The Spheres of Heaven

by Charles Sheffield

  If no one else knew what to do, it was up to him. Bony—with the cursed stammer that came always at the wrong time—blurted out, "Ask the Hero's Return to s-send us a p-picture. And ask for information on ship type."

  Vow-of-Silence reached a claw toward the control board, then hesitated. "Do you already know about this ship?"

  "No. But if it's the same one that flew overhead when we were sitting on the seabed—and I think it must be—it could be a Class Five cruiser."

  "A warship?" Vow-of-Silence said, while a flurry of Tinker components rose and fluttered excitedly all around the cabin. "Such an arrival would be unspeakable."

  While Bony wondered how to answer—if he were right, it was certainly a warship—Liddy helped him out. "Lots of the old solar system warships have been converted to civilian use. Right, Bony?"

  "They have. All the offensive weapons were taken out, and they don't carry a fighting crew any more. But if it's a Class Five cruiser, it will be superbly equipped and difficult to destroy. We would be far safer there than here. All of us." He thought of the Angel. "They have an onboard sunroom and a garden area, for crew relaxation."

  "Hah!" The fronds on the upper part of the Angel waved, and the compact body emitted a rapid series of high-pitched squeaks. Even as Bony realized that this was Gressel's digital audio command to the ship's computer, the reply was coming. OUR INQUIRY HAS BEEN RECEIVED AND WE HAVE THE RESPONSE. THE HERO'S RETURN IS CONFIRMED AS A CONVERTED CLASS FIVE CRUISER SERVED BY A HUMAN CREW. THE PASSENGER-CARRYING CAPACITY IS ONE THOUSAND AND SEVENTY UNDER NON-EMERGENCY CONDITIONS, BUT THE SHIP NOW CARRIES A COMPLEMENT OF ONLY EIGHT HUMANS. IT IS ALSO CONFIRMED THAT THE SURVIVAL PROBABILITY OF ALL BEINGS ON BOARD THIS SHIP WOULD BE GREATLY INCREASED BY TRANSFER TO THE HERO'S RETURN. SUCH A TRANSFER HAS ALREADY BEEN PROPOSED. WE RECOMMEND IT, AND THE ABANDONMENT OF THIS VESSEL.

  Bony wondered just who was recommending the transfer. From the speed of the transaction, the only parties who could be involved were the ships' computers. Had the idea of the move come from this ship? If so, the Finder's computer was condemning itself to oblivion. The machine existed in distributed form throughout the ship, and there was no possible way to take it to the Hero's Return. It would fade and die as the onboard energy supply dwindled.

  If anyone shared Bony's thoughts, they did not mention it. Vow-of-Silence said, "It will mean suits again. A nuisance, but the journey will be a short one." She turned to Bony and Liddy. "I have called for a crew-to-crew visual link. Since we are dealing with a human ship, initial contact and the indication of our desire to transfer would come better from two humans. Agreed?"

  Did they have a choice? Bony waited for the two-way video link. At last, a picture appeared. The display showed a man and woman sitting side by side and looking right at the occupants of the Finder's cabin. The man had a wary, weary expression, the dark-haired woman was fresh-faced and seemed to glow with health.

  The two of them stared and stared without saying a word. The man's mouth hung open, while the woman leaned forward and frowned in disbelief.

  Liddy glanced around the cabin and could see nothing to astonish. When Bony remained silent, she at last said, "Hello, Hero's Return. Are you there? Do we have contact?" There was still no reply. She nudged Bony, who sat frozen. "Something's wrong with the communications. I don't think they're seeing or hearing us at all. Bony? Are you listening to me? Bony? Bony!"

  * * *

  Not just Chan Dalton and Deb Bisson, but the whole bunch—Dapper Dan and Chrissie and Tarbush and Tully O'Toole. Bony tried to explain about the team to Liddy on their surrealistic dawn journey across the seafloor, but he was not sure she believed him. He was not sure he believed himself. A hundred lightyears, or two hundred, or however many it was from Earth, and the first humans you run into are old friends.

