by Ian Stewart
He didn’t give a squirt.
The sea was clear today, and visibility was good. No more than half a mile away, out in the deeper water away from the beach, he could make out several of his companions, racing two boats against each other. He would have placed a bet on the outcome if there had been anything to act as currency . . . though perhaps that was all to the good, since he now saw that the boat he had favored was wallowing in a sudden calm. The one that obviously hadn’t stood the chance of a jelloid in a riptide was cutting through the water like a marlon in pursuit of its mate, which only went to show that even a completely incompetent captain sometimes got lucky.
He opened his siphons wide and gulped the alien seawater. The taste was strange, but to the mariners the freedom of the bay was infinitely preferable to the restricted confines of the ’Thal spaceship. One reason why Aquifer had been chosen was that the mix of salts in its ocean was similar to that on No-Moon; the differences were evident enough to the mariners’ sensitive taste-buds, but not unpleasant. A taste of the exotic, Second-Best Sailor had remarked, and not all the resulting amusement had been forced.
The mariners had named their new home No Bar Bay because it was evidently a bay, and equally evidently there were no bars. There were no docks, either, and no access to reefwives, which was a source of some complaint—though, of course, each polypoid had brought along the traditional piece of his wife, which would help maintain his sanity but would not sustain the mariner population until the Cyldarians deemed the ecology sufficiently nomoonformed for mating to be permissible. No Bar Bay was safe from big predators, but dull. Already, though, the mariners were finding ways to liven it up. The ship’s crew who were lugging the final pieces of equipment out of the transpods, ready to return to Talitha, watched them, by turns amused and bemused. It must be pleasant not to have to think about the longer term. Also dangerous.
The leisurely pace of the voyage had suddenly given way to ceaseless, draining activity. In a short space of time, the bay had been transformed. The differences would not have been evident to the casual eye, but the bay was no longer a native part of Aquifer.
At the southern end of the beach, tucked away among a mass of eroded rocks that had once been part of the cliff, was an ansible. It had two encryption disks: one linking it to Talitha, the other to Atollside Port on No-Moon, from which its messages could be quickly relayed to the reefmind. It was housed in an unremarkable gray tentlike structure made from a Precursor fabric that could withstand anything that Aquifer’s climate threw at it. The mariners would have to put on sailor suits to use it, but when Talitha finally left the neighborhood, they would be able to keep in touch with their Neanderthal protectors. Later, the ’Thals might install a transible as well, but for now all ship-to-surface transportation would have to be by transpod.
The Neanderthals and their mixed alien crew wanted to make sure the mariners were managing well in their new home, and they expected to be stuck in orbit around Aquifer’s equator for quite a while.
Under instructions from the Cyldarian ecologists, a squad of Tweel engineers had installed a small but powerful energy source in a tunnel burrowed in the chalk cliffs, most of whose output was used to maintain a semipermeable forcewall across the mouth of No Bar Bay. It could be set to be impassable to anything larger than some chosen size, and in this first sweep the rotund, tangled Tweel had been conservative, to avoid inflicting too much damage on the ecology of the bay. Their main concern had been the larger organisms; anything less than in inch in length had been allowed through.
Initially, the forcewall had been set up near the beach, and then they had swept it gradually toward the outermost end of the bay so that any of the larger marine creatures that normally inhabited the bay would be swept out with it. Smaller creatures would not be excluded by this procedure, but that was all to the good, because the ecology the Cyldarians were trying to create, with Tweel assistance, would have to take a lot of its ingredients from the local flora and fauna. Once the forcewall reached its intended location, the engineers tightened it up to exclude anything larger than an inorganic molecule. By changing the properties of the forcewall, they could manage the exchange of substances between the ocean and the bay.
Smaller forcewalls similarly barred the few streams that flowed into the bay. The Cyldarians were happy to ignore any rain that fell directly into the bay—the intake was mostly matched by evaporation, and any discrepancy would be taken care of as part of their general monitoring and control of the overall capacity of the walled-off volume.
