by Neil Clarke
“Except I won’t sleep with her again,” he was thinking.
Why was he thinking that?
Standing at the center of the only world he knew, Amund was utterly helpless, trying and failing to see where any silly idea came from.
3.
Exobiologists didn’t take worlds as lovers, and no mission deserved to be confused for an elaborate, high-stakes courtship. Missions were missions. That was the blunt, clean, simple, and inescapable truth. Civilians, ignorant captains, and even a few of Mere’s colleagues insisted on confusing the exploration of new realms with sex. But sex was simple. Lust wanted to be kindled again and again, and that’s why it was so very easy to lose one object of affection and find another. For Mere, an impressive sequence of temporary husbands had proven the fallibility of love. She had had alien ex-husbands and the rare human, plus hundreds of intense brief passions. Well-schooled in every aspect of coupling, Mere enjoyed herself well enough, thank you. But walking gracefully across the face of a new world was something else entirely—an undertaking so much larger and richer and far more rewarding than any fireball infatuation.
In love, there was a rough sense of equality. Two souls in harmony, and so on and on. But even the ugliest little world was far greater than any soul. There were missions where Mere’s footsteps and her shadows were never noticed. And even if her presence was experienced by the natives, what did that mean? Very little. No world ever dreamed about Mere’s touch or the heat of her breath, and even if ten billion citizens knew Mere’s face, it didn’t mean that one of them ever woke up expecting her beside him in bed.
Missions were asymmetric, and because of that, they were infinitely beautiful. Standing where no human had stood was so much richer than copulating with a beast or high officer. Romance meant choice, but Mere never had choices with worlds. She went where she was needed and did what she did very well, and for as long as necessary, too. Had she ever studied a realm that didn’t deserve to be admired, if not outright worshipped? Once, perhaps twice, but no more than that. Love held the promise of disappointment, even out and out treachery. But the sane mind couldn’t be disappointed by worlds, much less blame them for their failures. Creative, experienced eyes could see the momentums that defined a planet, and Mere understood firsthand how the great momentums refused to be changed. Orbits and seasons were decided by suns that cared nothing about their children. Likewise, the world’s inhabitants carried their biological limits as well as a compelling, often poorly understood history, and enduring cultures were entitled to their grudges, plus the occasional out and out war.
But individuals weren’t worlds. Individuals didn’t have excuses, and that was certainly one reason why Mere’s marriages rarely lasted longer than a decade or two.
No individual deserved any excuse.
That’s what the little woman believed, and she held herself to the same maxim. Her job was to be as a one-souled invader. She might be disguised, swimming unnoticed among the schooling aliens. Or to suit some dramatic need, she rode thunder and fire into a world capital, little arms raised as she introduced herself as a small, peculiar god. Each mission had its first goal and its second and the rest. Each was a mess of calculation and improbability. The hardest, best, and most often memorable missions were those where Mere and only Mere decided who would ride on board the Great Ship. Did she make mistakes? Too many, yes. The Ship’s history wore a few blunders. And because Mere was ageless and strong in so many ways, the woman could spend centuries considering her personal grief about each blundering step.
She despised evil, but true evil was scarce in the Universe, and once identified, it usually proved frail. Broken thinking and self-made idiots were common hazards, but they weren’t the most dangerous enemy. The inability to feel responsibility: That was what terrified Mere. It was the capacity of too many colleagues to misstep horribly and then retreat back to safety, nothing learned, not so much as a wisp of grief inside their happy minds. And worse than that, there were people with famous biographies and tremendous powers who didn’t deserve to throw their boasts at others.
Rococo.
Mere’s opinion was Mere’s. Few shared her disgust for the diplomat. Even reasonable, compassionate Washen disagreed with her tiny, alien-born exobiologist.
Of course it helped that Rococo began his service to the Great Ship long before Mere arrived. Also, the man’s work had transformed alien worlds into good friends, and partly because of his considerable record, humanity was spread across a twenty thousand light-year journey. And Rococo was instrumental in some famous missions and critical moments where the impossible was accomplished. For instance, he willingly joined the bal’tin on a breeding/slaughter mat, legs properly crossed while ten thousand entities coupled and died around him. That was a nightmare ready to test even the most flexible-minded entity. Yet Rococo managed to sit where no other diplomat would sit, offering the best words while enduring the foulest odors. And now the bal’tin were devoted allies, and their metal-rich comets were home to millions of human settlers.
Mere understood the diplomat’s mission. A proud, vainglorious creature like Rococo could accomplish miracles.
But she also happened to be the first scout to meet with the bal’tin. Before any diplomat arrived, she lived in their ranks for years, secretly and then openly. As the first face of the Great Ship, she instructed her new friends about her origins and the ancient laws of the Galaxy, preparing the way for the researchers and diplomats bearing down inside that much larger second wave. And in every report, Mere was blunt. The bal’tin were blessed with unusual minds. Left alone, they would likely avoid the disasters that often killed species and worlds. War wouldn’t be an issue. They loved death too much to waste it on useless slaughter. They also didn’t have careless hands that too often led to ecological disasters or vicious AIs. No future was set in hyperfiber, but the bal’tin were on a tangent that might lead them across thousands of light-years, and as a consequence, the Milky Way would be a much, much richer place.
