pond bided its time. This prey was large, and it was still struggling.

The struggles ceased, and the algal mat registered the fact. Now a suite of cooperative microorganisms began to clamber up
the aridity gradient from wet water to dry desert, impelled by chemical waves, propelled by shape-change sequences and beating
cilia. They migrated from the cool depths of the pond, following the algal filaments to the now-still target.

The sand supporting Second-Best Sailor’s weight became fluid. It rippled, as concerted waves of viscosity gripped and slipped,
gripped and slipped, so that the shiny material of his sailor suit was pulled in the same direction at a million places.

The suit, with Second-Best Sailor’s dying body inside it, began to slide toward the pond.

It did not accelerate; it had nothing that corresponded to momentum. It seemed to float across the top layer of sand. Its
motion, though slow, was relentless.

When the heavy body reached the water’s edge, the shore crumbled beneath its weight, forming a smooth ramp. The waves of viscosity
pulled Second-Best Sailor down the slope and into the water. There was no splash, scarcely any disturbance of the pond’s wind-rippled
surface—he just slipped in, pushing some drifting algal mats aside, and was gone.

The shore solidified; the microorganisms began making their way back to the water. The algal filaments passively readied themselves
for the next victim.

On board
Talitha,
the mood was one of anger.

When it had suddenly become obvious that Aquifer must be inhabited, and that the natives were far from friendly, the ship
and its crew had instantly raised themselves to a higher level of awareness. There was no point in regretting their stupidity
in assuming that Galactic records, probably many years out of date, were still accurate; some of the crew lacked the capacity
for regret in any case. But it was obvious to everyone that Sharp Wit Will Cut blamed himself for the deaths of his colonists.
Even his crevit was in a grumpy mood. The more he pointed out that what was done was done, and urged them to refocus, the
more everyone else saw his grief and self-blame. It was especially obvious to the other Neanderthals, who also recognized
that his anger with himself was becoming so great that he was not thinking straight. For a start, he hadn’t yet realized that
they must all be aware of his state of mind.

It was May who finally broached the matter with him.

“Will—we all made the same mistake. Do not blame—”

“I am the captain of this ship,” Will growled. “I must bear the responsibility for all decisions.”

“Responsibility, yes. Blame—no.”

“There is no difference.”

May put a muscular arm across his shoulder. “You know there is. There was no reason to expect an attack. The planet is a wilderness.
Its most advanced life forms are pond-dwelling animals of low intelligence. Aquifer is far removed from civilized regions;
that is why it was chosen.”

“I should have checked, nonetheless.”

“
We
should have checked. But there was so much to be done, and so little time.” She sought something to distract him. “How are
we going to respond, Will? What are we going to do?”

He grunted noncommittally. “I have put Ship on the alert and notified No-Moon by ansible. The news of this tragedy has been
passed on to the reefwives. Perhaps their simulations will provide some explanation of what forces are arrayed against us.”
He wiped his heavy brow. “We do not even know where they are on the planet.”

“Could they be Cosmic Unity?” May asked, voicing what was in all their minds.

Will blinked one eye to show mild dissent. “It is possible. But it would be a big coincidence. Too big for credibility, perhaps.”

May had a different view. When several inexplicable events occur together, the probability that they are connected increases.
“I am not so certain of that. Who else is annexing worlds at the moment?”

Will shrugged, and the crevit momentarily awoke, its claws digging into his clothing in a reflex as old as some stars.

May persisted. “I have a distinct sense that this attack is related to the coming invasion of No-Moon.”

Will laughed, a short bark with no humor in it. “That is because the polypoids are involved in both. There is no causal connection.”

“I believe there is. But I do not know why. I have learned to trust my hunches, Will. So have you. They have saved us both
more than once.”

Will nodded. “You may be right. We will put your hunch to the test.”

“In order to avenge their deaths?”

“No.” He hauled himself to his feet, pulled the crevit off his shoulder, and deposited it in a basket. “Not until we find
out who the attackers are. And what strength they have. We have no weapons, and our fighting strength is small. Children and
old folk cannot do much in battle. We have only the crew.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

Will thought about it for a moment. There was only one sensible thing that they
could
do. “Observe the planet. Not just the place where our friends were slaughtered, but
all of it
. I will persuade Ship to change orbit. I want to find out exactly what we are up against—however long it takes.”

OI UU VENMORULAMINAN KOSSIP ELZANON-GRULARVVUQ POL TENJ . . .

The strange noises were barely at the threshold of audibility. Second-Best Sailor told himself he must be dead. So there
was
an afterlife, despite everything he had been taught. Not only did the Maker make and the Taker take: apparently, something
survived the process.

. . .
MIMBERYLLIAC SAMNOBURL POVVIDENS FOT FOT FOT MEBBE DISL B BETTA MEKKIN CENS NOO . . .

THE PATTERN OF THE WHISPERS CHANGED AND BECAME SEMICOHERENT:
Whaaaaat ar uu, hooooo ar uu? Howw came uu to thiiis place?

Second-Best Sailor’s eyes opened, then closed again with shock.

An ugly little amphibian was staring straight at him from a few inches away. He was underwater. It felt cool and soothing.

Was the amphibian talking? Second-Best Sailor opened his eyes again. The noises continued, repeating much the same message.
There were no corresponding movements from the strange little beast. But it continued to stare.

UU THINK UUHEAR WORDSS, BUT THAT IS AN ILLUSION IN UUR MIND,
said the noises, becoming sharper and better-formed by the moment.
MY TRUE MEDIUM OF COMMUNICATION IS MOLECULAR. I AM LEARNING YOUR MENTAL PATHWAYS AND I KNOW THAT YOU CAN UNDERSTAND ME NOW.
WHAT ARE YOU, WHO ARE YOU, AND WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?

Second-Best Sailor’s siphons stopped pulsing, so great was his shock. “Er . . . how . . . ?”

SPEAK NORMALLY, WITH YOUR SPEECH-SIPHONS. I WILL DETECT THE CORRESPONDING MOLECULAR CHANGES IN YOUR BRAIN, THE ONES THAT DRIVE
YOUR SPEECH, AND INTERPET THEM.

This was like no afterlife Second-Best Sailor had ever heard of. And he didn’t believe in afterlives, anyway. He deduced that
he was still alive. That was unexpected and inexplicable. It looked like a small freshwater pond. It tasted like an ocean.
It spoke in his mind.
“Who the flounce are you?”

I HAVE ALREADY ASKED
YOU
THAT.

This
definitely
wasn’t an afterlife. The mariner pulled his scattered wits together. “Uh . . . My name is Second-Best Sailor. I’m a master
mariner from, uh, the planet of outstanding natural beauty renowned throughout the Galaxy as No-Moon. And I was sent to Aquifer
to found a new colony in the ocean.”

AQUIFER MUST BE YOUR NAME FOR THIS PLACE. I CANNOT UNDERSTAND “NO-MOON.” THE OCEAN? GOOD. THAT IS OF NO CONCERN TO ME. I AM
A FRESHWATER BEING.

“But this ain’t freshwater. I can taste the salts.”

I HAVE PROVIDED THE SALTS FOR YOUR BENEFIT, BY MODIFYING THE CHEMISTRY IN YOUR IMMEDIATE VICINITY. I ASKED A QUESTION. WHAT
BROUGHT YOU HERE?