Her Smoke Rose Up Forever (S.F. MASTERWORKS)

by James Tiptree Jr.

  “Soli, tomorrow I want to rig up an array of decontaminant canisters over the examination area. With the release at my station. Say a good strong phytocide plus a fungicide with a mercury base. What should I get from Stores?”

  “Decon Seven is the strongest, Aaron. But it cannot be mixed, we will have to place many tanks.” Her face is mirroring pity for the hypothetically killed plants, concern for the crew.

  “Okay, so we’ll place many tanks. Everything the suits will take. I don’t trust that thing.”

  Soli comes into his arms, holds him with her strong small hands. Peace, comfort. To make gentle the life of mankind. His body has missed her painfully, demonstrates it with a superior erection. Soli giggles. Fondly he caresses her, feeling like himself for the first time in weeks. Do I see you as property, Soli? Surely not . . . The thought of Bustamente’s huge body covering her floats through his mind; his erection increases markedly. Maybe the big black brother will have to revise his planning, Aaron thinks genially, hobbling with her to his comfortable, comforting bunk. Two years is a long time. . . .

  Drifting asleep with Soli’s warm buttocks in his lap Aaron has a neutral, almost comic, hypnagogic vision: Tighe’s face big as the wall, garlanded with fruits and flowers like an Italian bambino plaque. The pink-and-green flowers tinkle, chime elfland horns. Tan tara! Centripetal melodies. Tan tara! Tara! TARA!

  —and fairy horns turn into his medical alarm signal, with Soli shaking him awake. The call is from the bridge.

  He leaps out of bed, yanking shorts on, hits the doorway with one shoulder and runs “up” to the free-fall shaft. His kit is somehow in his hand. He has no idea what time it is. The thought that Yellaston has had a heart attack is scaring him to death. Oh, god, what will they do without Yellaston?

  He kicks free, sails and grabs clumsily like a three-legged ape, clutching the kit, is so busy figuring alternative treatment spectrums that he almost misses the voices coming from the Commo corridor. He gets himself into the access, finds his feet and scurries “down,” still so preoccupied that he does not at first identify the dark columns occupying the Communications step. They are Bustamente’s legs.

  Aaron pushes in past him and confronts a dreadful sight. Commander Timofaev Bron is sagging from Bustamente’s grasp, bleeding briskly from his left eye.

  “All right, all right,” Tim mutters. Bustamente shakes him. “What the hell was that power drain?” Don Purcell comes in behind Aaron.

  “This booger was sending,” Bustamente growls. “Shit-eater, I was too slow. He was sending on my beam.” He shakes the Russian again.

  “All right,” Tim repeats unemotionally. “It is done.”

  The blood is coming from a supraorbital split. Aaron disengages Tim from Bustamente, sits him down with his head back to clamp the wound. As he opens his kit a figure comes slowly through the side door from Astrogation: Captain Yellaston.

  “Sir—” Aaron is still confusedly thinking of that coronary. Then Yellaston’s peculiar rigidity gets through to him. Oh, Jesus, no. The man is not sick but smashed to the gills.

  Bustamente is yanking open the gyro housing. The room fills with a huge humming tone.

  “I did not harm the beam,” Tim says under Aaron’s hands. “Certain equipment was installed when we built it; you did not look carefully enough.”

  “Son of a bitch,” says Don Purcell.

  “What do you mean, equipment?” Bustamente’s voice rises, harmonic with the precessing gyros. “What have you done, flyboy?”

  “I was not sent here to wait. The planet is there.”

  Aaron sees Captain Yellaston’s lips moving effortfully, achieving a strange pursed look. “You indicated . . .” he says eerily. “You indicated . . . that is, you have preempted the green. . . .”

  The others stare at him, look away one by one. Aaron is stabbed with unbearable pity, he is suspecting that what has happened is so terrible it isn’t real yet.

  “Son of a bitch,” Don Purcell repeats neutrally.

  The green signal has been sent, Aaron realizes. To the Russians, anyway, but everybody will find out, everybody will start. It’s all over, he’s committed us whether that planet’s any good or not. Oh, god, Yellaston—he saw this coming, if he’d been younger, if he’d moved faster—if half his brains hadn’t been scrambled in alcohol. I brought it to him.

