Infinite Stars

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  So now the rockhound was dead too. It didn’t matter, the owlie wouldn’t escape. But somehow the incident brought home to him the immensity and the age and the loneliness of the desert.

  It whispered to him. The brush rustled and something wailed in darkness and the wind blew with a wild mournful sound over faintly starlit cliffs, and it was as if they all somehow had a voice, as if the whole world muttered and threatened him in the night. Dimly, he wondered if man would ever subdue Mars, if the human race had not finally run across something bigger than itself.

  But that was nonsense. Mars was old and worn-out and barren, dreaming itself into slow death. The tramp of human feet, shouts of men and roar of sky-storming rockets, were waking it, but to a new destiny, to man’s. When Ares lifted its hard spires above the hills of Syrtis, where then were the ancient gods of Mars?

  It was cold, and the cold deepened as the night wore on. The stars were fire and ice, glittering diamonds in the deep crystal dark. Now and then he could hear a faint snapping borne through the earth as rock or tree split open. The wind laid itself to rest, sound froze to death, there was only the hard clear starlight falling through space to shatter on the ground.

  Once something stirred. He woke from a restless sleep and saw a small thing skittering toward him. He groped for the rifle beside his sleeping bag, then laughed harshly. It was only a sandmouse. But it proved that the Martian had no chance of sneaking up on him while he rested.

  He didn’t laugh again. The sound had echoed too hollowly in his helmet.

  With the clear bitter dawn he was up. He wanted to get the hunt over with. He was dirty and unshaven inside the unit, sick of iron rations pushed through the airlock, stiff and sore with exertion. Lacking the hound, which he’d had to shoot, tracking would be slow, but he didn’t want to go back to Port Armstrong for another. No, hell take that Martian, he’d have the devil’s skin soon!

  Breakfast and a little moving made him feel better. He looked with a practiced eye for the Martian’s trail. There was sand and brush over everything, even the rocks had a thin coating of their own erosion. The owlie couldn’t cover his tracks perfectly—if he tried, it would slow him too much. Riordan fell into a steady jog.

  Noon found him on higher ground, rough hills with gaunt needles of rock reaching yards into the sky. He kept going, confident of his own ability to wear down the quarry. He’d run deer to earth back home, day after day until the animal’s heart broke and it waited quivering for him to come.

  The trail looked clear and fresh now. He tensed with the knowledge that the Martian couldn’t be far away.

  Too clear! Could this be bait for another trap? He hefted the rifle and proceeded more warily. But no, there wouldn’t have been time—

  He mounted a high ridge and looked over the grim, fantastic landscape. Near the horizon he saw a blackened strip, the border of his radioactive barrier. The Martian couldn’t go further, and if he doubled back Riordan would have an excellent chance of spotting him.

  He turned up his speaker and let his voice roar into the stillness: “Come out, owlie! I’m going to get you, you might as well come out now and be done with it!”

  The echoes took it up, flying back and forth between the naked crags, trembling and shivering under the brassy arch of sky. Come out, come out, come out—

  The Martian seemed to appear from thin air, a gray ghost rising out of the jumbled stones and standing poised not twenty feet away. For an instant, the shock of it was too much; Riordan gaped in disbelief.

  Kreega waited, quivering ever so faintly as if he were a mirage.

  Then the man shouted and lifted his rifle. Still the Martian stood there as if carved in gray stone, and with a shock of disappointment Riordan thought that he had, after all, decided to give himself to an inevitable death.

  Well, it had been a good hunt. “So long,” whispered Riordan, and squeezed the trigger.

  Since the sandmouse had crawled into the barrel, the gun exploded.

  * * *

  Riordan heard the roar and saw the barrel peel open like a rotten banana. He wasn’t hurt, but as he staggered back from the shock Kreega lunged at him.

  The Martian was four feet tall, and skinny and weaponless, but he hit the Earthling like a small tornado. His legs wrapped around the man’s waist and his hands got to work on the airhose.

  Riordan went down under the impact. He snarled, tigerishly, and fastened his hands on the Martian’s narrow throat. Kreega snapped futilely at him with his beak. They rolled over in a cloud of dust.

  The brush began to chatter excitedly.

