Ascending

by James Alan Gardner

  “That leaves the other half of the time,” Aarhus said. “The half of the time when the ship-soul incinerates your ass and stomps on the cinders. Anyone know what anti-personnel weapons are popular in the Cashling Reach?”

  “Gas,” Nimbus answered immediately. “Doesn’t hurt Cashlings because they adapt so quickly to airborne contaminants…but with humans, it makes you retch till you pass out from the dry heaves.”

  “Lovely,” Aarhus muttered.

  “Do you wish to go back?” I demanded. “Do you relish groveling before Lady Bell and apologizing for your rashness?”

  “Nope,” Aarhus said. “I just want to know what might happen when that door opens.”

  The wheel in my hands clicked and stopped turning. Aarhus smiled at me, then at young Starbiter inside the cloud man’s stomach. “I’m tempted to say women and children first,” Aarhus murmured, “but Admiral Ramos would never let me hear the last of it.”

  He grabbed a lever on the airlock hatch and threw the door open.

  Why It Is Good To Have Airlocks

  For a moment, I feared we were under attack by some noxious gas—a foul stench assailed my nostrils, like midsummer swamp rot combined with the scent of skunks and boar feces. Of course I held my breath; but even without inhaling, I could feel the horrid reek pressing in upon my nose, like the sharp tip of a knife just waiting to plunge to the hilt.

  “God damn!” Aarhus cried, throwing up his hand to cover his mouth and pinch his nostrils shut. “Holy fucking shit!”

  He reached out to close the door again, but Nimbus said, “Wait.” The cloud man’s top half separated into a dozen foggy ribbons, while the lower half of his body—the part containing baby Starbiter—retained a vague eggly shape. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

  Nimbus swirled out of the airlock, his upper half combing the air in long strips, turning a full circle horizontally, then rotating back in the reverse direction. At first, I did not understand what he was doing…but then I remembered how he had originally sensed me as a “chemical imbalance” (hmph!) back on Starbiter Senior. His little misty bits must possess the ability to analyze the air for toxicity; now he was testing to determine if the smell was harmful or just foul.

  After another two circles, the streamers of his upper body coalesced into his former egglike shape. “The air’s not dangerous,” he told us. “Not in the short term anyway. It’s just putrid as hell.”

  “But why?” Aarhus demanded…though it is difficult to sound truly demanding when one is muffling one’s mouth with one’s hand. “Have they sprung a leak in their sewage recyclers?”

  “No. Cashlings simply have an impressive capacity to counteract atmospheric pollutants. Their stibbek automatically compensate for extreme degrees of…uhh…odorous infelicity. Therefore, I’ve noticed—in the times I’ve served on Cashling ships—they don’t maintain high standards of sanitation.”

  The sergeant’s expression turned aghast. “You mean they leave garbage lying around?”

  “Anything and everything. They simply can’t be bothered to clean up after themselves. If they’re eating something as they walk down a corridor, they’ll drop whatever they don’t want and leave it to rot. Then they’ll step over the mess for weeks afterward, rather than bend down and pick it up. As for personal hygiene…” A shudder went through Nimbus’s body. “You don’t want to know. Every few years, they have to dock their ships at an orbital station and get robots to scour all exposed surfaces. You and Oar should watch your step; personally, I intend to hover at least half a meter off the floor.”

  “Christ Almighty,” Aarhus muttered. “Now I understand why the navy sends Explorers to enter alien vessels. We ordinary swabbies aren’t cut out for stomaching hostile environments.”

  “You are not the one with bare feet,” I told him. Then I headed out the hatchway, my eyes most diligently watching the ground.

  A Glimpse Of Unfettered Destiny

  The Cashling ship Unfettered Destiny was indeed a most God-Awful Mess. Not only was the receiving bay besmirched with organic substances of disgusting provenance (discarded fruit turned spongy brown, hunks of desiccated meat, stains of spilled liquids in a variety of colors and degrees of stickiness) but the bay was full of bric-a-brac: possibly gifts or tribute from the prophets’ disciples, but maybe just foolish knickknacks procured on impulse and tossed aside two seconds after arriving on ship.

  How else to explain at least thirty bolts of cloth piled haphazardly against the wall—with every bolt displaying the same pattern. (Jagged green and red zigzags moving jerkily across an electric blue background…and I do mean electric, since the cloth occasionally gave off sparks.) There were also statues lying about, some recognizable (trees, horses, arches) and some depicting objects that did not exist in nature…unless somewhere there is a spherical creature who has a habit of shoving both hands all the way down its throat until they come out the other end.

  I will not bother to describe the other items heaped around the room—and there were many heaps indeed, including mounds of gold coins, stacks of data-bubbles, and buckets of glittery crystals that might have been genuine jewels—but I must note the cages, crates, and pens that once contained living animals.

  Now those same containers held corpses, many in advanced states of decomposition.

  I could not identify any of the species. Some were clearly alien—things with eight legs, or with shells shaped like flat orange octagons. Others might have been creatures I knew, but were too dried and withered to recognize anymore. Skeletons covered with shriveled skin. Mounds of decaying fur still pressed desperately against the wire of the cages where they had died.

  All these animals perished from neglect: unfed, unwatered, uncleaned. I suppose they had been brought to the prophets as pious offerings, then simply ignored. They might have been nice pretty creatures—fluffy and gentle, or scaly and playful—but the Cashlings apparently could not be bothered to fill up food and water dishes. These “holy sacrifices” had suffered most horrible deaths from sheer lack of attention…and the sight made me sad and angry, both at the same time.