  Automatically his hands have completed their work. The Russian gets up. Don Purcell has left, Bustamente is probing the gyro chamber with a resonator, not looking at Tim. Yellaston is still rigid in the shadows.

  “It was in the hull shielding,” Tim says to Bustamente. “The contact is under the toggles. Don’t worry, it was one-time.”

  Aaron follows him out, unable to believe in any of this. Lieutenant Pauli is waiting outside; she must be in it, too.

  “Tim, how could you be so goddamn sure? You may have killed everybody.”

  The cosmonaut looks down at him calmly, one-eyed. “The records don’t lie. They are enough, we will find nothing else. That old man would have waited forever.” He chuckles, a dream-planet in his eye.

  Aaron goes back in, leads Yellaston to his quarters. The captain’s arm is trembling faintly. Aaron is trembling too with pity and disgust. That old man, Tim had called him. That old man . . . Suddenly he realizes the full dimensions of this night’s disaster.

  Two years. The hell with the planet, maybe they won’t even get there. Two years in this metal can with a captain who has failed, an old man mocked at in his drunkenness? No one to hold us together, as Yellaston had done during those unbearable weeks when the oxygen ran low, when panic had hung over all their heads. He had been so good then, so right. Now he’s let Tim take it all away from him, he’s lost it. We aren’t together anymore, not after this. It’ll get worse. Two years . . .

  “In the . . . fan,” Yellaston whispers with tragic dignity, letting Aaron put him onto his bed. “In . . . the fan . . . my fault.”

  “In the morning,” Aaron tells him gently, dreading the thought. “Maybe Ray can figure some way.”

  “. . ..”

  Aaron heads hopelessly for his bunk. He knows he won’t sleep. Two years . . .

  III

  Silence . . . Bright clinical emptiness, no clouds, no weeping. Horizon, infinity. Somewhere words rise, speaking silence: I AM THE SPOUSE. Cancel sound. Aaron, invisible and microbe-sized, sees on the floor of infinity a very beautifully veined silver membrane which he now recognizes as an adolescent’s prepuce, the disjecta of his first operation. . . .

  Almost awake now, in foetal position; something terrible ahead if he wakes up. He tries to burrow back into dream, but a hand is preventing him, jostling him back to consciousness.

  He opens his eyes and sees Coby handing him a hot cup; a very bad sign.

  “You know about Tim.” Aaron nods, sipping clumsily. “You haven’t heard about Don Purcell, though. I didn’t wake you. No medical aspects.”

  “What about Don Purcell? What happened?”

  “Brace yourself, boss.”

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t piss around, Bill.”

  “Well, about oh-three-hundred we had this hull tremor. Blipped all Tighe’s tapes. I called around, big flap, finally got the story. Seems Don fired his whole scouter off on automatic. It’s loaded with a complete set of tapes, records, everything he could get his hands on. The planet, see? They say it can punch a signal through to Earth when it gets up speed.”

  “But Don, is Don in it?”

  “Nobody’s in it. It’s set on autopilot. The Beast had some special goodies, too, our people must have a new ear up someplace. Mars, I heard.”

  “Jesus Christ . . .” So fast, it’s happening, Aaron thinks. Where does Coby get his information, anything bad he knows it all. Then he sees the faint appeal under Coby’s grin; this is what he can do, his wretched offering.

  “Thanks, Bill.” Aaron gets up effortfully. . . . First Tim and now Don—war games on Centaur. It’s all wrecked, all gone.
/>   “Things are moving too fast for the old man.” Coby leans back familiarly on Aaron’s bunk. “Good thing, too. We have to get a more realistic political organization. This great leader stuff, he’s finished. Oh, we can keep him on as a figurehead. . . . Don and Tim are out too, for now anyway. First thing to start with, we elect a working committee.”

  “You’re crazy, Bill. You can’t run a ship with a committee. We’ll kill ourselves if we start politics.”

  “Want to bet?” Coby grins. “Going to see some changes, boss.”

