by Larry Niven
He closed the rest of the distance, and they both fell into the kiss. She enjoyed it thoroughly, refamiliarizing herself with the way his body felt and tasted. Then she pulled back.
“Slow down, Surfer Boy. How is Mei Ling?”
He tried to push in again, but her fingers resisted.
“She’s . . fine,” he said, eyes bright. “But she isn’t you.”
She rolled that answer around, asking herself if her indirect question had been resolved by an indirect answer. She decided that the answer was “close enough,” and let him have another kiss.
“Well,” she said, feeling herself warm, some of the tension melting. The sounds of laughter and singing from the dining hall weren’t as troubling now. There was a desirable man who desired her. Cadzie’s flirtation with that Valkyrie didn’t sting when she had something of her own to hold onto. And hell, she didn’t have any business thinking of him that way anyway. Whatever they had been to each other aboard Geographic had merely been . . a convenience. “I guess I missed you, too.”
♦ ChaptEr 20 ♦
settling in
The evacuation of Messenger had completed at 3:24 am Camelot time, and save for a residual crew who had been to ground, celebrated with the first group and then ascended to man the orbiting systems, all Godsons were now aground.
By the time the sun rose at 5:55 local time, repairs had already begun on Minerva II, and temporary housing was under construction. Hundreds of Godsons had slept in the communal hall, or been taken into Avalonian homes by the dozens. Others chose to sleep in the open air once they were able to set up their own defensive perimeters: wisely, they were not willing to totally believe that Camelot was predator-free. Not willing to totally trust strangers with their security.
By noon, the landing beach, and the territory between it and the colony were abuzz with activity. Everyone was lending a hand in the construction of the temporary shelters, and Joanie was impressed.
Most were focused on the construction, but she noticed one exception. The “prettiest” of the newcomers was a blond, toothy specimen, who seemed to move and speak and react as if a camera was on him at all times, a theatrical flourish to every little gesture. She didn’t quite understand until she spotted the spherical drone hovering above and behind him, recording every action.
“Marco Shantel,” a voice next to her said, voice filled with amusement. “He’s the world’s biggest holo star.”
“Really? I mean, that wouldn’t take much on Avalon. We don’t have any holo stars.”
The speaker towered a half-head above her, Amazonian, and Joanie pulled up her name instantly: Major Gloria Stype. The tall woman stood out almost as much as Shantel, but for a different reason: her every movement seemed both relaxed and purposeful. She liked to watch the major, and had probably drifted over near her for that very reason.
“He was the biggest on Earth. Biggest ever, maybe.”
“Why did he decide to make the trip?” she asked. “He can’t exactly go back and gloat.”
“He’s also an adventurer,” Stype said, with genuine admiration and affection. “And this is the greatest ever.”
Joanie decided to change the subject. Shantel may have played heroes, but she sensed that Stype actually was one of that very special breed.
“Those prefab sections are pretty good,” she said. “Expanding frameworks with some kind of plastic overlay?”
By the time she’d awakened at Surf’s Up, rolled away from Thor and biked down to the beach, the sand was already dotted with igloo-shapes. Skeletal dome-shaped frames, coverings, and then sprayed with insulating foam in an effective assembly line activity by squadrons of skilled, happy workers. These people were good! Temporary shelters for fifty people an hour, she reckoned. She suspected that they would produce that many semi-permanent or long-term shelters in a day, an amazing rate.
“Yes,” the major said, pausing in her activity: cutting a door in a dried and set foam wall with some kind of plasma torch. She pulled a triangular section free, and Joanie hefted it. Light! “We can house a hundred people in two hours.”
Joanie grinned to herself, happy that her guess had been so accurate. “You definitely came to play.”
“Some of us are here to stay,” Stype said, real satisfaction softening her angular face. The domes looked sturdy, and roomy. Room for six, just like that. “But these are just temps. Our overflow will stay in them for a few days, maybe, but then we’ll probably use them for storage units.”
