Heaven

by Ian Stewart

  The hierocrat blanched, but finally she had what she wanted. Hadn’t the new arrival, XIV Samuel something-or-other, been transibled from a mission fleet en route to a world named No-Moon? She called up the archives. Yes, he had. So now she knew where the intruders had come from, and how. She was beginning to understand why, too, but she wanted more details about that.

  The interrogation continued. Piece by piece, Second-Best Sailor let slip useful hints about his homeworld and why the Neanderthals had attempted to establish a small force of polypoids on Aquifer. Hhoortl555mup was confident that the colonists had thought Aquifer to be uninhabited: The ease with which they had been exterminated proved that. But now the orbiting Neanderthal ship would be running a high level of surveillance, and there was a definite chance that it would locate the monastery under the ice dome. The ice would be slightly warmer than it ought to be. No concealment could be perfect.

  Despite the careful risk analysis that supported the ecclesiarchs’ decree, she was becoming ever more certain that on this occasion extreme measures had backfired. Perhaps the patrol should have held back. . . . But if they had, she might at this very moment be informing the ecclesiarchs that more intruders were arriving, that the monastery had been discovered, and that she had disobeyed standing orders.

  No contest. She put the seditious thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on carrying out her responsibilities.

  She wondered what weapons the Neanderthals possessed. Normally, their trading vessels were unarmed despite their impressive bulk, but there were dozens of worlds that would fit almost any kind of weapon, for the right price, with no questions asked. The hierocrat had no wish to find out that weapons had been installed by being on their receiving end.

  Her standing orders were explicit: Take no chances. She reviewed her options, which were few, and came to a decision. First she would see what the telescope patrol turned up. If they had seen the Neanderthal ship, she would tell the ecclesiarchs immediately. This new information would then be analyzed in the context of the Church’s entire program for expansion. She doubted that it would affect their long-term strategy on No-Moon, but that was not for her to decide. It would most assuredly affect the status of the monastery on Aquifer.

  There was a standard procedure to be followed when extreme measures failed. All senior members of the priesthood on Aquifer would have to be evacuated immediately to one of the Cloister Worlds. The hierocrat would be the first to leave Aquifer, and she was entitled to use the transible, provided the ecclesiarchs issued the necessary authority. The rest of the priests had lower status, so they would depart in a fast cruiser, straight up from the pole and into hydrive before anyone could follow them. A cruiser was less secure than a transible, but much cheaper.

  So, if the Neanderthals were still around—it all kept coming back to that—then they must be led to think that the monastery had been abandoned. They could do what they wanted with the monks and menials left behind; those were just camouflage. But Cosmic Unity could not risk anyone capturing high-ranking priests and interrogating them. They knew too much.

  Above all, she had to protect herself. Like nearly all members of the Church, she was expendable. So, supposedly, were the ecclesiarchs. But she knew that in the world of realpolitik, leaders were all the same. In practice, the Great Memes would not apply to the uppermost level of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The ecclesiarchs did not consider themselves expendable, whatever a literal interpretation of the Great Memes might seem to imply, and they would take extreme measures to ensure their own survival.

  At that point, the telescope patrol reported in, and her worst fears were confirmed. A bright needle of light, skimming the horizon. She cursed the foul luck that had led the Neanderthals to choose a low equatorial orbit, which had concealed their ship until it was too late—but curses would change nothing. Her future looked bleak, unless . . . Was there some obscure opportunity here to advance her own standing? If there was, she could not find it. An enforced retreat, even the possible abandonment of the monastery . . . It would look bad on her record, whatever standing orders said.

  All because of a pathetic bunch of squids!

  One of whom was staring at her right at that moment. An insolent creature, too. And very possibly a lot smarter than he tried to pretend.

  There was much to do, and she should not delay it further. “Take the prisoner to a holding cell,” she said. “The final decision on his fate will be made later, when the pressure of business permits. Supply him with suitable gases, solids, liquids—whatever his metabolic requirements may be. The cooks will have access to the necessary physiological information. Keep him alive and healthy. For now.”

  “Shall I put him with the other one?” asked the Baatu’unji.

  “No. Keep them separate to avoid collusion.”

  Second-Best Sailor just about managed to remain upright and stay silent.

  Other one?