  Aaron sluices water over his head to shut off the voice. Elections, two years from nowhere? That’ll mean the Russian faction, the U.S. faction, the Third and Fourth Worlders; scientists versus humanists versus techs versus ecologists versus theists versus Smithites—all the factions of Earth in one fragile ship. What shape will we be in when we reach the planet, if we live that long? And any colony we start—Oh, damn Yellaston, damn me—

  “General meeting at eleven hundred,” Coby is saying. “And by the way, Tighe really did go wandering for about twenty minutes last night. My fault, I admit it, I forgot the isolation seal was off. No harm done. I got him right back in.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Same place. By the port where China was.”

  “Take him with you to the meeting,” Aaron says impulsively, punishing them all.

  He goes out to get some breakfast, trying to shake out of the leaden feeling of oversleep, of doom impending. He dreads the meeting, dreads it. Poor old Yellaston trying futilely to cover his lapse, trying to save public face. A figurehead. He can’t take that, he’ll go into depression. Aaron makes himself set up Tighe’s tapes to occupy his thoughts.

  Tighe’s tapes are worse than before, composite score down another five points, Aaron sees, even before the twenty-minute gap. His CNS functions are coming out of synch, too, an effect he hasn’t seen in an ambulant patient, especially one as coordinated as Tighe. Curious . . . Have to study it, Aaron thinks apathetically. All our curves are coming out of synch, we’re breaking up. Yellaston was our pacemaker. Can we make it without him? . . . Am I as dependent as Foy?

  It is time for the meeting. He plods down to the Commons, sick with pity and dread; he is so reluctant to listen that he does not at first notice the miracle: there is nothing to pity. The Yellaston before his eyes is firm-voiced, erect, radiating leaderly charisma; is announcing, in fact, that Centaur’s official green code for the Alpha sun was beamed to Earth at oh-five-hundred this morning.

  What?

  “As some of you are aware,” Yellaston says pleasantly, “our two scout commanders have also taken independent initiative to the same effect in messaging their respective Terrestrial governments. I want to emphasize that their actions were pursuant to specific orders from their superiors prior to embarkation. We all regret, we, here who are joined in this mission have always regretted—that the United Nations of Earth who sponsored our mission were not more perfectly united when we left. We may hope they are so now. But this is a past matter of no concern to us, arising from tensions on a world none of us may ever visit again. I want to say now that both Tim Bron and Don Purcell”—Yellaston makes a just-perceptible fatherly nod toward the two commanders, who are sitting quite normally on his left, despite Tim’s taped eye—“faithfully carried out orders, however obsolete, just as I or any of us would have felt obligated to do in their places, had we been so burdened. Their duties have now been discharged. Their independent signals, if they arrive, will serve as confirmation to our official transmission to Earth as a whole.

  “Now we must consider our immediate tasks.”

  Jesus god, Aaron thinks, the old bastard. The old fox, he’s got it all back, he took the initiative right out from under them while I thought he was dead out. Fantastic. But how the hell? Running those lasers up is a job. Aaron looks around, catches a hooded gleam from Bustamente. Ol’ Black George was cooking in his electronic jungle, he and Yellaston. Aaron grins to himself. He is happy, so happy that he ignores the inner murmur: at a price.

  “The biologic examination of the planetary life-form returned to us by Commander Kuh will start at about sixteen hundred this afternoon. It will be conducted in Corridor Gamma One under decontaminant seal, but the entire operation will be displayed on your viewers.” Yellaston smiles. “You will probably see it better than I will. Next, and concurrently, the Drive section will prepare to initiate change of course toward the Alpha planet. Each of you will secure your areas for acceleration and course-change as speedily as possible. The vector loadings will be posted tomorrow. Advise Don and Tim of any problems in their respective sections. First Engineer Singh will deal with Gamma section in the absence of Commander Kuh. And finally, we must commence the work of adapting and refining our general colonization plan to the planetary data now at hand. Our first objective is a planetary atlas incorporating every indicator that your specialties can extract from the Gamma tapes. On this we can build our plans. I remind you that this is a task requiring imagination and careful thought of every contingency and parameter. Gentlemen, ladies: the die is cast. We have only two years to prepare for the greatest adventure our race has known.”

