Charles Sheffield - The Spheres of Heaven

“Now then, no need for all the excitement,” a cheerful voice said. “Here, I’ll put a light on if it makes you feel better.”

A bright yellow-green glow lit up the night. Deb, shielding her eyes against it, saw a male human standing about six feet away from her holding a luminous cylinder. As her eyes adjusted she realized that it was the same person as she had seen the previous day, waving and talking to Chrissie and Tarbush.

“Friday Indigo?” she said tentatively.

“The one and only.” He aimed a casual kick at Scruffy, who darted away into the low-growing plants. “Get rid of the vermin, and we can talk. I’m Friday Indigo. Who are you?”

“My name is Deb Bisson.” Deb was reluctant to say much until she knew what was going on. Better to ask questions. “I think I saw you earlier. Weren’t you down in the encampment?”

“You got it.” Indigo took a step forward into the clearing, so that he could crouch next to Deb. “I was there to greet your friends on behalf of The One. Pity you weren’t with them.”

That was a matter of opinion.

“I saw them shot. Are they alive?”

“Sure they are. Mind you, they’re not in as good shape as I am, because they haven’t had a chance to meet with The One yet.”

That too might be a matter of opinion. Deb was at last getting a close-up of Friday Indigo. He claimed to be in good shape, but he certainly didn’t look it. Someone who had been drinking three nights in a row and then lost a major fight might appear the way he did, but chances are they would be in better condition. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was pale. Trickles of dried blood ran from his ears down to his neck. His hair straggled dirty over his forehead, his clothes were full of rips and tears, and he trailed his left leg as he walked.

He didn’t appear dangerous, but Deb had quietly been preparing her weapons. If he tried to put a move on her he wouldn’t know what hit him. On the other hand, she had no idea what else might be lurking out there in the dark.

“Who is this The One that you keep mentioning?”

“The leader.”

“Leader of what?”

“Why, leader of the Malacostracans.” He spoke as though that was glaringly self-evident.

“The Marla — costrans?”

“Malacostracans. The people who built the encampment on the other side of the hill. The people who live there. If you saw your two friends shot — their own fault, I told them not to run — then you must have seen the Malacostracans for yourself. Only Level Threes and Level Fours, of course. Nothing like Two-four or The One.”

Deb had no idea what he was talking about, but she didn’t like his tone of voice. It was too self-satisfied, too admiring of the shell-backed aliens.

She said, “Did you come here because you want me to meet with them?”

He laughed. “Good heavens, no. They hardly need the ones they’ve got. I’m here because The One wants more information about humans and our universe than I can provide.”

“I can’t give you information.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To find out if you might have a suit I could borrow. You see, mine was damaged and I can’t use it anymore to travel underwater. I have to do that tonight. Do you have one?”

“Maybe.” Deb knew quite well that the supply case contained a couple of spare suits. “Why would you want such a thing?”

“Because without it, I can’t possibly go to your ship and talk to the leaders of your party. You are the people, aren’t you, who launched the orbiters?”

“What if we are? Why would you want to talk to us?”

Friday stared at her pityingly. “To negotiate, of course. It’s my job to obtain access to your ship’s data bank. I would have used the one on the Mood Indigo , but the poor old thing’s a bit beat up and I can’t get the information systems to work. Don’t worry, I have things to offer you people in return.”

He snapped his fingers briskly, as though his proposal to negotiate on behalf of aliens was the most natural thing in the world, and went on, “Now, Deb Bisson, do you have a suit for me or don’t you? If you do, let’s get me into it and I’ll be on my way. I can’t afford to waste time — The One needs results.”

She had to make a decision, and in zero time. “I have a suit for you. It’s in the supply case. But I should come with you to point out the quickest way to the ship. And I have to go to the bathroom before we leave.”

“I don’t mind waiting while you do that.”

“Well, I mind. Take the suit and put it on when you get to the beach. I’ll see you there in two minutes.”

“Two minutes. All right. No longer.”

He rummaged in the supply case, pulled out a lightweight suit, and limped away. He held his yellow lamp high, and he was humming to himself.

Deb looked around her. As she became used to the darkness she was able to make out the line of the ridge against the sky and the top fronds of nearby bushes, but everything at ground level was invisible.

“Scruffy?” she whispered. “I can’t see you, but can you hear me? Come on, girl. I don’t have much time.”

There was a rustle close to her feet, and a small form brushed against her leg. She bent down and slipped a flat metal ring onto the ferret’s collar.

“I can’t understand you, the way that Tarbush can. But I think you understand me. You’re on your own now. Go find him. Follow his trail.” Dark intelligent eyes gazed up at Deb. “You heard me. Find your idol. Go sniff out Chrissie and the Tarb. This isn’t much I’m giving them, but it’s the best I can do. I’ll be back for all of you as soon as I can.”

The ear-splitting drone rang through the whole ship, blocking out speech until it finally ended.

Dag Korin had paused in the act of filling the last of half a dozen glasses with whiskey. “So I’m wrong again,” he said, in the dead silence that followed the drone. “Seems we’re not done for tonight after all. It’s the main airlock again. Dalton, would you?”

Chan was already on the way, racing back the way he had come an hour earlier. When he reached the lock it was still cycling. As the hatch opened and he saw Deb’s face behind the suit’s visor he let out an explosive gasp of relief. He was reaching to grab her in a bear hug, ignoring the fact that her suit streamed water, when he saw the second figure standing behind her in the lock.

It was a man, much too short to be Tarbush Hanson.

“Who the hell—”

“Friday Indigo,” Deb said loudly. Then, opening her helmet, she put a finger to her lips and mouthed, “Chrissie and Tarb alive. Don’t talk, take cues from me.”

The man limped forward and snapped open his visor, to reveal a tired face whose smiling mouth was stained and crusted with a sticky purple residue. “Friday Indigo, captain and owner of the Mood Indigo . I need to talk to whoever is in charge of this ship. Is that you?”

“No. I’m the second in command.” Chan glanced at Deb and saw her nod. “But I can take you to General Korin.”

“Let’s go, then.” Indigo glanced about him with pale, intense eyes, as though drinking in every detail of the Hero’s Return . “I don’t have much time.”

Deb urged him to go ahead of her and said, “Before anyone will talk to you, Mr. Indigo, you’re going to have to explain what happened to the crew members who were captured on shore.”

“I told you, they’re alive.”

“And safe?”

“Safer than they would be here. This dump looks like it’s falling apart.”

Deb, walking slightly behind Chan and Friday Indigo, could not argue with that. In the time she had been away, less than twenty-four hours, the air had become more clammy, the corridor smelled stale and rancid, and water dripped from every overhead feature.