Heaven (17 page)

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 isolated 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.”