“So you’ll need a more permanent site.”
The major nodded. “We need to survey the territory, and I’ve got the job. Be my guide?”
“Our guide!” Marco came bounding up to them. She had no idea how much of their conversation the toothy one had overheard. He was all sparkle and aliveness, impossible not to like. He was an exceptional, rarified being and knew it. The silver drone sphere followed him, silent witness to the latest, greatest act in Marco Shantel’s Galactic Adventure.
She had access to Skeeter VI, and was happy to see that the others were already being repaired and refurbished with 3D printer parts, courtesy of their new neighbors. Cadzie’s had already been tricked out with a new spiralvalve, and she’d watched him making dragonfly maneuvers above Mucking Great Mountain’s slopes, sheer joy in motion.
It took them ten minutes to reach the skeeter pads, Stype and Marco breaking into a little impromptu coordinated jog, knees high. They were pushing it, still not adjusted to the gravity but each eager to force adaptation. They huffed in tune, and she could tell that Marco was more winded, but to his credit he never lost that perfect smile. The drone sphere buzzed along behind and above them, recording every step. She kept up easily, but had the very real sense that within a month that might no longer be true.
Serious specimens.
Stype was buckled in before Joanie climbed around to the pilot’s side. She seemed a little amused by what must have seemed like an antique vehicle to her.
“Well, let’s get going!” Joanie said as soon as Marco had settled into the jump seat behind her. A trace of nervous excitement entered her voice as she scanned her checklist and warmed the engines. Stype settled back, solid in her seat. At a touch of the control, Skeeter VI rose into the air, and coasted inland.
“Older model, of course.” Stype said above the rotor thrash. “How many miles on her?”
“About two hundred thousand, I’d reckon. She’s kind of beat up. You guys appeared just in time.”
“You only love us for our printers,” Marco laughed.
She glanced at him. Was he flirting with her? She decided that she hoped he was.
“How far from the main colony do you guys want to be?”
She glanced back over her shoulder at Marco, but he pointed a finger at the major. “That’s the lady.”
Stype considered. “Well . . the ease of communication and transport makes this entire island a neighborhood. We have almost a half-million square kilometers on Avalon, so staying out of each others’ pockets should be pretty easy.”
That sounded reasonable, and even considerate. She’d spent a fast hour reading up on their new neighbors in the last days, but knew she’d barely scratched the surface. “So . . are you a devout Godson? All of you? And are the women ‘God’s daughters’?”
Stype and Marco shared mirth. The passenger side window was closed, but the air still flowed rapidly in the cabin, and where Marco’s hair riffled, Stype’s short saffron hair seemed not to move. “You seem to think language is more important than the spiritual reality it underpins. We are all brothers and sisters, and see the man as the spiritual head of the house.”
“It isn’t that women are less important,” Marco said. His voice said that he’d had this conversation before, probably with what Joan would consider “show biz” types. “We’re respecting the fact that in an emergency, He will die to protect She. For his woman, and their children. I think that’s an acceptable price.”
That wasn’t h
er world. On Avalon, women were as likely to fight as men. But . . had that been true for her mother? She wanted to sort through that idea before automatically leaping down Marco’s throat. And it was the number of fertile females that determined a species’ survivability, a fact that had been irrelevant on Earth, but not here.
Stype pointed down. “There. Near that stream. The water is good?”
The Amazon flowed south from Mucking Great Mountain, and the Nile flowed north, highland to lowland, fed by numerous smaller streams and artesian wells. “Yes. Delicious, too. Something in the minerals.”
“The Nile. I like it. Take me down!”
Joanie hadn’t been to this part of Camelot since she was about thirteen. A Grendel Scout overnighter, she recalled. They’d cooked s’mores with chocolate, sugar and wheat crackers grown in Avalonian soil. Her mouth watered.