  Riordan tried to break Kreega’s neck—the Martian twisted away, bored in again.

  With a shock of horror, the man heard the hiss of escaping air as Kreega’s beak and fingers finally worried the airhose loose. An automatic valve clamped shut, but there was no connection with the pump now—

  Riordan cursed, and got his hands about the Martian’s throat again. Then he simply lay there, squeezing, and not all Kreega’s writhing and twistings could break that grip.

  Riordan smiled sleepily and held his hands in place. After five minutes or so Kreega was still. Riordan kept right on throttling him for another five minutes, just to make sure. Then he let go and fumbled at his back, trying to reach the pump.

  The air in his suit was hot and foul. He couldn’t quite reach around to connect the hose to the pump—

  Poor design, he thought vaguely. But then, these airsuits weren’t meant for battle armor.

  He looked at the slight, silent form of the Martian. A faint breeze ruffled the gray feathers. What a fighter the little guy had been! He’d be the pride of the trophy room, back on Earth.

  Let’s see now—He unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it carefully out. He’d never make it to the rocket with what air he had, so it was necessary to let the suspensine into his suit. But he’d have to get inside the bag, lest the nights freeze his blood solid.

  He crawled in, fastening the flaps carefully, and opened the valve on the suspensine tank. Lucky he had it—but then, a good hunter thinks of everything. He’d get awfully bored, lying here till Wisby caught the signal in ten days or so and came to find him, but he’d last. It would be an experience to remember. In this dry air, the Martian’s skin would keep perfectly well.

  He felt the paralysis creep up on him, the waning of heartbeat and lung action. His senses and mind were still alive, and he grew aware that complete relaxation has its unpleasant aspects. Oh, well—he’d won. He’d killed the wiliest game with his own hands.

  Presently Kreega sat up. He felt himself gingerly. There seemed to be a rib broken—well, that could be fixed. He was still alive. He’d been choked for a good ten minutes, but a Martian can last fifteen without air.

  He opened the sleeping bag and got Riordan’s keys. Then he limped slowly back to the rocket. A day or two of experimentation taught him how to fly it. He’d go to his kinsmen near Syrtis. Now that they had an Earthly machine, and Earthly weapons to copy—

  But there was other business first. He didn’t hate Riordan, but Mars is a hard world. He went back and dragged the Earthling into a cave and hid him beyond all possibility of human search parties finding him.

  For a while he looked into the man’s eyes. Horror stared dumbly back at him. He spoke slowly, in halting English: “For those you killed, and for being a stranger on a world that does not want you, and against the day when Mars is free, I leave you.”

  Before departing, he got several oxygen tanks from the boat and hooked them into the man’s air supply. That was quite a bit of air for one in suspended animation. Enough to keep him alive for a thousand years.

  A.C. Crispin’s StarBridge saga for young adult readers is a series of novels and stories that was ahead of its time. From progressive roles for women to its views of crosscultural interaction with alien species, sexuality, and more, StarBridge has been cited as an influence by many writers who followed, Seanan McGuire among them. This next story was par
t novel excerpt, part new material written for me by Crispin as a standalone for my 2013 anthology Raygun Chronicles: Space Opera For A New Age. It turned out to be the last words Crispin ever wrote as she died of cancer before the book was released. To me, it remains one of my favorite first contact stories, and an example of a brilliant, ahead of its time space opera series by a leading space opera author who wrote everything from originals to Star Trek and Star Wars novels and more, and who was taken from us too soon.

  TWILIGHT WORLD

  A.C. CRISPIN

  Mahree Burroughs crouched on the ill-fitting seat designed for non-human crew members, her eyes never leaving the chrono that was counting down how long she had to live.

  Despite her studies, she couldn’t yet read the Simiu written language fluently, but numbers were easy. The chrono was silent as the numbers counted down the alien time-units. Mahree did a rough computation in her head and realized that they had just a little under a Terran day to live. About twenty-three hours until the three inhabitants of the little courier ship they’d dubbed Rosinante used up the last of the oxygen in the ship’s air supply. Less than a day’s worth of breathable air. She fought back panic, twisting her long, dark braid in her hands until it hurt, then forcing herself to breathe slowly through her nose, then out through her mouth.

