Damon Knight - Orbit 21

At last the right circuit connects. The ship races across the plateau. Its nose lifts and up we go, the ship and I, to see what we shall see. I can die only once, and I need not fear God’s judgment. Who knows? God knows. I may find Earth. I may find the perfect planet. I may find death in an orbit too near the sun. But nothing shall separate me from the love of God, and I am content.

I recite out loud the end of the Thirteenth Psalm, “But I have trusted in Thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in Thy salvation.”

Because her children were special and so often misunderstood, Hera believed it was her duty not only to teach them the ways of the universe but also to shield and protect them from its more malevolent aspects. For this, their first excursion away from the Moon, she had chosen the planet Kraton, a virgin world, newly discovered, quite devoid of danger. Hera had wanted it that way, for the sake of the children. The landscape here where she had scanned was dominated on all sides by jagged cliffs and crags. With her head tilted at an awkward angle, she could observe a fleet of dark clouds darting like demons above the tall pinnacles. Kraton—what she had so far seen of it—was a dark, brooding planet. She felt pleased; this place was exactly what she had sought.

The children scanned one by one. Hera counted as each materialized in turn before her: eight . . . nine . . . ten. Cady, staring in wide-eyed wonderment at her instantaneous trip through twelve parsecs of interstellar space, made eleven.

But time passed. Too much time.

“Now where’s Ares?” she finally asked. “We can’t possibly have lost him already.”

“Peekaboo!” cried Ares, the horned child. He darted suddenly out from behind a tree and waved his arms gleefully. Nine E-years old, Ares wore pale green shorts and no shirt. His horns protruded stiffly through a pile of unkempt black human hair. Because of his hoofed feet, he limped as he walked. “I got here even before you, Hera. I was the first—the very first.”

“No,” she said, her breath coming short. “Never do that— never.” She had intended to speak to all twelve children, but several had already gone romping into the woods. “Now, you come here,” she cried, slapping her hands. “I mean everyone— right now—I mean it. We have a lot to do. We’ll need a camp and a fire. It may be dark soon.”

“And the wild animals?” asked little Cady, nestling close to Hera’s knees in search of protection. Her upper lip, a loose fold of fat skin, dangled an inch past her lower. She was young, fragile, a new student; the other children frightened her.

“We’ll see about exploring tomorrow. Remember, except for the scouting team, we’re the first humans ever to come here. We’ll see about the animals tomorrow.”

“And they’ll tear us apart,” said a boy, Dangel, growling fiercely.

“No, no!” cried Cady, shying back even farther.

“Yes, yes,” said Hera, patting the child. “Dangel is just being funny. The animals here are very peaceful. You’ll see.”

“Does that mean we’ve got to climb those big cliffs?” asked another boy.

“Unless we intend to stay in this valley.” Hera grew impatient. “Now some of you please get to work. Unpack our supplies, start the tent.”

“What I want to know,” Ares said, glancing around, “is where are the aliens? You know they’re here—all around. When they catch us, that’ll be the end.”

Cady began to sniffle in fear. Hera said angrily, “Ares, that’ll be enough of that nonsense. There are no aliens on this world and you know it. If there were, we’d hardly be here. Now be quiet and stop frightening Cady.”

“I’ll be quiet if the aliens will.”

“Ares.”

“Yes, Hera, dear.”

Darkness fell suddenly on Kraton. Fortunately, both tents had been inflated and the lantern cast sufficient light to allow the children to gather wood from the forest.

After heating their dinners over the fire, the children ate greedily until Hera rose and ordered them off to bed. She undressed in her own tent and then came down to visit. Cautiously, she counted heads and bodies: nine . . . ten . . . only eleven.

“All right. Who’s missing this time? Is it Cady?”

“I’m here, Hera.”

“Patria, get back in your own pouch and leave Cady alone.”

“But, Hera, she—”

“I said no. Now, please.”

After Patria had sullenly complied, Hera addressed the twelve: “I want you children to get as much rest as possible tonight, as it’s my intention to move out shortly past dawn. We’ll hike northward and scale the cliffs there. The maps indicate a series of finger lakes in that direction and we ought to uncover a good deal of native wildlife.”

“Big ugly fierce growling monsters,” said Ares, “who’ll gobble us up and spit out the pieces.” Of the children, only he was part of a second generation—three-quarters human, in spite of the horns and hoofs. Hera went away. As soon as she left their tent, the children began whispering.

Hera paused just outside and cocked an ear. She heard, “Hera, Hera.” Her own name. Damn them, she thought. Hadn’t she warned them—no talking tonight? Their damned whisperings followed her everywhere. Feeling rage inside her like a flame, she shut her eyes and clenched her fists. She hated them when they whispered like this, when they talked about her.

Ahead, on a gentle slope, her own tent stood. The lantern gleamed and flickered through the open doorway.

Curled naked inside the sleeping pouch, Hera wondered. How long could she lie like this without moving? One hour, two, three, ten? Their damned fathers. Hera tried to imagine such men. She saw them strutting, wild-eyed, long-limbed, big-muscled. In harsh reality, a scout might stand four feet, ten inches, and be fat. The women were much worse. How could anyone bear to mate with something unhuman? They always said, no, we’re all one, descendants of the original longships that peopled the galaxy in millennia past. There are no aliens; everything is human, the same stock: Cady with her long lip; Samuel with his distended sex organ; Bruto with his reddish fur; Ares with his horns and hoofs. Still, evolution on alien worlds had turned wonders, created new breeds. To mate with such a being, overpowered by a vicious beast as lusty as a stag, was an ultimate desecration of the soul. And yet it happened. Twelve children testified to that. Hera heard their incessant, whispering voices.

Naked, she slipped free of the sleeping pouch, grasped the lantern, padded across the ground. At their tent she paused, then hurled open the flaps. “Now, please,” she said, trembling. “Now, children, please be silent.” The lantern cast crazy shadows on the inner walls. “We cannot—we simply cannot—”

“Damn it, we were,” said Ares. “We were trying to sleep.”

“You damned liar!” she cried. And then, with a start, she noticed that Patria had again left her pouch.

The second night, near midnight, while they were camped halfway up the face of the cliff, Ares entered her tent. She could see his figure only dimly, despite the bright lanternlight. He moved like a creature from a dream.

“What do you want here?” she asked coldly.

He limped forward, his eyes burning with a strange excitement. “Hera, I’ve found something utterly amazing that you won’t believe. You’ve got to come and see.”

“You ought to be in your tent, asleep.”

“Oh, no, don’t be silly.” He crouched beside her. “Listen, I’m half-nocturnal, like Latone.” He winked.

“I barely remember your father.”

“No, of course not, but this doesn’t concern him.” He reached out and, with incredible strength, drew her out of the pouch to kneel before him. “I want you to come with me now.”