  Liddy reacted calmly. She and Bony kept very close to each other, drifting along the coastal shelf in the faint, filtered light of early morning. It was improbable for him to meet his old friends here? Fine, so it was improbable; but it had happened. "Improbable" was something you could only apply to future events.

  The Hero's Return stretched its length along the seabed, so big that as they approached the center lock for admission to the ship, the bow and stern were invisible through the cloudy water. The storm was past, but here its after-effects lingered on far below the surface. After the first chaotic minutes of hugs and handshakes, the group settled into the ship's main fire control chamber, and detailed explanations began.

  Chan Dalton introduced Dag Korin, and the grizzled General offered a terse description of the Hero's Return's Link transition and surprising underwater arrival. As he finished he glared with distaste at the Pipe-Rilla, the Angel, and the assembled Tinker Composite.

  Vow-of-Silence took over, but she could add very little. The Pipe-Rilla, like the Angel and the humans, had expected her ship's Link transition to terminate in vacuum. In fact, it seemed impossible that it would not do so, given all the built-in safeguards employed by the Stellar Group.

  Bony had not expected that he and Liddy would have much to offer, but after Dag Korin and the Pipe-Rilla had explained how they came to be here, one of the crew of the other ship, a tall, woefully thin blonde named Elke Siry, sat down in front of Bony. She had been introduced as the expedition's scientist, and she wanted to know everything. What tests had he done on the water? What had they seen of plants and animals on the seafloor? When they were on the surface, had they seen anything of the night sky of Limbo? What could they tell her about the surface gravity of the planet? About the distance to the horizon? Where was Friday Indigo, and the Mood Indigo? What had they learned in their brief visit to the land? What about the aircraft he had seen? What about the object that Bony suspected to be a Link entry point? Was he sure it was a changing feature, sometimes there and sometimes not?

  Her questions went on and on. Finally she frowned, chewed at her lower lip, and asked, "What else can you tell me about the bubble people? Why are you so sure they can't go on land, and could not be the makers of the aircraft that you saw?"

  Bony was sure, but he didn't know how to prove it. Help came from an odd quarter. The Angel, newly rooted in a large pot of black earth, had so far sat motionless and spoken not a word. Now the upper fronds waved and a mournful synthesized voice said, " `Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.' "

  That was enough to draw Elke Siry's attention. She turned away from Bony as the Angel went on, "The beings whom you term `bubble people' are knowledgeable in certain forms of biotechnology. They are able to control living undersea organisms so as to construct simple domiciles, and they have a fair command of bioluminescent methods to achieve light during the hours of darkness."

  Dag Korin glared and asked Bony's question. "How the devil can you possibly know such things?"

  "We talked to them when we left our ship, the Minister of Grace."

  "You have no translation unit."

  "True, but irrelevant. We have no need of translation equipment. We learned and spoke their language." Dag Korin snorted in surprise or disbelief, but the Angel went on calmly, "The bubble people lack knowledge of mechanical engineering, of physics, of mathematics, and of the world above the water. They say that the feature which you suspect to be a Link entry point was not always there. They lack sufficient concept of measured time to say when it arrived. However, to them the `foam object at the edge of the world which comes and goes' is coupled with other bad changes. They are marine organisms and they have never been able to go on the land, but they used to visit the shallow waters close to the shore. Since the suspected Link point appeared, they cannot do so. If they go too close to the shore now, they say they will die or disappear. All this, together with the information that has been exchanged here, suggests certain tentative conclusions."

  Only, by the look of it, to Elke Siry. The Angel's speech had come as no great surprise to Bony. Vow-of-Silence had mentioned that death came to Sea-wanderers who went close to the shore, and everything e
lse fitted with what he already knew. But conclusions? He couldn't deduce any. Nor, from the look of their faces, could Chan and the rest of the humans.

