Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  Later that evening Luke took Merral down to the now-empty gym and encouraged him to work out. Merral, initially reluctant, saw the wisdom and, sparing only his wounded leg, threw himself into exercising. Eventually they lay on the weight mats, saying little, engrossed in raising and lowering the heavy metal bars.

  “Luke,” Merral said as he slowly lifted a bar, “I’ve decided I don’t need evil explained. I just wanted it ended on my ship. Killing my friends. Is that too much to ask?”

  “All serious evil kills someone’s friends. What right have you to be exempt?”

  Merral looked at the chaplain, seeing the beads of sweat on the gaunt face.

  “I am on his side.”

  Luke lifted his bar again and slowly lowered it before answering. “I’m not sure that ‘being on his side’ is a correct description of how grace works. . . .”

  “I put my life on the line on the Blade. I did everything I could,” Merral protested.

  “That was heroic. It truly was.”

  “And now this happens. Someone who was . . . once my best friend is now dead.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see the relationship.”

  “Doesn’t being prepared to sacrifice yourself have any payoff?”

  Luke gave him a quizzical stare. “Why should it have?”

  “I thought it ought to.”

  Luke caught his breath before he answered. “Merral, do you really understand grace?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I wonder. All sorts of things that we took for granted are now becoming obscured. Grace means that God loves us and, in Jesus, saves us from our sins freely.”

  “Of course.”

  “But there is an implication to that, isn’t there? About doing good things.”

  “I’m sure there is, but you better spell it out.”

  “Quite simply, we gain no merit from them. God loves us before we do them and he loves us after we do them. So we gain no leverage with him through them. God owes you no favors.”

  “I suppose so. . . .”

  “And when I look at the Word, I see no guarantees of exemption for the children of the covenant.” Luke gave a slight groan. “Maybe we should get the gravity reduced here. Look . . . in the ancient past, it was only ever the heresies that offered exemption from suffering in this life. The Son of the Most High bore death for us so that the sting might be taken from it. It’s only destroyed on the Last Day. But we aren’t there yet.” He pushed up the weight again. “Phew. Definitely not yet.”

  “I am hardly going to disagree.”

  “Good. And, of course, you don’t need me to point out again that because the envoy takes his orders from God your rage is really against the Almighty.”

  Merral pressed up with an energy that seemed to express his anger. “Under the circumstances . . . is that too terrible a sin?”

  Luke gave a little gasp and lay back on the mat. “Okay, that’s enough for me. Too terrible a sin? Well, it probably depends what you are angry with him for. I’m not going to make a snap judgment. In the old covenant, Job gets pretty mad with God.” Merral caught a brief, weary smile. “For which I am glad.”

  “I’m human, Luke. If I were a Krallen, it wouldn’t matter, because I wouldn’t have feelings. If I were like Betafor, I could erase my feelings. But I am neither.”

  “For which I am glad too. You know, Merral, we make things very hard for God. If he acts, we get mad at him because he restricts our freedom. If he doesn’t, we get mad at him because he doesn’t act. The guy can’t win.”

  “I appreciate your logic, Luke. It’s just that, at the moment, I feel rather than think.”

  “Rebuke accepted.” The chaplain got to his feet and picked up a towel. “Well, I guess this conversation is going to continue. But a last word for now: you’ve had a bad blow. Do your duty.” His stern tone reminded Merral uncomfortably of the envoy. “You just have to keep on, day by day, hour by hour. These people need you.”

  Then he headed for the shower. After he had gone, Merral stood up, wiped the sweat off his face, and cautiously stretched his wounded leg.

  He’s right. He’s always right. Whatever my pain, I have to keep on going. I have my duty.

  Partly as a result of Luke’s words and partly because he felt it would help him put the past behind him, Merral began to try to focus ahead. What are we going to do at Farholme? And what is the best strategy for reaching the Assembly?

  He decided to consult Vero. He found him at his desk but was pleased that this time he switched the screen off at his entry.

  “My friend, are you better?”