  Aaron starts to smile at the archaism, finds he has a fullness in the throat. The hush around him holds for a minute; Yellaston nods to Don and Tim, and they get up and exit with him. Perfect, Aaron thinks. We’ll make it, we’re okay. Screw Coby. Daddy lives. Everyone is jabbering now, Aaron makes his way through them past the great flowering wonder of Lory’s—of the Alpha planet. Our future home. Yellaston will get us there, he’s pulled it out.

  But at a price, the gloomy corner of his forebrain repeats. The big green light is on its way to Earth. Not only we but all the people of Earth are committed, committed to that world. That planet has to be all right now.

  He goes to assemble his equipment, irrationally resolved to double his emergency decontaminant array.

  log 124 586 sd 4100 x 1200 notice to all personnel

  corridor gamma one will be under space hazard seal starting 1545 this day for the purpose of bioanalysis of alien life specimen/ /attendance will be limited to: [1] centaur command cadre alpha (2] designated xenobiosurvey/medical personnel [3] eva team charlie [4] safety/survival staff assigned to corridor access locks/ /the foregoing personnel will be suited at all times until the unsealing of the corridor/ /because of the unknown risk factor in this operation additional guards will also be stationed on the inboard side of all access ports: see special-duty roster attached/ /unauthorized personnel will not, repeat not, enter gamma one starting as of now/ /video cover of the entire operation from the closest feasible points will be available on all screens on ship channel one, starting approximately 1515 hours

  yellaston, cmdg

  In Corridor Gamma One, the major risk-factor is wires. Aaron leans on a bulkhead amid his tangle of equipment, holding his bulky suit and watching Jan Ing wrangle with Electronics. The Xenobiology chief wants a complete computer capability in the corridor; there is no way of passing the cable through the lock seals. The EVA team is appealed to, but they refuse to give up any of their service terminals. Finally the issue is resolved by sacrificing an access-lock indicator panel. Engineer Gomulka, who will double as a guard, starts cutting it out to bring the computer leads in.

  Wires are snaking all over the deck. XB has brought in half their laboratory, and he can see at least eight other waldo-type devices in addition to the biomonitor extension equipment. On top of it all the camera crew is setting up. One camera is opposite the small hatch that will open into China Flower’s personnel section, two by the big cargo hatch behind which the alien thing will be, plus a couple of overhead views. They are also mounting some ceiling slave screens for the corridor, Aaron. is glad to find. He is too far back to see the hatches. The Safety team is trying to get the cables cleared into bundles along the wall, but the mess is bound to get worse when the suit umbilicals come into use. Mercifully, general suiting-up will not take place unti
l the EVA team has winched China Flower up to her berth.

  Aaron’s station is the farthest one away at the stern end of the corridor. In front of him is an open space with the EVA floor lock, and then starts the long Xenobiology clutter. Beyond XB is the big cargo hatch and then the small hatch, and finally in the distance is the corridor command station. Command Cadre Alpha means Yellaston and Tim Bron. Aaron can just make out Tim’s eye-patch, he’s talking with Don Purcell who will go back to man Centaur’s bridge. In case of trouble . . . Aaron peers at his racks of decontaminant aerosols mounted opposite the hatches. They have wires, too, running to a switch beside his hand. He had trouble with XB about those cans; Jan Ing would rather be eaten alive than risk damaging their precious specimen of alien life.

  A hand falls on his shoulder—Captain Yellaston, coming in the long way round, his observant face giving no hint of what must be the chemical conditions in his bloodstream.

  “The die is cast,” Aaron observes.

  Yellaston nods. “A gamble,” he says quietly. “The mission . . . I may have done a fearful thing, Aaron. They were bound to come, on the strength of the other two.”

  “The only thing you could have done, sir.”

  “No.” Aaron looks up. Yellaston isn’t talking to him; his eyes are on some cold cosmic scoreboard. “No. I should have sent code yellow and announced I had sent the green. Ray would have kept silent. That would have held back the UN ships at least. It was the correct move. I failed to think it through in time.”

  He moves on down the corridor, leaving Aaron stunned. Sent the yellow and lied to us for two years? Captain Yellaston? But yes, Aaron sees slowly, that would have saved something, in case the planet is no good. It would have been better. What he did was good, but it wasn’t the best. Because he was drunk. . . . My fault. My stupid susceptibilities, my—