Heaven Chronicles Read online

  “It's wood. Organic. From the trunks of trees,” Clewell said. “False-oak, to be exact. It's hard, but it whittles well.”

  “The floor, too? All plant fibers—wood?”

  He nodded. “It's easier than turning it into plastic. False-oak grown two centimeters a day out by the Boreal Sea.”

  Abdhiamal's hand caressed the etched metal of the table top; he glanced up at the cutters and the suspended protective shield. “Lasers?” His hand closed, empty, as he searched the room, loosened to point at the wide doors cut into the hull, opening directly onto space … at the electromagnets set into the ceiling. She saw him answering his own unspoken questions. “And what's this equipment for, over here?”

  Betha followed his hand, seeing in her mind red-haired Sean at work, dauntlessly clumsy; Nikolai patiently guiding. She looked away. “Repairing microcircuits on our electronics equipment.”

  “You have your own fusion power plant … you really could reproduce any part of this ship right here, couldn't you?”

  “Theoretically. There are some I wouldn't want to try. This was a long trip; we had to be prepared for anything.” Except this.

  “God! If Park and Osuna could only see this place.”

  “Who?” Clewell removed the wood from a clamp.

  “They're ‘engineers.’” Scorn lacerated the word.

  “And what's wrong with engineers?” Betha folded her arms tightly against her stomach, raising her eyebrows.

  “What's right with 'em?” Abdhiamal made an odd gesture. “They're a bunch of cannibals. They put patches on patches, tear, one thing apart and use the pieces to hold three more together, and then they tear apart one of those—”

  “That sounds resourceful to me.”

  “But they gloat about it! The think it's creation, but it's destruction. If they'd only read something, if only they had any imagination at all, they'd know what real creation is. The thing we could do, once … nobody did them better. But that's like askin' for life in a vacuum.”

  “Or maybe you've just got your priorities wrong, Abdhiamal! What should they do, torture themselves over the past because relics are all they have left to work with? At least they're doing something for their people, not living at the expense of everyone else like some damned fop!” Betha jerked the piece of wood out of his hands, felt splinters cut her palm. She turned her back on his surprise, strode away through her echoing anger toward the door.

  Clewell smiled at Abdhiamal's astonished face. “Abdhiamal, you just told it all to an engineer.”

  Abdhiamal winced. “I should never have gotten out of bed … two megaseconds ago.” He stared out into the vastness of the empty room. “I always seem to say the wrong thing to … your wife. I thought she was a pilot.”

  Clewell listened to Betha's footsteps fade as she climbed the stairs. He wondered what fresh burden she had brought with her from Mecca—that showed in her eyes and her every action, and that she could not share even with him. “She was an engineer on Morningside, before she was chosen to captain the Ranger. Parts of this ship are her design; she worked on its drive unit.” He saw surprise again in Abdhiamal's tawny eyes. “It's the first starship we've had the resources to build since before the Low.”

  “Low?”

  “Famine … emergency.” Memories of past hardship and suffering rose in him too easily, drawn by the fresh memory of loss. A bruising weariness made him settle against the table's edge. He set aside the wood; morbidly picturing his own body as ancient wood, storm-battered, decaying. He sighed. “On Morningside small changes in solar activity, perturbations in our orbit, can mean disaster. When I was a boy—in the last quarter of my tenth year—we went into a ‘hot spell’ …” He saw the darkside ice sheet withdrawing, shattered bergs clogging the waters of the Boreal Sea. The sea itself had risen half a meter, flooding vital coastal industries; the crops had rotted in the fields from too much rainfall. He had watched one of his fathers kill a litter of kittens because they had nothing to feed them. And he had cried, even though his own empty stomach ached with need. Still, after all these years … “It took years for the climate to stabilize, most of my lifetime before our own lives got back to ‘normal.’ We've entered a High, right now, and Uhuru's stabilized—they're our closest neighbor; this flight was planned to send them aid, originally. That's why we took a chance on risking the Ranger to come here to Heaven.” He felt the cutting edge of wind over snow on the darkside glacier, where the sky glittered with stars like splintered ice. “That's why we can't afford to stay here. Even if we go back to Morningside empty-handed, at least they'll have the ship.”

