Charles Sheffield - The Spheres of Heaven

“You have provided the information that we need.” The voice of The One soothed and cheered Friday. “You confirm that your own universe, unlike this one or most of the rest of the accessible levels of the multiverse, is hospitable to life. This one, by contrast, is most inhospitable. Based on the observed properties of the sky-globes, we estimate that the nearest star with a planetary train is more than five thousand lightyears away from here. This universe is a disappointment to us.”

Friday felt inside his brain a new touch that could not translate to words. He shivered with shared sorrow and dissatisfaction, until the One continued, “We intend to link ourselves through to your universe. First, however, we need more information. Tell us of your people, and of this `Stellar Group’ that you mention. Talk of your technology, and list your strengths and weaknesses. Warn us of possible dangers. Give every fact that you know. Our powers of absorption are endless, and no amount of detail is too much.”

Friday nodded. After a few moments he began to speak. Prompted now and again by The One, he did his best to empty his entire brain.

Minutes became hours. Occasionally The One interrupted to ask a question. Who in humans was the controlling class? Which one was the disposable class? Was there more than one sessile class? Friday had to answer that question in half a dozen different ways, before The One was satisfied that humans had no sessile class and continued: How is human breeding accomplished? How are offspring culled? In the Stellar Group, how can there be many species, without one being dominant?

Friday talked on and on, until all the Malacostracans other than The One were gone, and the long chamber was empty. The water that lapped around his calves gradually became freezing cold. The rock that he sat on was ridged and uneven and cut into his flesh. He had not eaten for almost two days.

He did not mind. He was aware of fatigue and physical discomfort, but they did not matter. He was blissfully happy.

When at last The One said, “That is enough for now,” he was disappointed.

The One read his disappointment. “We have proved that your kind can be useful servants,” it said soothingly. “Your life will continue. Lie down now, on your back.” And, after a brief pause, “Sleep.”

It was as well that Friday had received the order to lie down. Otherwise he would have fallen face forward into the water, asleep instantly. He would have died there, too — but he would have died happy.

He did not hear The One, mindful of the needs of the underclasses, add, “And after sleep you will be fed.”

Who? Chan struggled with the problem for the rest of the day. Who would go ashore? Who must remain on the ship?

There was no doubt at all that everyone would want to go, but that was another matter.

He deliberately avoided Deb during the evening, and he chose a different place to sleep. They had spent the previous night together, but now he dared not allow personal persuasion and closeness to cloud his judgment.

By morning he had made up his mind. The condition of the Hero’s Return when he awoke helped. The air entering through the ducts smelled stale. It was clammy on the skin, and every exposed metal surface sweated drops of water. The ship’s computer insisted that all life-support systems were well within tolerances, but its sensors could not match a human’s perception of discomfort or of coming problems.

So Dag Korin was right, and the Bun would have to stay to make whatever fixes he could think of. Chan didn’t fool himself into thinking they would be any more than temporary. The bottom of the sea was simply the wrong place for a space-going ship. The Hero’s Return was slowly dying.

Chan called for a breakfast meeting in the ship’s main cafeteria. He made sure he was there first, and he watched their faces as they arrived in ones and twos. He swore to himself. He hadn’t said a word to anyone, but they all knew something was about to happen — and it was his guess that they knew what.

He scanned the intent faces as they filled trays with food and carried them to the long table where he sat at the head. Danny Casement took a position next to Chan. He was as neatly groomed and debonair as always — and as inscrutable. Danny was a formidable card player, and no one would read his feelings and inner thoughts. Next to him, Tully O’Toole sat down with a loaded tray that he did no more than pick at. Chan could see the tremor in Tully’s hand. He knew that morning feeling, the worst time of day for withdrawal symptoms.

Bony Rombelle arrived next at the table, carrying a big glass of water and a single slice of dry toast. Was this really the Bun? The Bun, whose idea of an adequate breakfast in the old days included eggs and bacon and sausage and pasta, followed by toast covered with enough butter to grease a locomotive?

Was the Bun feeling sick? No, it was something else. Chan saw Liddy Morse sit down next to Bony, and knew what it was. With any luck it wouldn’t mess up the Bun’s ability to make useful equipment out of any old bits and pieces that were to hand.

When Deb Bisson arrived she moved to sit at the other end of the table, facing Chan. Her eye met his accusingly. It said, You’re a coward, Chan Dalton. You know I won’t be going ashore, but you won’t tell me in person. You’ll go, and leave me behind. That’s why you avoided me last night. Don’t I deserve better treatment than that?

Well, Deb might have a surprise coming.

Last to arrive were Tarbush Hanson and Chrissie Winger. Maybe they didn’t know after all. As they sat down at the table their faces were puzzled, as if they had no idea what was happening. Maybe they were really wondering; or maybe they were just better actors than the rest. As a magic team, they specialized in misdirection.

“Is there anyone who doesn’t know why I asked you here this morning?” Chan began. Then he paused. Two others who had certainly not been invited were entering the room. The giant form of Vow-of-Silence, crouching low so her head would not hit the ceiling, led the way. Thousands of Tinker components followed the Pipe-Rilla like some long train of purple-black.

Chan waited while Vow-of-Silence folded her limbs awkwardly to perch on a neighboring table. Eager Seeker assembled on the floor next to her as a thick pulsing column about six feet tall.

“Please ignore us,” Vow-of-Silence said. “We came only as observers.”

Ignore them? When the Pipe-Rilla loomed over everyone? When the Tinker Composite formed a funnel opening in its upper extremity, and was now making the wheezing moans that preceded speech?

Chan said, “How did you learn that there was a meeting?”

“From Dag Korin.” The thin head bobbed. “He came to us. He said you were going ashore. He spoke of great violence, of d-death and d-destruction.”

“I think you must have misunderstood General Korin,” Chan said. “We have no thought of violence ashore.” He turned back to the circle of humans. “But there will be a shore party. Tell me, for my own curiosity. Who didn’t know about this?”

Not a hand was raised.

“So who told you?”

“I heard it from Dag Korin, yesterday,” Tully said. “He mentioned it when I was with Elke Siry. I knew what was going on, as soon as he said he would need maps of Limbo made from our satellite images. And he didn’t give any impression that it was a secret, so I passed the word on to the others.”

Korin again. He had some secret agenda, Chan felt sure of it. But what?

“Well, it’s sure no secret now,” Chan went on. “So let’s talk about who will be going on the first shore party” — everyone at the table sat up straighter — “and who won’t.”