While this was going on, the Cyldarian ecologists also made a quick but thorough study of the water and organisms trapped within the now walled-off bay, mostly looking for toxins that might be incompatible with the mariners’ physiology and metabolism. Bacteria and other microorganisms were less likely to pose a problem, but they tested for those, too, just in case.
Satisfied, the ecologists seeded the bay with a careful selection of essential No-Moon organisms, especially food animals and plants. A small group of mariner volunteers, including Short Apprentice, was introduced to the bay’s artificial ecology. After they had survived unscathed for a week and had been subjected to a battery of medical tests, the Cyldarians pronounced the experiment a qualified success. Much more work would need to be done, for many years, but the bay was now fit for the rest of the mariners to occupy it.
The Neanderthals got at least one thing spectacularly right, thanks to some very specific advice from the reefwives. They had brought along some boats in Talitha’s capacious cargo spaces. There was nowhere to sail except the bay, and the mariners would have to take turns until they could build more boats, but no No-Moon sailor would ever be happy for long away from a boat.
Talitha’s crew watched from orbit as, day by day, the beachhead on Aquifer became more and more established. As far as Ship was aware, the planet had no sentient natives, and in this it was correct. Sentient nonnatives—that was the problem. Concealed as it was beneath the Nether Ice Dome, Cosmic Unity’s monastery of equals was invisible to Talitha’s surveillance, and the ship’s equatorial orbit made the polar regions difficult to observe in any case. If the Neanderthals had suspected that Cosmic Unity had gotten there before them, they would have looked more carefully. But they were reliably informed that the benevolent memeplex had not yet come anywhere near Aquifer. It was not their fault that their information was wrong.
The monastery on Aquifer had been built in secrecy, hidden under the northern polar ice cap. In the outside world, only a few of Cosmic Unity’s most senior figures were aware of its existence, and even fewer knew its location. A casual observer could have walked over the top of it and never noticed anything other than natural ice. It was there to play some covert role in the Church, known only to the ecclesiarchs. To the monks and menials that worked there, it functioned like any other monastery of equals. The few who knew how secluded it was were not surprised—all monasteries were secluded.
There was a price to pay for such secrecy, and it was ignorance, as the monastery’s governing hierocrat was well aware. The problem with covert installations was that they had to stay covert. Equipment capable of sensing approaching spacecraft could also be detected by approaching spacecraft. If someone bounced radiation off you, you noticed it. So the monastery had no long-range sensors. The hierocrat was effectively blind to approaching spacecraft.
For the same reason, the monastery could not keep spacegoing vessels or even probes in orbit. It had some ships under the ice, for emergencies. And there was always the transible, to evacuate key figures if that ever became necessary. Plans had been drawn up long ago, and rules established to recognize when to put them into action.
The ecclesiarchs’ desire for this facility must have been very strong, because they had been forced to take some calculated risks to get it. To be sure, the risks were small. The surrounding regions of space were far from any normal trade routes, with no inhabited planets. There was no reason why this obscure and isola
ted world without sentient indigenes should attract outside attention. It was mostly barren desert and open ocean. It had no valuable resources. That was why it had been chosen.
Some security measures could be taken without giving anything away. Surface patrols made regular searches for signs of intruders. And the monastery had telescopes, but they had to be small enough to be well hidden, and they had to be readily accessible. Remote telescopes would need servicing and maintenance, and that would leave unnecessary traces of activity. So the few telescopes on Aquifer were all housed within the monastery.
The hierocrat had no more knowledge of the Neanderthals’ presence than they did of hers. Talitha had come in fast and taken up a low equatorial orbit, well below the horizon of the polar telescopes.
There was no way that this state of mutual ignorance could continue once the mariners arrived. And the Nether Ice Dome had everything it needed to deal with unwanted trespassers.