  Except, of course, for Elke. She nodded at Gressel and said, "Certain conclusions, which perhaps I can make less tentative." She touched the pad on her wrist, and one of the ship's giant wall displays came alive. "The air-breathing pinnaces seem to be damaged beyond repair"—Chrissie and Tarbush exchanged anguished looks—"but the unmanned orbiters survived intact, and a few hours ago the ship was able to launch a pair of them. They are busy mapping the land and sea surface of this planet, and have provided occasional views of the heavens. Here is the night sky of Limbo, as seen from orbit."

  The screen filled, not with stars and veils of dust but with hundreds and thousands of glowing spheres. They could be seen in every direction from Limbo, too numerous to count, of all sizes and pulsing with their own soft light.

  Elke Siry waited for the gasps and grunts of surprise to die down before she swiveled away from the display to face the others in the control room. "What we see there is not, I think we can all agree, anywhere in the Geyser Swirl. And that fact, together with everything else we know, is enough. With your permission, I will explain where we are, and what happened to bring us here. Though I suspect that she"— Elke stabbed a thin finger in the Angel's direction—"already knows, because we seem to think in rather the same way."

  "We much prefer to be known as it. However." The Angel opened wide its lower fronds. "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Call us what you will. And pray continue."

  22: NEGOTIATIONS

  Friday was not scared. Certainly not. He was Friday Indigo, and bad things didn't happen to members of the Indigo family.

  He told himself that the queasy feeling inside him was not fear, but he had to admit that he did feel a certain uneasiness. Until he caught sight of those desiccated and dissected bubble-creatures, he'd imagined nothing worse for himself than another shot from a black paralyzing cane.

  "I am not from here." He didn't like the wobbly sound of his own voice, and he took a breath and started over. "I am not from here—not a native of this planet. I came from a star named Sol, through a device that we call a Link. But something went wrong with the Link transfer, and instead of arriving in open space my ship finished up in the sea not far from here."

  "Aha!" The little eyestalks twitched. "Then it is verified. Soon after arrival, I reassured the Level Threes and the Level Four untouchables that this world possessed no intelligence of use or danger to Malacostracans. When they brought word of an alien ship, washed into the river by the storm, and told of an alien air-breather on the shore, I was surprised. But I was right."

  At last, the translation unit seemed halfway to justifying its price. It was time to get down to business before it went wonky on him again. Friday said, "You're not from here, I'm not from here. This planet probably isn't worth peanuts to either of us. But both our races must have technology that the other one doesn't possess." Friday thought, not without a quiver of unpleasant memory, of the paralyzing black cane. "I'd like to propose a swap."

  The double pairs of pincers waved, and the Malacostracan inched forward on the flat table. The translation unit said, "Swap?"

  So the machine wasn't perfect yet. "A swap means a trading agreement. You tell me what I've got that you don't have, and I tell you what I don't have. If we agree that they seem equal, we make an exchange."

  Credit for making First Contact was wonderful, but alien technology had the potential to jump Friday financially far ahead of the whole Indigo clan. That would show his bastard cousins, always boasting about their money!

  The eyestalks began to wiggle, but no sound came from the translator. Friday was ready to try again using other words when the machine finally said, "There is misunderstanding. You are a prisoner. Everything that you know and everything that you possess belongs to us. That includes your life."

  It was a bad start, but Indigo family tradition taught that every threat could be regarded as a step in negotiation.

  Friday leaned forward. "It's not just a matter of what I know, and what I own. Members of my species and others, together with their ships and their weapons, have also come to this planet. Even if you believe that you can capture and subdue every one of them, it won't be easy. Now, I'm known and trusted by them. You'd be a lot better off with me as a go-between than as a prisoner."

  A simple enough statement, you'd think. But again there was that long pause. Eventually: "An interesting proposal. However, it is not one that I am able to accept or reject. It is necessary that we consult one of a higher level."

  "How many levels are there?" Friday had a mental image of a series of Malacostracans, decreasing in body size as they increased in authority, until he found himself addressing a Supreme Potentate the size of a flea.

  "We have five levels." The four front pincers turned to point inward. "I am a Level Two. What you suggest is a Level One decision."

  "How many Level Ones and Level Twos are there?"