But the scout was only a scout, and she was replaced by a fellow with huge reservoirs of charm and confidence. Rococo sat on the same ritual mats that Mere had experienced. He had to suffer the most bizarre behaviors known to exobiologists, and to his credit, he endured longer than Mere had. And the outcome was a deal that left humanity with a considerable portion of that solar system’s resources. Comets weren’t often laced with iron and uranium; bal’tin comets were a prospector’s dream. The natives would have flourished once they reached their Oort, but one exceptional diplomat impressed them too well, and now the odds had changed, the bal’tin far less likely to mount any assaults on galactic history.
“There’s no translation for their name,” she mentioned.
They were several years into the present mission. Their streakship was still accelerating, obliterating fuel until that point where they would flip and then fire the engines again, convincing the Universe to slow down around them.
“But the concept behind the name is simple enough,” Rococo said. “The Universe is a spectacularly narrow line, and that line is drawn between spawn and oblivion. The bal’tin are celebrating that line. That’s what I kept telling myself. And that’s why it was critical to sit there calmly, farting preplanned farts, and if they wanted to play with my genitals, I let them.”
“I know the mats,” she reminded him. “And I know how to fart, too.”
Rococo had a fine smile when he wanted. But not then. “So, Mere. What is your difficulty about me?”
“You took more than you should have,” she said.
He laughed. Without his usual decorum, Rococo acted as if she was an idiot and pitiable because of her silly mind.
Amund was sitting nearby. He had little choice. Their ship’s mass had been stripped away at every turn, increasing their range but limiting space. Amund only had his tiny quarters and this slightly larger common room, and they were accelerating to the brink of what a mortal body could tolerate. Simple motion was
a struggle for the young man. More than not, he would spend years on his back, and with nothing to watch but two ancients acting like petty bureaucrats.
But not that day. That day, the man interrupted them. A sharp little voice said, “I have an opinion, if you want to hear it.”
“I do,” Rococo said.
“By all means,” said Mere.
Their companion was a stubborn, frustrating puzzle. Whatever they called themselves, humans or luddies, the mortals were usually courageous believers in the temporary nature of life, and most importantly, they were endowed with the sacred duty of passing out of existence, making way for others. Yet Amund didn’t seem to be that sort of animal. Surrendering his life for a cause? No, he was missing the noble heart, and more importantly, the self-congratulatory flair. And there was no trace of the natural explorer either. They were traveling to a realm as alien as any, yet day after day, he asked nothing. Read nothing. Even went so far as to ignore the latest broadcasts from the rivers. Even his conviction for his faith failed to convince. He was an authentic human sharing a tiny volume with machines that pretended to be human, yet he couldn’t muster the proper disgust. Particularly when he stared at Mere, which was often and always with a keen intensity. In other words, Amund was exactly the wrong kind of fellow to willingly sacrifice anything so precious as his own life.
“I have an opinion, if you want to hear it.”
“I do.”
“By all means.”
He smiled, in a fashion. “First of all, I don’t give a shit about those left-be-hind aliens. The bal’tin.”
Rococo smiled, and Mere smiled.
Their companion glanced at the diplomat. Then he twisted his neck and stared at Mere. Whatever he wanted to say was ready. That much was obvious. Perhaps he wrote the words months ago, biding his time for the perfect moment.
“Just so I’m certain,” Amund said. “You two have never worked with each other. Not in any direct fashion. Is that right?”
They never had, no. And they wouldn’t have collaborated here, except both were available when the rivers shouted at the Great Ship, and a mission built on high stakes and inflexible parameters had to use the very best people.
“Well, that answers one mystery,” the mortal decided, lifting his body from the cushions, apparently for no reason but to shrug his shoulders at them.
“What does that explain?” Mere asked.
“We’re going to visit some peculiar beasts,” Amund said. “As soon as we get there, the two of you are going to do your dances and give speeches, trying every kind of magic. And when the job’s done, you’ll declare the winner.”
That earned a long pause from his audience.
“That’s all that this loud stupid endless dance of yours is trying to decide,” Amund said. “Who is the goddamn best.”
4.
Five days of floating and then water stopped being water. The cold river thickened and grew blue, but still not blue enough and not nearly thick enough. This was good news or bad. The immortals offered conflicting opinions along with evidence that always seemed starved. Which was the inevitable problem. Orbiting war machines had hammered their little streakship. Nothing but their crash vault survived the landing. Sensors and other fancy tools would have been invaluable, if only they could have been salvaged. What they possessed was one heavy backpack with a survival kit onboard. The fist-sized reactor was powering a Remora-built factory, food and pure water delivered without fail. The kit also supplied lights in the darkness, and for one of their ranks, medical help. Everything else was done by the smart fabrics. Clothes and boots, boats and shelter. Honestly, if the immortals were a little less brilliant and a little more shrewd, they would never leave their homes. Shirts and trousers could march into the unknown Universe. Ruled by some very strong underwear, of course. With gloves and boots ready for the really hard shit.