XIV Samuel put his hands on the table in front of him and counted his fingernails again. He had carried out the ritual many times a day for as long as he’d known how to count. Its object, though he had never been told this, was to instill automatic obedience. But this time, his devotions were interrupted by a commotion in the corridors outside his cell. For most of the morning he had been trying, for the thousandth time, to think of a way to heal the troubled lifesoul of Dry Leaves Fall Slowly, but the noise of tramping feet made it impossible to think at all, let alone about such a difficult problem. So, breaking all the rules about devotional procedure, he tiptoed to the door of his cell and opened it a crack. But by then, whatever was causing the disturbance had gone.
Feeling vaguely guilty—presumably of inquisitiveness—he felt the need to confess his lapse and made an appointment to see his instructor for the purpose of obtaining spiritual guidance. To his surprise, the Veenseffer-co-Fropt brushed Sam’s tale of interrupted devotions aside with a brusque “Anyone’s devotions would be upset by such a racket, Servant Samuel. If you feel uncomfortable about it, you can practice your deathsong for the edification of the Lifesoul-Cherisher.” Sam had not expected to be told what had caused all the noise, and he was right. But the querist had no intention of terminating the interview.
“I am very concerned,” he said, “about your client.”
Sam, taken aback by the sudden change of topic, took a few moments to collect his thoughts.
“She is proving . . . difficult,” he eventually replied. But that wasn’t really the right word, and he knew it.
“She is proving obstinate, Samuel,” the querist said, dangling his olfactory organ an inch from Sam’s nose. “And I am asking myself how a novice lifesoul-healer should respond to that.”
Sam tried to defend the child without getting himself into too much trouble. “She needs more love than I can yet summon, I believe, master.”
The querist brought his manipulators together so that the tips touched, and sat in silent thought for several heartbeats. Sam tried to conceal his nervousness. He had tried, surely. The child, whom he loved dearly, was simply impossible. All Neanderthals were difficult, but this one was the proverbial immovable object. He had made no progress whatsoever on eradicating her errors.
The querist drew a deep breath through his brushlike tufts. “I agree with your diagnosis, Samuel.” He paused, as if finding it hard to summon up the necessary words. “There are many kinds of love, Samuel. This you have been taught. Some kinds of love are simple and uncomplicated. Some take a more complex course. And some do not flinch from hard decisions, because their aim is ultimate good, whatever the route to that good may have to be.”
Sam understood then that he had failed and that his client would be removed from his care.
The querist seemed to read his thoughts. “No, the failure is not yours. As you say, the child is impossible. I have been waiting to hear such a verdict from your own lips for this past month, because the ability to cut one’s losses is an essential aspect of the training of a lifesoul-healer. You are to be commended for your patience in trying every conceivable alternative avenue before making such a judgment.
“Nonetheless, you will be returned to the task of duplication for a time, so that you can reflect on the lessons you have learned from this experience. And the Neanderthal child will be referred to fully qualified healers with the experience necessary to make inroads into her condition. Be assured that they will love her like devoted parents, even as they take steps to correct the deficiencies in her attitude.”
Sam bowed his head in silence.
“You may go.”
He turned, then stopped. “Er, master—what . . .”
“What techniques will be employed? That is not an appropriate question for a novice to ask.”
Sam cast his eyes to the floor and left before he could talk himself into serious trouble. Fall would be in safe hands; of that he was certain.
Patrol Captain VIII Ykzykk-Knazd had been on uninterrupted duty for a month, and this was his fifteenth successive night operation. Like all the others, he knew that absolutely nothing was going to happen. Yes, the floater was heavily armed according to standing orders from the hierocrat, but he would never get to use those weapons. He ran an insectile limb over one of the heavy-duty laser cannons, taking satisfaction from its cleverly engineered form and reassuring solidity. It was the only satisfaction the patrol captain was likely to get, this night or during a hundred more. He stared morosely up through the floater’s transparent roof, but clouds hid the night sky, as they often did in these latitudes. He would have liked to see some stars.