  Breathing was such a simple, basic act, she thought. People hardly ever even thought about it. Until the air runs out. Then the need for air, just simple air, overwhelmed everything. In a day, the two humans and one Simiu aboard Rosinante would be dead. Mahree Burroughs, her Simiu friend Dhurrrkk’, and Rob Gable, the ship’s physician from the trading vessel Désirée… all of them, dead. Unless, of course the alarm they’d rigged on the ship’s sensors sounded, alerting them that they’d found a world with a breathable oxygen atmosphere.

  Some rescue mission, Mahree thought bitterly. Here we are, trying to bring about a peaceful solution between our peoples, only to die out here when our air runs out.

  Sixteen-year-old Mahree and her young Simiu friend, Dhurrrkk’, out of all the human crew of the trading ship Désirée and the Simiu world of Hurrreeah, were the only two of their respective species who had learned to actually speak each other’s language. The trading ship crew and the authorities of Hurrreeah had relied on computer translations to communicate—translations that had led to a tragic misunderstanding between the two peoples. Now the two species stood poised on the brink of violence, possibly outright war.

  Mahree and Dhurrrkk’ had decided that they couldn’t let that happen. Dhurrrkk’ had confided in Mahree that there was an interstellar organization of all the Known Worlds that might be able to help. The headquarters of the Cooperative League of Systems was located on a giant space station near the bright star Mizar. Dhurrrkk’ was a pilot. Together, they’d stolen this ship, and set off for Shassiszss. Only one thing had gone wrong with their escape. Rob Gable had come upon them just as they were about to leave, and Mahree had to bring him along—at gunpoint.

  Yeah, not only do I get myself and Dhurrrkk’ killed on this escapade, she thought, I’ve condemned Rob to die, too.

  The alien numbers continued to count down, measuring out the Simiu equivalent of seconds, minutes, and hours.

  Mahree tried not to think about what it would be like at the end. Gasping for oxygen, lungs straining, eyes bulging, their faces suffusing with blood as their O2-starved tissues died. Would it hurt before they passed out? Would they feel as though they were strangling, or being choked? Or would the three of them just quietly pass out? Who would go first?

  Death by asphyxiation didn’t sound very appealing. And all we were trying to do was help… who could have anticipated that human effluvia and exhalations would kill the oxygen-producing plants in the hydroponics lab?

  At first, everything had gone well. Once Mahree and Dhurrrkk’ had explained their mission, Rob had thrown himself into the rescue effort, and the two humans had spent days growing accustomed to eating Simiu food, living under the slightly heavier Simiu gravity, sleeping on Simiu bedding, and, most challenging of all, utilizing Simiu plumbing. But then, about ten days out from Hurrreeah, Dhurrrkk’ had come to them, visibly upset. His usually bright violet eyes were dimmed, his forehead crest of fur drooped, and his mane was ragged, as if he’d been clawing at it with his long, tough nails. “There is trouble, my friends,” he said, in his harshly accented English. “An emergency in the hydroponics lab. Come see for yourselves.”

  Rob and Mahree had scrambled up from the Simiu sleeping pads, and followed their four-footed friend into the bowels of the little courier ship. One glance at the plants in the hydroponics lab had shown them sickly, drooping vegetation, obviously dying. Nearly all of the species were affected. “I have checked everything repeatedly,” Dhurrrkk’ told them, sitting back on his haunches rather like a Terran baboon. “Nothing has changed in the ship’s environment except for your presence. The plant life is dying because it has been exposed to human exhalations and effluvia. At this rate we will not have sufficient oxygen in our air to reach Shassiszss.”

  The three of them had stared at each other in shock. At first, Mahree had thought it must be some kind of nightmare, but the danger was real, and there seemed to be no solution.

  The chrono continued its inexorable countdown.

  “Mahree,” came a human voice from behind her. Mahree started, then turned to see Rob Gable, short and dark-haired, his good-looking features lined with concern. “Are you still staring at that thing? Come and get some sleep. You’ll use less air that way, and staring at that chrono would drive anyone round the bend.”

  “I don’t want to waste my last day sleeping,” she protested.