“You’re laughing,” Rococo said.
“I am,” Amund agreed.
Mere was kneeling below them, studying the boundary between normal water and what was alive. The living rivers were built from protein weaves, concentrated salts, and dissolved metals, giving the bodies their characteristic density, the irresistible mass. That’s why the wild river flowed over the blue flesh, and the flesh drank what it wanted for the next few hundred meters, which was the point where the wild water was swallowed up and gone.
Amund and Rococo stood on higher ground, accompanied by a knee-high forest of blue-gray toadstools that weren’t toadstools. Little winged beasts were resting nearby. They resembled bats but perched like birds. Not alien so much as wrong. This ecosystem was simple, weedy, and inefficient, but the living river was close. Its blue body was viscous and warmer than the surroundings, promising that it had recovered from the firestorms. The immortals were assuming that the river was conscious. Which was a good sign, Mere claimed. Rococo claimed. But that didn’t mean that this was the same river that spoke to the Great Ship, promising planets and moons. In some fashion or another, that creature was a casualty of a very peculiar war.
A long while passed, and then Mere finally stood, gesturing to her colleague.
“Wish us luck,” Rococo said.
“I’m stupid,” Amund said. “But I’m not superstitious.”
Laughing at that, Rococo set down the pack and walked down to join Mere. The two of them spoke for a moment and then walked together without walking together, working their way downstream.
Amund tried to lift the pack and kit with one hand and couldn’t. He barely succeeded with both hands and his back. This world had too much gravity, which was another reason to feel endlessly tired. After age, that is. The pack was hyperfiber mesh doctored to look like old canvas. Amund made a request, triggering small motions inside, and he reached beneath the top flap, his hand closing around an edible flask filled with a flavored water. Then he drank the chilled sweetness before eating the exterior like an apple.
The immortals continued their hike, and Amund tried to think about anything besides them. The antirad patch riding his neck began to itch. He scratched at the irritation. Machines didn’t care about radiation, certainly not at these background levels. But without the patch, Amund would die in a matter of months. And without the filters moored inside his windpipe and lungs, the over-oxygenated air would poison him in minutes. This was a landscape populated with survivors, and that included one extremely fortunate human.
Another laugh, and without the help of mood enhancers or alcohol.
What a day!
A final piece of honest ground allowed the two machines to stand beside the gelatinous blue. That’s when a historic conversation commenced, or there was no conversation. Either way, they spoke to the river and nothing happened. Mere and Rococo offered words, and nothing changed, and nobody should be surprised. The captains had taught this world the Ship’s common language, but that was before the carnage. That was before most or all of the original river boiled away. This new creature might be as ignorant as a baby. They might have to start from the beginning, teaching the baby how to talk and what to think about them. And superstitious or not, it was hard to ignore the luck required to reach the return ship and reach it with time to spare.
That first streakship was Amund’s home for too many years. He never liked it and always dreamed about escaping from it. Yet there were moments, baffling frustrating moments, when he caught himself grieving for that frail machine.
“Salvation.” That was their nickname for the return ship. Standing like a mechanical hill, like a castle of superior hyperfibers and fusion engines, Salvation had landed years ago. It set down on a small coastal island. The onboard AIs were always awake, busily sending out promises that the machinery was healthy, fueled and eager to help. But those giant engines were configured to launch directly into space, not rise slowly and then conveniently set down beside them. Half of the continent needed to be crossed. There was no other way. And without a wild river to ride, this living river had to help. Otherwise the walk
would take months or years to complete, and long before that was done, the Great Ship would be unreachable.
And Amund would most likely be dead too. A thousand obvious causes offered themselves. Accidental falls, self-inflicted wounds. Cancers born from myriad decaying atoms. Or inevitable age. But not Mere and not Rococo. Even marooned on this broken world, their modern guts would learn to digest the native organics, and the fallout would cause nothing more than odd, beautiful blemishes. Standing together or apart, the immortals would be able to watch the stars slowly shuffle positions in the night sky. Three hundred thousand years later, the Great Ship would come back around, and those two machines might still be standing here. Except for little changes wrought by the experience, they would be the same machines. And blessed with perfect memories, they would have the power to see Amund’s face and hear his voice, remembering every word that he shared as well as his bitter little laugh. In that fashion, the human would be kept alive long after his time.
The sun moved today, and the machines didn’t move. What was human about them looked bent-shouldered and worried.
“We’re screwed,” Amund muttered.
Then came a slight pressure. The patch on his neck was being touched by a finger, but not his finger. And with the pressure came heat, not scorching but distinct and out-of-place.
A voice was behind the finger.
“You,” it said.
Not a man’s voice, not a child’s. Female, perhaps.
“What about me?” he asked.
“A pure river.”
Amund began to turn, but several warm fingers grabbed hold, fixing his head where it was.
“Who’s a pure river?” he asked.
“You are.”
The voice was close, and she sounded scared. Except nothing about the voice could be trusted. A vast strange and utterly gigantic creature was projecting noise for the same reasons that anything spoke to anything. To be understood, and hopefully, to manipulate her audience.