  “Better?” Merral closed the door behind him. “No. But I am functioning. I have set myself tasks.”

  “Good.”

  “We need to think about what happens at Farholme. The Dominion may be close behind us.”

  “Indeed. H-how long before we’re there?”

  “Laura’s current estimate is another six days. We haven’t done badly without a steersman.”

  “Not at all. Where are we emerging?”

  “As close in as we dare to Near Station. The plan is to go up to just below Normal-Space and check first. We don’t want to be greeted by a missile from Ludovica. And we need to be sure Farholme isn’t in enemy hands.”

  Vero closed his eyes. “I don’t think it will be.”

  Merral was struck by the certainty in his friend’s voice. “Why? Do you know something?”

  “Know? For certain, not a lot.” He gave a nod toward the silver box. “But I have read the strategy documents and the records of war games—”

  “Games?”

  “Simulations.”

  “I see. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s only come together in the last few days. Anyway, it looks as if the attack plan will be a direct and rapid push for Earth. Worlds that are not strategic will be bypassed. Until Earth is taken.” There was a feeble smile. “Being ‘Worlds’ End’ may save Farholme any immediate harm. Let me show you.” Vero called up a wallscreen. “Be easier in color, but never mind. They have a map of the route to Earth. Remember, they’ve been listening to our signals for centuries, and the ship that pursued the Rahllman’s Star was able to pick up a lot of data.”

  Merral saw the list of worlds and star systems on the gray screen. The twenty or more names began with Anthraman, Bannermene’s star, and went on through Lungarlast, Manprovedi, Hanstalt . . . He scanned to the end. Sol and Ancient Earth. A bittersweet memory of playing a game at Nativity with Vero came back to him. “Cross the Assembly,” he murmured. “Fast.”

  Vero gestured at the screen. “Yes. They’re going for speed; no negotiation or subterfuge this time. No messing with fake diplomacy now. They are so superior in power that the fleet will just drop off battle groups as they go.”

  “What’s in a battle group?”

  “Four suppression complexes with four defense ships, such as frigates. So, as they come to Bannermene, a first group will peel off, emerge, and neutralize any opposition. And so on. And as Bannermene falls, the battle group spirals out to take the surrounding worlds.”

  “Why not go straight to Earth?”

  “I don’t know.” He heard the puzzlement in Vero’s voice. “The data here has limits. Haqzintal was not meant to know everything. Perhaps he wasn’t trusted with much.”

  A tendril of a gray, grainy form began to protrude through the door. Vero glared at it. “I hate these things. I really do.”

  Merral sighed. “Well, let me know if you find anything more. This just confirms that we have to make it to Earth fast.”

  “How long do you think we will be at Farholme?”

  “Even before your news, I was aiming for forty-eight hours. Laura wants a complete external scan of the hull, centimeter by centimeter, for damage. We need new supplies: food and water. And water for the propulsion tanks.”

  “Can we do that in time?”

  “Apparently—if we raid supplies at Near Station.”r />
  The tendril swung leisurely to the ground, stopped, and then moved on through the floor.

  “My friend, have you made any decision about who is going on to Bannermene and Earth?”

  Merral sighed. “To be honest, I have considered leaving the ship at Farholme. Letting someone else take over. But that’s a stupid idea.”

  Vero gave a firm nod of agreement. “Very. There are half a dozen reasons why you need to go to Earth.”

  “I know.” But I would love to relinquish responsibility.

  “Anyway, I’m going to take any crew and soldiers who want to come with us. Their experience will be invaluable. But they must have a choice. I am presuming many of the delegates will want to return to Farholme, but if one or two feel that they want to come to Earth and testify about what happened, I will let them.”

  “In view of what Delastro is likely to be saying there, that may be essential.”

  Merral shook his head in irritation. “He will now have been there for well over a month. Who knows what harm he’s done?”

  “Another reason for speed.”