  Abdhiamal nodded. “I see. I told—your wife, Captain Torgussen, that I'm willing to do all I can to help you get back to Morningside—for Heaven's own good. The way things seem to be goin', your remaining here is goin' to tear Heaven apart, not pull it back together again.…” For a moment Clewell was reminded of someone, but the image slipped away.

  He considered Abdhiamal's words, surprised—more surprised to find that he believed them. Have we found an honest man?

  “Together we find courage,

  Our song will never cease”

  “What's that?” Abdhiamal said.

  “Bird Alyn.” Clewell heard the faint, halting music rise from the hydroponics lab. “Betha taught her some chords on the guitar; I taught her a few more songs, while we were—waiting.” He heard Bird Alyn strike a sour note as she strummed. “I don't know if Claire would have approved, but the plants seem to appreciate her sincerity.” He smiled. “It's not what you sing, or how, but how the singing makes you feel.”

  Abdhiamal smiled politely. His glance touched the scarred surface of the table, the floor, searched the room again; the smile grew taut. “You know, I sometimes have the strange feeling that I'm livin' in a dream; that somehow I've forgotten how to wake myself up.” A trace of desperation edged into his voice.

  “Bird Alyn said the same thing to me. Except that I think she meant it.”

  “Comin' from the Main Belt, she probably did.… Maybe I do too.” Abdhiamal cleared his throat, an oddly embarrassed sound. “Welkin, I'd like to ask you a personal question. If you don't mind.”

  Clewell laughed. “At my age I don't have much to hide. Go ahead.”

  Abdhiamal paused. “Do you find it—hard to take orders from your wife?”

  Clewell straightened away from the table. “Why should that make a difference to me?”

  Abdhiamal looked at him strangely. “Frankly I never met a woman I'd trust to make my decisions for me.”

  Clewell remembered what he had seen on the monitors of Demarchy society, saw why it might make a difference to Abdhiamal. “Betha Torgussen was chosen to command the Ranger because she was the best qualified, and the best at making decisions. We all agreed to the choice.” He tightened the jaws of a table clamp, not sure whether he was amused or annoyed. “Answer a personal question for me: What exactly do you think of my wife?” He watched an instinctive reaction rise up and die away before it reached Abdhiamal's lips. An honest man …

  “I don't know.” Abdhiamal frowned slightly, at nothing, at himself. “But I have to admit, she's made better decisions since I've known her than I have.” He laughed once, looking away. “But then she chose space, instead of …” His eyes came back to Clewell; the frown and confusion filled them again.

  “Why doesn't the Demarchy have women in space? My impression of Belter life was always that everyone did as they damn well pleased. Men and women.”

  “Before the war, maybe. But now we have to protect our women.”

  “From what? Living?” Clewell picked up the piece of wood, shifted it from hand to hand, annoyance overriding amusement now.

  “From radiation!” It was the first time he had heard Abdhiamal raise his voice. “From genetic damage. The fission units that power our ships and factories are just too dirty. In spite of everythin' we've done, the number of defective births is twenty times as high as it was before the war.�
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  Clewell thought of Bird Alyn. “What about men?”

  “We can preserve sperm. Not ova.”

  “You've lost more than you know because of that war.” Abdhiamal stood silently, expressionless. Clewell unstrapped the leather wristband that had been a parting gift from one of his sons, and held it out. “Do you recognize that symbol?” He pointed at the design enameled on a circle of copper, as Abdhiamal took it from his hand.

  “Yin and yang?”

  He nodded. “Do you know what it stands for?”

  “No.”

  “It stands for Man and Woman. On Morningside, that means two equal halves merging into a perfect biological whole. A spot of white in the black, a spot of black in the white … to remind us that the genes of a man go into the creation of every woman, and the genes of a woman go into the creation of every man. We're not men and cattle, Abdhiamal, we're men and women. Our genes match; we're all human beings. It makes a lot of sense, when you stop to think about it.”

  “Odd—” Abdhiamal smiled again, noncommittal. “Somehow I didn't think yin and yang would have been a part of Morningside's cultural heritage.”

  “Your people and ours all came from the same Old World in the beginning. In the beginning yin and yang didn't mean much to us. We had a lot of symbols to separate us, then. We just need one now.”

  “Yin and yang and the Viking Queen …” Abdhiamal murmured; his smile turned rueful. “And Wadie in Wonderland. Why were there more men than women in your—family?”