  Second-Best Sailor had been in plenty of messes in his eventful life, but this one was definitely the worst. His life had been on the line many times, but always he had been in a position to influence his own fate. This time he was helpless. He could only hope that the Neanderthals would rescue him and the other polypoid prisoner, whoever he was. He just hoped his fellow prisoner wasn’t too badly injured. But before they could rescue him, the Neanderthals had to find him, and that might not be easy.

  He knew that his attackers were agents, probably members, of the Church of Cosmic Unity. The pompous alien who had made such a flop of interrogating him had let that much information slip, along with the existence of a second prisoner, and she’d never even noticed. But he didn’t know how strong a grip the Church’s tentacles had on Aquifer. All he knew was that he had been attacked under cover of darkness, that all but one of his companions had been killed, while he had been fortunate enough to grab a sailor suit before the sea got too hot, and escape onto the shore. Where he was promptly captured, restrained, and flung in some low-altitude vehicle, which took him . . . somewhere.

  Somewhere cold.

  Beyond that, he had no idea. So rescue seemed a slim prospect.

  Escape? Once before he’d escaped when all seemed lost—he recalled the circumstances vividly: an unwise bet placed with the wrong people. But on that occasion he’d been in possession of hidden resources, a small packet of stingworms hidden in one of his propulsion siphons. This time all he had was his golden sailor suit. His captors would have taken it away, but without it he would die. Soon, though, they probably would take it away. It would be an easy way to dispose of him.

  Six levels up and a short walk to the east, the hierocrat was having qualms of conscience about just that decision, and had rejected it. The ways of the Church were often harsh, but the last thing it ever intended was to do evil. Yes, sometimes it was necessary to deal severely with individuals, but that was an unavoidable side effect of the overriding drive for a United Cosmos. Tolerance could not be extended to the point at which it became self-defeating.

  However, she could not convince herself that Second-Best Sailor posed any threat to the Church. Yes, he had spent the interrogation insulting most of her core beliefs—seemingly out of accident and ignorance, though she still wondered if this had been a sham. But the Memeplex absolutely forbade harming another sentient entity merely out of personal disapproval. Harm could be done only to save its lifesoul, or that of sufficiently many others.

  She was, after all, a Flinger-Erdant, a race that was uncommon in the Galaxy. They were long-lived but very slow to reproduce, and until her world had joined the Church and received the benefits of Church technology, their only suitable habitat had been a stretch of fungoid forest at the edge of one small continent. Flingers-Erdant were a proud people. And as a representative of her race, pride required that she should respect the Memeplex absolutely.

  She knew that the Neanderthal ship could not see the ice cap from its present position, and even if it discovered where they were, it could not mount an attack
from the equator. The moment it showed any sign of changing its orbit, she would be out of here. She would be gone within the hour, anyway. So the problem of the two polypoids could safely be assigned to a subordinate. One of the querists, perhaps? Yes. She chose one at random, a Rhemnolid, and summoned it.

  “The polypoids might possibly be made monksss,” the Rhemnolid said doubtfully. “That would be fitting. They would be given the opportunity to join the Church, as should be done for any ssentient, according to the teachings of Moish.”

  The hierocrat liked that idea. It would indeed be fitting—especially the harsh monastic regimen.

  The Rhemnolid was not so sure. He was flicking through various files, looking for a decree that he thought had been made by the second ecclesiarch a few months earlier. With a grunt of pleasure, he found it.

  “Uuuuhhh . . . no, hierocrat, we can’t do that. It isss forbidden.”

  “Why?”

  “We would exceed our Quota of Love.”

  The second ecclesiarch had decreed that while a complete racial mix was the Church’s ultimate objective, it had to be achieved in a balanced and efficient manner. Theologians had computed the optimal proportions, and their results indicated that for maximal efficiency the diversity parameter should not exceed a complex but explicitly defined function of the number of individuals.

  As was only proper, the monastery underneath Aquifer’s Nether Ice Dome had increased its racial diversity right up to that limit. “If just one of the existing personnel was a polypoid,” the Rhemnolid explained, “then the prisoners could be included. But their presence would increment the number of species by one, and that would push us over the limit.”

  The hierocrat could not argue with the arithmetic, but she did check the calculation, in case the Rhemnolid had made an elementary error. Had he checked whether the addition of the polypoids would augment the population enough to increase the permitted number of species, too?

  Yes, he had. It had been a faint hope.

  “Technically,” the querist pointed out, “we are already in excesss of the statutory limit.”