  “Yes, but I’m going to make it a rule that anyone going onward has at least thirty-six hours of shore leave.” He saw the look of longing on Vero’s face. “Sunlight, rain, clouds, birdsong. Trees.”

  “I want to see a horizon. And a sea.”

  “Those, too. I want to take on some more people; we are heavily undercrewed. And then head on to Bannermene.”

  “And Earth,” Vero added with yearning.

  “You know this ship is too big to get through a Gate?”

  “Yes.”

  “My provisional thinking is that at Bannermene we off-load everything we can onto freighters. Then you, me, and anyone who can be spared, head on to Earth through the Gates with datapaks of all the specifics of this ship, while the Sacrifice is flown on through Below-Space to Earth.”

  “That could be done with a skeleton crew.”

  “Skeleton?”

  “A small number.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is Luke coming?”

  “I hope so. I need him to confront Delastro.”

  In the silence that followed, Merral found himself thinking about Isabella. And what might have been. That raised another issue. Do I take Anya? My preference would be to leave her safe at Farholme.

  “Vero,” he asked, “has . . . Anya spoken about her wishes? I am . . . keeping a distance at the moment.”

  “Probably wise. I think she feels bound to go to Earth.”

  “I see.” In that case, I have little choice; I can hardly compel her to stay on Farholme. “She’s still driven by the ghost of her sister,” Merral said quietly. “She has issues.”

  Vero’s eyes opened wide in sad amusement. “She has issues? My friend, everyone on the ship has issues. Including you and I.”

  In the next week, little of note happened. The Sacrifice rumbled on through the gray world of Below-Space, and there were the usual number of manifestations. All the crew and soldiers were asked whether they wanted to go on to Bannnermene; the response was a unanimous yes. Nevertheless, Merral was able to persuade the two who had been wounded at the Blade to stay on Farholme. Five of the delegates agreed to continue on to Earth.

  Yet despite the growing sense that the voyage would soon be over, the ship maintained a generally solemn atmosphere. The scheduled entertainment was altered: some lively music was replaced with more serious material, and some comedies were switched for dramas. Merral, now busy planning the restocking at Farholme and the trip to Bannermene, began to dare to hope that he had laid to rest the worst of the pain and anger from Isabella’s death.

  Finally, at the very end of November, the calculations showed that they were in the Alahir system. Cautiously, Laura allowed the ship to rise up to just below Normal-Space and sent up a surveillance probe. As the hazy, blue sphere of Farholme came on the screen, Merral found his eyes watering.

  “Scan for signals,” he ordered in a trembling voice.

  Within half an hour, they were certain that no evidence of a Dominion presence existed.

  Luke glanced up from a screen. “Ready for some bad news, Merral?”

  “What?”

  There was a gentle laugh. “Ynysmant Blue Lakers have been knocked out of the Menaya Cup.”

  In another hour, Merral had made contact with Ludovica and, after convincing her that he was indeed who he claimed to be, had assurances that they could surface without being fired on.

  As they approached Near Station and the time gap between signals decreased, Merral told the story of events and broke the news of the casualties. The news elicited commiseration but also encouragement.

  “To be honest,” Ludovica said, “I didn’t expect to see any of you back.”

  Then Merral outlined what he needed: refueling, a full cleanup of the ship, a check of the hull, and fresh supplies of food.

  “And, Ludovica,” he added, “I want at least twenty technically able, trained people capable of learning and handling the weapons and defense systems.”

  The grainy face on the screen looked puzzled. “These supplies and extra people—you are just heading to Bannermene?”

  “We simply don’t know what we will meet at Bannermene, Ludovica. We may need to fight. Or the Gate may be closed. We need enough supplies to go on to Jigralt, or even Earth itself. I’m afraid that we may be only slightly ahead of the Dominion fleet.”