  Because it happened to work out that way. Clewell almost answered him with the truth. He paused. “Son, if you have to ask me why a marriage needs more men than women, you're younger than I thought you were.” He grinned. “And it's not because I'm slowing down.”

  Abdhiamal drew back, disbelief ruffling his decorum. He held out the wristband.

  Clewell shook his head. “Keep it. Wear it.… Think about it, when you wonder why we're strangers to you.”

  Betha reentered the control room; Shadow Jack and Rusty still lay head-to-head on the grass-green rug. She moved quietly past them, sat down at the control board, and pulled Discus into focus on the screen, a small silver crescent like a thumbnail moon. All that mattered now, and nothing else. She would get this ship home; this time they would succeed. Nothing must get in the way of her purpose, no man, living or dead, no memory.…

  Her torn hand burned. She pressed it down on the cold panel, leaving a spot of blood. Her mind crossed three light-years and a half a lifetime to a factory yard on the Hotspot perimeter, where she had burned her hand on hot metal, inspecting the ideal made real. She had gone outside to see her first engineering design passing in sequence on the assembly line—unbearably silver in the blinding noon light, unbearably beautiful. She was in the third quarter of her twentieth year, fresh from the icy terminator. The golden rain of heat, the battering flow of parched desert air on this, the perimeter of total desolation, dazed her; pride filled her with exhilaration, and there was a certain student-worker.… She waited for him to stand beside her and tell her that her design was beautiful. And then he would ask her—Rough gloves caught her arms and turned her back, “Hey, snowbird, you want to go blind?” She saw Eric van Helsing's adored, sunburned face laugh at her through the shield of his helmet, as she caught the padding of his insulated jacket. “They always said engineers were too quirky to come in out of the sun. You'd better go back.”

  “For a social scientist, you haven't learned much about motivation, Eric van Helsing.” Angry because he had ruined everything—and because, like a fool, she had waited for him—she pulled away, almost ran back across the endless gravel yard, escaping into the cool, dazzled darkness inside the nearest building. She stood still in the corridor, fighting tears, and heard him come through the doors behind her.…

  You are the rain, my love, sweet water

  Flowing in the desert of my life.…

  Someone entered the room; Betha smelled the scent of apples. She looked for Claire's smooth moon-round face and golden tangled curls … found Bird Alyn again, thin and brown and branch-awkward: a dryad in a pink pullover shirt and jeans, with flowers in her hair.… Bird Alyn, not Claire, who tended hydroponics now.

  Shadow Jack stirred as Bird Alyn dropped down beside him, her freckled cheeks blushing dusky-rose. Betha turned back to the screen, hiding her smile.

  “… like some apples?”

  “Oh … thanks. Bird Alyn.” He laughed, self-conscious. “You always think of me.”

  She murmured something, questioning.

  “What's the matter with you? No! How many times do I have to tell you that? Get out of here, leave me alone.”

  Pain knotted in Betha's stomach; she heard Bird Alyn climb to her feet and flee, stumbling on the doorsill. Betha turned in her seat to look at Shadow Jack; kneeling, he glared back at her as he pushed himself up.

  “Maybe it's none of my business. Shadow Jack, but just what in hell is the matter with you?”

  “There's nothin' the matter with me! You think everybody has to be like you? Everybody isn't; you're a bunch of dirty perverts!” His voice shook. “It makes me sick.” He went out of the room. She heard him go down the steps too fast.

  Betha sat very still, clutching the chair arms, wondering where she would find the strength to rise.… Rusty sidled against her legs, mrring. Stiffly she reached down, drew the cat up into her lap; hanging on to meaning, to the promise of a time when Heaven would be no more than one of countless stars lost behind the twilight. “Rusty, you're all the things I count on. What would I have done without you?” Rusty's rough, tiny tongue kissed the palm of her hand twice in gentle affection. “Oh, Rusty,” she whispered, “you make misers of us all.” Betha got to her feet slowly and looked toward the empty doorway.

  Shadows moved silently over the tiles, moist and green, like the waters of a dream sea. Bird Alyn sobbed against the cold hexagonal tiles of the seatback, touched by the fragile fingers of a hanging fern. “… not fair, it's not fair …” Her love was an endless torment because it fed on dreams. He would never touch her, never stroke her hair … never love her, and she would never stop wanting his love.