  “Prisoners count towards the diversity parameter?” said the Hierocrat, astonished. “But it is not always possible to determine the species of an invader before it is taken prisoner!”

  “The conclave debated precisely that isssue,” said the Rhemnolid after flicking through the files again, “but found it imposssible to resolve the contradictions that it opened up.”

  “We cannot continue to exceed our Quota of Love,” the hierocrat stated firmly. “In case we turn out to have been in breach of ecclesiastical law.”

  “So we mussst eliminate the prisoners?”

  The hierocrat thought about that for a moment. “We cannot eliminate the injured one, querist; that would be contrary to the Sayings of Chalz. And to kill the other without compunction would make a mockery of the Quota of Love. However, technically, the injured one does not count against the Quota until it is physically healed. I leave you with the task of deciding how to resolve the dilemma that will then arise, for my presence is required elsewhere. However, we must determine the fate of the other prisoner now. Suppose that he ceases to be a prisoner.”

  The querist was unhappy with that idea. “No, his presence in the monastery would ssstill count.”

  “I realize that. What if we were to free him? On the surface of Aquifer?”

  The querist was puzzled. “Then he would not count towards the diversssity parameter. Just as the invading force of which he is one did not count when it first arrived. But if he is released, he would become a security risk!”

  The hierocrat already had the answer to that objection. “Not if he is released in such a condition that the risk is zero.” She weighed the options, thinking aloud. “It would be contrary to the Memeplex to kill him, so he must be permitted to keep his life-support suit. But it would be utterly foolish to allow him complete freedom of movement . . . so the suit must be partially disabled.”

  She thought some more. “As should he also,” she added. “And it would not go against the teachings of Moish, or the conversations of Huff Elder, to make sure that those disabilities are of a kind that will become more serious over time.”

  “I ssuppose not,” said the querist. “Not within the letter of Church law. Keeping within the limit for the diversity parameter is an ecclesiasstical matter, and the First Great Meme states that such considerations must take precedence over the well-being of a sssingle individual.”

  “Yes. And the Second Great Meme places the spiritual above the physical.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then it is decided,” said the hierocrat. “The prisoner will be carried deep into the desert by car, and there released—with his suit and his person damaged. In a manner that will not be immediately fatal, but will ensure that he quickly ceases to be a security risk to this facility.

  “I leave it to you to devise appropriate disabilities. For I have an urgent appointment on the Cloister Worlds, and a transible awaits me even as we speak.”

  The querist departed in high dudgeon. Decisions, decisions—the hierocrat was skipping out and leaving him to sort out a potential disaster. If he got it right, she’d take the credit; if not, he’d get the blame.

  Disabilities . . . Yes, those could be arranged. And he knew exactly the right person to arrange them. It was time to find out just how committed XIV Samuel was to conquering his spiritual squeamishness.

  9

  NORTHERN DESERT, AQUIFER

  Communication . . . An easy word, but dangerous. Do you understand what I am telling you? If so, you will appreciate that to answer “yes” or “no” conveys nothing to me. It is not enough to provide information, for information must be interpreted. Without interpretation there is no meaning, and true communication is the transfer of meaning between minds. But what if those minds unknowingly impose different interpretations? Meaningless information is one of the greatest forces for evil in the Galaxy.

  Conversations with Huff Elder

  The desert air shimmered in the noonday heat. Second-Best Sailor noted the position of the sun and continued painfully along his southward track. He had been too confused during the attack on No Bar Bay to notice what had happened to the ansible that the ’Thals had installed there. He hoped it was still working. If it was, and if he could make his way back to the bay, then he’d be able to call a transpod down from Talitha and escape this arid hellhole.

  He had no realistic expectations of success. The wound in his side was one obstacle. The associated slit in his sailor suit was the other. Both had been deliberate. His captors had dropped him none too gently out of the car—a fall of ten or twelve feet. As he lay on the sand, his siphons temporarily disrupted, one of them—a landlubber priest clad in a maroon robe decorated with silver strings—had shot him with a laser. For no reason at all. The thing’s weird front end was seared into his memory. Like a ’Thal but not as pretty . . . two small watery eyes, a snout pierced by two little holes, an absurd patch of dark fur . . . and the gangling bipedal gait, its tentacles rigid and hinged . . .

  Maker, but it had been ugly.

  Why had the landlubber shot him?

  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.