There were other memories as well, something minty and memorable. When she spotted it, she squealed with pleasure. A berry bush with purple and green fruit, each the size of a healthy strawberry. She plucked one and popped it into her mouth. Yes. The mint was just as cool and berrysweet as she remembered.
“So . . I take it you’ve tested those for toxicity,” Stype said, her voice flat now.
Stype was so serious that Joanie almost laughed. They had traveled trillions of miles to find a new world, and only Marco seemed able to take pleasure in it? “Absolutely. Our computer had a great analytical program, but we lost about a dozen monkeys and a thousand rats just checking potential foods.”
“Poor monkeys.”
“Died heroes,” Joanie said, laughing behind her eyes. “So did the rats. I used to feel sorry for them, but I grew up.”
“Many will fall on Man’s path to the stars.”
“Sounds biblical.”
“Words from the Prophet. He didn’t mention animals. Did you have to modify any of the native plant life?”
“We could have, maybe, but at first we didn’t want to. Then the Grendel Wars ruined the bio labs and most of the tools we’d need to rebuild them. We’re not really over that yet. Go on, try one. They’re good.”
She noticed that Stype’s hand hovered above one of the berries, but that she didn’t pluck, or eat. There was caution, and then there was paranoia. This was hovering around door number two.
Marco, on the other hand, seemed to take it as a challenge. He plucked a berry, and after posing to be sure the drone got his best angle, popped it into his mouth and chewed. Smacked his lips with relish.
“Good,” he said. “Like a fleshy strawberry.” Then he turned his head and discreetly spat it out. She guessed that bit would be edited.
“That’s smart,” she said. “They aren’t toxic, but it does take some time for our intestinal flora to adjust. Takes a couple of weeks. You might get a little gas if you ate a bunch of them before that.” She paused. “Well, maybe a lot of gas. But nothing worse.”
The thought of Major Stype with a prolonged attack of farting made it even harder to restrain her smile.
The ground was slightly moist, the last of a soilhugging mist just burning off. Avalon’s days were just over twenty-three hours, and the morning chill usually gave way to a temperate, and sometimes shirtsleeve-warm afternoon.
There was no snowy season on Camelot, although Mucking Great’s heights were white-dusted a quarter of the year.
Marco galloped, delighted to stretch his long legs, racing ahead of them with his little silver sphere floating in circles around him. Stype walked with a long, easy stride, one Joan had to consciously exert herself to match. The major was touching, tasting, smelling, feeling the ground, scanning everything as they moved through a thick brush along the flat hard ground.
Ahead, they broke into a grassy open area, and Stype stopped, turning her head slowly from side to side, scanning everything. Turned in a circle, to gaze south toward Mucking Great. The edges of her mouth turned up in a smile, mind filled with private thoughts.
“I heard something,” Joanie said. “Marco! Don’t go too far!” She called, and then turned back to Stype. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Cadzie said that you told him that you had fatalities on the trip.”
The little up-tilt to the major’s lips froze. Didn’t vanish, but whatever joy that had begun to work its way through her professional mask had dissipated. “Yes. That’s true.”
“And that it wasn’t hibernation instability, but old age. I don’t understand.”
Stype sighed. “We’d already left Earth before receiving your first communiques about H.I.”
Joanie held up her hand. “Shhh,” she said. “Look.”
Something small and brown had nosed its way out of the brush toward a thin stream a hundred yards away. It was tentative, charming, a greenish brown, five-spindly-legged furred demi-mammal sufficiently reminiscent of an Earthly forest creature to be nicknamed a “bambi.”
It sipped, while watching them carefully. Humans had never hunted bambis, and probably wouldn’t for another generation. Watching Camelot’s wildlife rebound from its age-long Grendel nightmare was a revelation.
Marco spotted it too. Looked from it to Joanie and back again, with an implicit question: is this dangerous?
She shrugged, and made a “go ahead” gesture. Marco smiled for the camera, then took a slow careful step toward the bambi, then froze. It cocked its head, observed him closely, then went back to drinking.