  She heard him enter the lab, and the sob caught in her throat. She pushed herself up, eyes shut, wetness dripping off her chin.

  “Don't cry. Bird Alyn. It wastes water.” Shadow Jack stood before her, hands at his sides, watching her tears drip down.

  She opened her eyes, saw him through lashes starred with teardrops, felt more tears rise defiantly. “We have … plenty of water, Shadow Jack.” Misery coiled inside her, tightening like a drawn spring. “We're not on Lansing; everything's different here!”

  His eyes denied it; he said nothing, frowning.

  She turned away on the bench. “But I'm not … I know I'm not.Why did this happen to me? Why am I so ugly, when I love you?”

  He dropped down beside her on the seat, pulled her hands, one crippled and one perfect, down from her face. “Bird Alyn, you're not! You're not … you're beautiful.” She saw her image in his eyes and saw that it was true. “But—you can't love me.”

  “I can't help it … how can I help it?” She reached out, her wet fingers brushed his face. “I love you.”

  He caught her roughly, arms closing over her back, and pulled her against him. She struggled in surprise, but his mouth stopped her cry, and then her struggling. “… love you. Bird Alyn … since forever … don't you know?”

  Her outflung hands rose to tighten on his shoulders, drawing him into her dreams, joy filled her like song—

  Let me blossom first for you.

  Let me quench my thirst in you…

  “No—” He pulled back suddenly, letting her go. He leaned against the cold tiles, gulping air. “No. No. We can't.” His hands made fists.

  “But … you love me …” Bird Alyn reached out, astonished by disappointment. “Why can't we? Please, Shadow Jack … please. I'm not afraid—“

  “What do you want me to
do, get you pregnant!”

  She flinched, shaking her head. “It doesn't have to happen.”

  “It does; you know that.” He sagged forward. “Do you want to feel the baby growin' in you and see it born … with no hands and no arms, or no legs, or no—To have to put it Out, like my mother did? We're defective! And I'll never let it happen to you because of me.”

  “But it won't. Shadow Jack, everything's different here on this ship. They have a pill, they never have to get pregnant. They'd let us …” She moved close, stroked the midnight blackness of his hair. “Even one pill lasts for a long time.”

  “And what about when they're gone?”

  “We … we'd always have … memories. We'd know, we could remember how it felt, to touch, and kiss, and h-hold each other …”

  “How could I keep from touchin' you again, and kissin' you, and holdin' you, if I knew?” His eyes closed over desperation. “I couldn't. If I was never going to see you again … but I will. I'd see you every day for the rest of my life, and how could I stop it, then? How could you? It would happen.”

  She shook her head, pleading, her face burning, hot hopeless tears burning her eyes.

  “I can't let go, Bird Alyn. Not now. Not ever. I couldn't stand what it would do to me … what it would do to you. Why did we ever see this ship! Why did this happen to us? It was all right till—until—” His hands caught together; he cracked his knuckles.

  Softly she put out her own hand, catching his; fingers twined brown into bronze. Because of this ship their world would live … and because of it, nothing would ever be right in their lives again. She heard water dripping, somewhere, like tears; a dead blossom fell between them, clicked on the sterile tiles.

  Betha left the doorway quietly, as she had come, and silently climbed the stairs.

  Ranger (Discan space)

  +2.70 megaseconds

  Discus, a banded camelian the size of a fist, set in a silver plane: The rings, almost edge-on, were a film of molten light streaked with lines of jet, spreading toward them on the screen. Wadie drifted in the center of the control room, keeping his thoughts focused on the silhouette that broke the foreground of splendor: Snows-of-Salvation, orbiting thirty Discuss radii out, beyond the steep gradient depths of the gravity well. Snows-of-Salvation, that had been Bangkok on the prewar navigation charts, the major distillery for the Rings. It was one of five, but it outproduced the rest by better than ten to one; in part because its operations were powered by a nuclear battery constructed in the Demarchy, in part because it could send out shipments using a linear accelerator, also from the Demarchy but infinitely more useful here where transport distances were short. The Ringers' own primitive oxyhydrogen rockets made hopelessly inefficient tankers.