  Twelve hours after first contact, the Sacrifice drew close to the long fretted column that was Near Station. There, supervised by a modified freighter with very visible (if clearly improvised) missile pods, a new docking ring was arc-sutured onto the hatches and the ship docked. There, as the first batch of crew left to go down to Farholme, Merral was greeted by Ludovica and a number of representatives, most of whom were new to him. They held a long meeting in which he briefed them all on what had happened. At the end, he heard only a profound silence, and Ludovica came over and patted him gently on the back. “An extraordinary account.” She shook her head. “I feel sure that as long as the Assembly lasts your tale will be told. A remarkable rescue.”

  “Three died, Madam Chairman.”

  There was a pause. “And thirty were saved.” She gave a tiny shrug. “And when was redemption ever achieved without loss? Now get down to Farholme and get some fresh air. That’s an order.”

  When Merral, Vero, and Lloyd landed at Isterrane, it was nearly midnight, the stars were obscured by clouds, and a chill north wind was blowing. At the foot of the shuttle steps, Merral bent down to touch the ground. Almost embarrassed, he looked up at Lloyd. “Well, Sergeant, we’re back.”

  “Yes, sir. But not home yet.”

  Merral looked up at the blackness of the sky. “No, Sergeant, a wise point.”

  A uniformed man stepped forward. “Sir, Madam Chairman Bortellat has instructed me and my detail to escort you around.” He gestured to a line of uniformed guards in the darkness.

  Merral saw beyond them watching crowds.

  He turned to Lloyd. “Sergeant, can you manage to survive without having to look after me? For, oh, forty-eight hours. I think you need the break.”

  “I reckon so, sir.”

  “So, Officer, can you take us to the Kolbjorn Suite? That will do for a start.”

  Deciding that he didn’t want to waste his time at home sleeping, Merral woke early next morning. Guarded by some of Ludovica’s troops who, with polite firmness, kept the curious at a respectful distance, he went out and walked in the wintry parks of Isterrane. There he rejoiced in the wind, the scudding clouds, the bare branches and twigs of the trees, the ice on the lakes, and the sense of being back on a real world. And as he walked, he was aware of his anger and bitterness slipping behind him, yet he knew that they were buried rather than resolved.

  Ludovica had agreed that all those from the Sacrifice be given the maximum possible time to themselves and not be distracted by meetings and consultations. Nevertheless, Merral knew some bu
siness could not be avoided. Back at the Kolbjorn Suite, he called the parents of Slee and Ilyas and then had a long and anguished diary meeting with Isabella’s parents. He put on his new dress uniform and went back to the airport to stand and salute as three coffins were handed over.

  Dumb with renewed grief, he changed and got Ludovica’s detail to take him out to a beach. There he went for a run along the cold, hard sand, hoping that the exercise would drain the pain and loss he felt. Afterward, he called his own parents and felt encouraged by what they said about the rebuilding of his town. He called at the hospital and had a whole array of tests. Finally, and most reluctantly, he gave a single interview to the news media.

  Despite his preoccupations and being isolated by the surrounding guard, Merral observed his own world as he went about. In the eleven weeks he had been away, there had been many subtle changes. The chief difference was that the once unthinkable matter of defense was now integrated into society. Men and women in uniform aroused no glances, no one stared at signs pointing to “FDF Command Positions” and “Defensive Shelters,” and the rumble of military vehicles seemed to be taken for granted.

  Perhaps they may be spared. Perhaps Vero will be right and the thrust of the attack will head straight to Earth. And the thought that he preferred disaster to strike elsewhere made him feel guilty.

  Yet as Merral walked around Isterrane trying to refresh his mind after the draining, stale grayness of Below-Space, the pressures of his position never left him. Indeed, the pending voyage to Bannermene and Earth came to tower above everything as an increasing number of issues were relayed to him from the Sacrifice.

  There were delays—inevitable in hindsight—with the Sacrifice, and in the end it was on the morning of the third day that, with take-off looming, Merral finally went to find Jorgio. It was a misty morning, with the low sun glancing sparks of light off the frosty ground, when Merral was driven up to Ragili’s Homestead. He left the four-man guard at the vehicle and walked to the house, where he found the old man feeding cats in his long, thick, black coat.