“Seems pretty casual,” Stype said.
“There are no big predators left on Camelot, and we don’t eat them,” she said.
“Why not? Meat bad?”
“No . . I think it’s just damned near a miracle that anything that size was left alive on the island, and we don’t want to jinx a miracle. Everything, including big bugs, was eaten by grendels. A few animals survived but only in the bush up on high ground, far from any stream or any body of water that could cool a grendel. Grendels hunted anywhere they could reach, but some places were just high and dry enough to let a few joeys and bambis keep away from them. Grendels can stay on land only so long. Then they need to cool off.”
“These ‘grendels’ everyone talks about. They were really that dangerous?”
“Still are. You may have seen the video by now.”
Marco had edged closer. The bambi looked at him more intensely, its eyes protruding on stalks. When Marco took another step, the bambi’s throat distended like a bullfrog’s, and it let out a deep, bone-shaking cry that blasted Marco back on his heels, hands covering his ears.
The bambi disappeared back into the brush, and Joanie roared with laughter. Stype joined her, and after a minute, Marco did as well.
There was nothing on Camelot to endanger an adult human being, so she let Marco romp and run, enjoying his simple pleasure in exploring a new world.
But . . she stayed with Stype. “Were you going to tell me about those old-age deaths?” she asked, as the major toed the ground, testing soil consistency.
Her lips drew into a thin line. “We got your message about cold sleep after we left Earth. Our computers ran simulations and the probable answer was either the rate of awakening or the frequency.”
“Sleep-waking cycles?”
The taller woman nodded. Overhead, a pterodon suddenly seemed interested in the broken grass through which the bambi had fled. It circled over a patch just a little out of their sight, skawing. “Something about cellular plasticity in the brain. We had a couple of choices: ignore it, try to fix it, or change our behaviors. We did a little of each of the last two.”
That was interesting. “What did you do, and how did you do it?”
“Well . . there were some modifications to the sleep capsules, and some medical interventions. But mostly, we woke people up as infrequently as possible. The Prophet made the final decision.”
“The Prophet?”
“Channing Newsome,” Stype said. “The linear descendant of our founder, Carlton Newsome. A great man. He decided tha
t the safest thing for the colony was for him to stay awake the entire time. A few of the Most High rotated duty with him. They took the risk for all of us.”
That caught Joanie up short. She realized that she had been thinking somewhat derisively of this group, assuming that they were a cult blindly following a leader. And follow they had . . but hadn’t she heard that in most cults the followers had fewer privileges than the leaders? Danced to the tune of men or women who exploited their naivety and trust?
The major had been watching her, seemed to understand what she was thinking. “Yes. He sacrificed himself. Even with one or two to support him at times, he spent almost eighty years in unimaginable loneliness, so that we could reach the promised land.”
She thought about that. Two weeks on Geographic had driven her to distraction. More specifically, driven her into Cadzie’s arms. She could not even imagine what this man Newsome had endured, for the sake of his dream. His people.
Greater love hath no . . .
“I’m . . I’m sorry. He was a great man.” That was all she seemed able to say.
It seemed to be enough. “Yes. Much to live up to. It’s our responsibility to keep the dream alive.”
“What is that dream, exactly?” Several more pterodons had joined with the first, wheeling and diving. She heard that shattering roar again. The pterodons flapped away in panic, but then recovered and renewed their circling. She wondered about the predation cycles, knew that the Shakas had probably studied it exhaustively. And vaguely hoped the bambi would escape.
But . . it all felt so small, and insignificant. Her own grandparents had traveled a century in cold sleep, awakened every few years for rotating duty. And while some of them had suffered for that, most had simply slept.
She envisioned an old, old man doddering through the halls and corridors, year after year, decade after decade, dreaming of a day when his followers would reach their destination . . .
“When did he die?” she asked.
“About a year out from Avalon,” Stype said soberly. “I was there.”
A year out. So close. Moses, unable to enter the Promised Land.