A device near the floater’s nose activated. Ykzykk-Knazd turned lazily to see what it had picked up this time. Another wayward walker? An unusually shaped rock? Then he saw the readings, and all traces of bored cynicism vanished in a rush of fight hormones.
An ansible? In the wilderness of Aquifer?
Precursor encryption was unbreakable, so there was no point in trying to decode the message. But Ykzykk-Knazd was well aware that the very presence of an ansible meant sentients. Intruders. He extended an angular midlimb and touched his second in command’s clawed foot to attract her attention. “I believe we have an EMC, Myzzk-Harradd. Do you concur?”
The subordinate considered the question. An extreme measures circumstance arose if a patrol encountered a small, isolated group of sentient intruders, with no evident backup and in possession of long-range communication equipment. She ran through her mental checklist. “I concur, Patrol Captain. There is no error.”
Ykzykk-Knazd clicked his claws, as if already preparing for combat. Extreme measures must be used only when authorized; the penalties for misuse were themselves extreme. But so were the penalties for failing to take such measures when circumstances required them. The tactic was a draconian response to a limited but potentially disastrous threat. He knew the reasoning behind it—the highest echelons of the Church had analyzed the risk cascades and determined the optimal strategy. Typically, in a context like the present one, an isolated group of intruders was most likely to be a scouting party, sent to make a preliminary assessment of an unexplored world. Such parties occasionally disappeared, and if anyone noticed their absence—scouts often acted on their own—then further exploration was usually curtailed. The planet would be flagged in Galactic records as being potentially dangerous, and people would tend to avoid it.
He was aware, as were those who had drawn up the standing orders, that extreme measures could go wrong—by attracting precisely the attention that they were intended to prevent. But several unlikely factors had to combine for that to happen.
“Very well,” said Ykzykk-Knazd, reassured that he had assessed the nature of the threat correctly and could justify ordering a preemptive strike. They all knew the form that it would take. First, take out the intruders’ means of communication. Then, take out the intruders. If possible, capture one for questioning, but that was a secondary goal. The hierocrat had made the priorities very clear: Destroy the immediat
e threat at all costs. No spiritual or moral aspects were to be considered—this was to be a military action, not a Church mission. Later, more informed judgments could be made by those who were qualified to assess the nature of the threat and to determine any further response.
There were six floaters in the patrol, flying close to the ground in a tight formation. Under the coordination of Ykzykk-Knazd in the lead craft, they swung in a wide arc and headed for a stretch of coast about 140 miles away, where the brief ansible transmission had originated.
At supersonic speeds, they were there in under ten minutes. The final approach was made in total silence. Through sensitive nightsights they could see obvious signs of the intruders. The bay had been blocked off using a forcewall, and several strange boats bobbed in its shallow waters. No evidence of any backup—just an isolated group. Definitely a case for extreme measures.
Ansible first, then. Sensors had already revealed its location inside a tent at the base of a cliff. The first bolt of laser fire took it out, and much of the cliff as well. The second turned one of the boats into a floating bonfire, which quickly fizzled out as the wreckage sank. Two more boats suffered the same fate. The patrol captain decided to leave the intruders’ forcewall intact—for now. It would hinder their escape. After the battle was over, its generator would be destroyed.
Ykzykk-Knazd noticed that some of the intruders were in the water. They were swimming around in total confusion—no doubt still trying to work out what had hit them. Had they escaped from the burning boats, or had they been in the water all along? From their shape, they were marine creatures; he could not put a name to their species, but they had numerous tentacles and thickset bodies.
One of the creatures was making a run up the beach, trying to head inland for cover. He wondered how it could function on land, and realized that it was wearing some kind of life support. That probably meant that this particular creature had some special function among the group of intruders, which automatically made it a prime target for interrogation. Like all the intruders, it was unarmed; Ykzykk-Knazd gave orders for a squad to capture the fleeing creature, if that could be done without killing it.