  “I can’t think of a better strategy,” he pointed out. “Maybe you’ll have good dreams.”

  “I doubt it. Last time I slept I had nightmares.”

  “Well, give it a try. It really will help to conserve our remaining air.”

  She frowned, but let herself be persuaded. She was tired… her eyes were heavy and sore. Following Rob into the cabin they’d converted for human use, she lay down beside him, taking some comfort in his nearness. Her heavy eyes gradually closed and her breathing became regular…

  * * *

  Dhurrrkk’ wailed, clutching his chest as it heaved, seeking air—but there was none. Mahree’s face was contorted and purple as she, too, shrilled a high, keening scream. Both of them tumbled to the deck, thrashing convulsively, their mouths opening and closing, emitting that never-ending shrieking wail—

  Rob jerked awake, carrying that last hideous dream-image before his eyes so vividly that it took him a moment to realize that it was, indeed, only a nightmare. And still the wailing shrilled that insistent, nerve-wracking shriek of—of Dhurrrkk’s alarm!

  Rob sat up, eyes wide. “Whatthehell?”

  Mahree was staring at him, eyes wide with incredulous hope.

  Minutes later, the alarm silenced, the three travelers stared dubiously at the data on the screens. Mahree was able to translate the information for Rob, whose frown deepened as she continued. “That rinky-dink little thing?” he exclaimed, eyeing the red dwarf occupying the middle of Rosinante’s main viewscreen. “Good grief, it’s only 170,000 kilometers in diameter—barely bigger than Jupiter!”

  “It’s the only system we’ve found,” Mahree reminded him, “so be nice.”

  Dhurrrkk’ nodded. “It is indeed very small,” he admitted.

  Mahree translated from the screen data. “It’s got two planets—one a frozen hunk not even big enough to be spherical, the other about six-tenths the size of Earth. That’s the one with the atmosphere. It orbits the star at a distance of about four million kilometers, and it’s tidally locked, so it always keeps the same face toward its sun. Its year is a whopping four and a half days.”

  “But there are definite readings of oxygen in its atmosphere,” Dhurrrkk’ pointed out. “Not as high oxygen content as we could have wished, perhaps, but at this point, we have no alternativ
e. We will need to find and harvest whatever plants are emitting that oxygen.”

  Mahree nodded. “Let’s set her down, then go find us some air.”

  * * *

  Mahree stood in the control room hatch, wearing her spacesuit, her helmet tucked under her arm. She listened intently as Rob and Dhurrrkk’ completed the atmospheric analysis of the chill little worldlet where Rosinante now rested.

  “That’s all very well and good,” she broke in, interrupting their jargon-laden exchange impatiently after a few minutes, “but what’s the bottom line? Can we breathe out there?”

  Rob scowled at his link, considering. “Doubtful,” he concluded. “At least, not for more than a minute or so. Nothing in the air can hurt us to breathe it, but the overall oxy level is like being on top of a high mountain, Earthside. The slightest exertion, and we’d pass out in short order.”

  “Could we breathe it while we’re resting? Sit down and take off our helmets to conserve our breathing packs?”

  “You might—and I stress might—be able to, for a short time, because you were raised on Jolie, which has a lower oxygen content than Earth or Hurrreeah, but I wouldn’t risk either Dhurrrkk’ or me trying it.”

  Mahree bit her lip. “What about the plants?” she said.

  Rob shook his head, obviously bewildered. “I just don’t know,” he said. “It’s an extremely peculiar situation out there. Certain locations have significantly higher concentrations of O2 than others—but there’s no consistent correlation between those oxy concentrations and the patches we identified as vegetation during our low-level sweep. Sometimes they coincide, sometimes they don’t. We’re not too far from one of the higher concentrations of oxygen, so we’ll just have to take a look.”

  “How can there be higher concentrations of oxygen? Doesn’t the gas dissipate into the atmosphere?”

  “Sure—some. But this place has fixed tides, hardly any weather. The temperature is a constant four degrees, just above freezing, and that doesn’t vary, because there’s no night. So there’s no wind to move the atmosphere around. And oxygen is a comparatively heavy gas, so that when it’s emitted under these circumstances, it tends to stay in one place, at least for a while.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going. Air’s awasting.”