  "There are five Level Twos. I am Two-Four, in order of spawning. There is one Level One, and she is The One." The little legs propelled Two-Four off the table and into water that rose to cover the carapace. Eyestalks poked up above the surface, and the translator gurgled, "Come."

  The Malacostracan headed toward the far end of the building. It seemed to Friday, following, that there was no exit that way. The alien pointed the black cane at the wall. It became transparent, and Two-Four sidled through. Friday followed, eyeing the cane. His respect for it was rising. It didn't just zap people, it zapped whole buildings. And when you walked through the wall, you weren't where you would expect to be, outside in the gusty night air of Limbo where the patrol guards were waiting. You were in another interior chamber, too big to fit inside any of the buildings that he had seen. This one was also well-lit, throwing gleaming iridescent reflections of green and purple and black off the carapace of the little Malacostracan. Also, a pleasant change, the floor wasn't sloshing with water.

  How could that be, when this was on the same level as the other room? Friday looked back, and found the wall opaque again. He turned, to see Two-Four inching forward, its body touching the floor and its multiple legs splayed wide. The translator said urgently, "Abase, abase!"

  He couldn't imitate that walk, even if he wanted to. Friday stayed at his full height and stared. This room was stranger and yet more familiar than anything he had seen so far. The display screens and holo-volumes suggested a command center, but they sat far up toward the three-meter-high ceiling, where he could view them only by craning his neck backward. On the other hand, the banks of dials and switches that presumably controlled the displays formed part of the floor. He couldn't even read or reach most of the dials and switches without stepping on some of them.

  Other than himself and Two-Four he saw no sign of any living thing, Malacostracan or other, in the room. But the floor controls were arranged in concentric circles, and at the center of them stood a large black rock. It was bulky, half as tall again as Friday, and the lower part was riddled with holes big enough to put your hand in.

  Two-Four said to Friday, "Stay. And abase, abase." It advanced cautiously to the outer perimeter of the control area. There it produced a long series of squeaks and whistles, totally unlike the clicks and clatters of its previous speech. Friday's translator unit remained silent. He guessed that it was using a different language from any that his unit had met before. Worse than that, his translator didn't even seem to be trying. It wasn't providing even the preliminary hoots and whistles that preceded intelligible words.

  The black rock offered its own set of squeaks. The Level Two Malacostracan squeaked and whistled again, presumably in reply. Then it was another long sequence from the rock. The talk, assuming that's what it was, went on and on. Friday's translator remained silent, and finally he stopped listening to nothing and began to take a closer look at the half-dozen ceiling displays.
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br />   He might be deep underground at the moment, but the screens provided a view from above the surface. Two of them showed the cloudless night sky of Limbo, with its baffling collection of faint and diffuse spheres. The hints of color were not as he remembered them, but that was probably a function of sensors matched to suit alien eyes.

  Other screens showed land views. He recognized one of them, or at least he could guess what it showed. It was the view to the west, seen from the rocky ridge above the inlet where the Mood Indigo had been driven by the storm. The image had been photo-intensified to make use of faint levels of light. It showed shades of gray and negligible color, but he fancied he could discern the outline of a ship's hull, jutting above the waters of the inlet. The storm had passed, and the waves that met the Mood Indigo were slow and steady. He wondered how well his ship had survived. Would it still be able to make a Link transition, assuming he could somehow find a Link entry point?

  He turned his attention to the remaining three screens. Two of them provided nothing of special interest. They were land views, bare jagged rocks and ridges and graveled slopes. The final screen, though, made him forget the ache in his neck.

  It was another land view, but in this one the hills and valleys were not bare. They were clothed with vegetation—odd-looking forms, all twists and spikes, but no stranger than many of the plants found on Earth or other worlds of the Stellar Group.

  Friday snorted aloud. So much for that fat idiot Rombelle, and what he "knew" as scientific fact! No plants on the land surface of Limbo, because on a planet orbiting a blue-giant star they didn't have enough time to emerge from the sea? Sure. Facts my ass. Those were plants on the display, and he, Friday Indigo, was willing to bet on it.