  Had Lady Bell and Lord Rye been the ones responsible for such starvation and thirst? Or were these creatures left over from previous prophets—prophets who accepted live offerings from their followers, then left the animals to rot? I did not know. I strongly hoped the two current prophets were not the guilty parties; but even if Rye and Bell were innocent of these animals’ deaths, they were obviously not much different from their predecessors. Whatever awfulness they had inherited, they had simply allowed it to continue: a dirty, messy, stinky ship that made one want to cry.

  The most tragic part was that Unfettered Destiny was made of glass—beautiful, beautiful glass, so grimy and grubby it broke one’s heart.

  The floor tiles were see-through: if you looked past the crusty smudges and mounds of rubbish, you could stare at the next level below (chockfull of machinery that might have been the ship’s engines, its computers, or its entertainment systems). Through the walls, one could see more machines—some with screens that flashed pictures, some with screwlike attachments that spun at high speeds, some that just brooded silently over their dour lack of ornamentation. As for the view through the glass ceiling…the entire length of Royal Hemlock rose straight above us, like a great white tower jutting into black space.

  It made me dizzy to look at—as if the giant white ship might topple onto my head at any second. I could barely stare up at it without going woozy. Perhaps it might have been easier if I had lain down flat on my back, but I was not about to lie on this floor.

  Therefore, I closed my eyes, steeled myself, and looked again. This time, I scanned up the Hemlock’s length, beginning at the bottom, moving carefully toward the top…until far far away, near the ship’s nose, my gaze fell on a dark object attached to the Hemlock like a leech on a trout.

  It was a stick; or perhaps I should call it a twig compared to the much bigger sticks of the Shaddill ship. Even so, I cou
ld see it was the same type of thing: a flexible tube that had embedded itself in the Hemlock’s forward hull. As I watched, it waved back and forth in lazy patterns, like seaweed in a gentle current.

  How long had the twig been attached there…and what was it meant to accomplish? Had it perhaps injected Dangerous Substances through the Hemlock’s outer skin, horrible gases or diseases that would soon incapacitate those aboard? Or could it have contained horrid alien warriors who were even now creeping through the ship’s pitch-black corridors, ambushing crew members in the darkness? Perhaps the alien invaders could transform their persons into a semblance of those they ambushed, and the entity who appeared to be Sergeant Aarhus was actually a loathsome jelly-thing waiting for a chance to implant me with its gibbering spawn.

  But I did not think so. All the aliens I had met since leaving Melaquin were stodgy disappointments who did not shapeshift or anything…and what is the point of being an alien if you do not have Uncanny Abilities with which to incite terror in other species? If you cannot disrupt the lives and sanity of other races, you might as well stay at home.

  But of course, aliens never listen to me—the big poop-heads.

  The Purpose Of The Twig

  “Holy shit,” Aarhus whispered, staring up at the twig. “We got tagged, didn’t we?”

  “Apparently so,” Nimbus agreed. “The Shaddill must have shot that at Hemlock like a torpedo.”

  “What do you think it is?” Aarhus asked. “Maybe a homing beacon?”

  “Probably. When Starbiter hit the Shaddill ship, she obviously disabled them somehow—maybe took out their engines. The Shaddill saw us get picked up by Hemlock and knew they couldn’t follow until they’d made repairs…so they harpooned your ship with a signal device that would let them track us.”

  “Are you sure it is just a signal?” I asked. “Could it not be a tube full of shapeshifting warrior-droids programmed to replace us one by one?”

  “Let’s stay with the signal theory,” Aarhus said. “But if we’re lucky, the Shaddill won’t get their ship repaired till everyone’s evacuated and halfway to Jalmut. I like picturing the bastards coming to capture Hemlock, only to find it’s nothing but a big empty paperweight.”

  Behind us, the airlock made thudding sounds. Aarhus had closed the door once we entered the receiving bay; now the hatch opened again, revealing Uclod, Lajoolie, Lady Bell and Lord Rye, plus my friend Festina, who must have finished making arrangements with Captain Kapoor.

  Festina’s nose wrinkled as the stench of Unfettered Destiny struck her, but she quickly assumed a straight face. Uclod, on the other hand, doubled over and began making hiss-whistle sounds, clutching at his stomach. A moment later, he disgorged his last dinner with a great resounding splash. Lajoolie placed her hand on his back and bent as if to say, “There, there”…but then, she too began to hiss-whistle, her whole body shaking.

  When a woman that large gets the shakes, it is a titanic vibration indeed. I believe I could feel the ship trembling in response. This impressed me so much, I barely had the presence of mind to leap backward; I am fortunate to be an excellent leaper, because Lajoolie’s subsequent spew splattered widely in all directions.

  “Divians,” Aarhus muttered, looking down at his dampened boots. “Meticulously bioengineered into thirty-five different sub-breeds, and they all have weak stomachs.”

  “You pigs!” cried Lady Bell to our friends. “You’re making a mess of my floor!”

  We all stared at her for a moment; then even Uclod and Lajoolie started to laugh.

  Supreme Impatience

  Lady Bell was not such a one as to tolerate laughter. Muttering angry whoosh-whoosh sounds, she tapped a button on her spacesuit’s stomach, making the suit slump off like wilting blades of grass. Underneath, her entire body was identical to the suit, frost green with violet spottles. She paused for a moment with the clothes in a heap around her ankles…and I had the impression she was striking a pose, hoping someone would say admiring things about her unclad person or at least gawk with envy. When none of us did, the lady petulantly kicked the suit loose from her feet and stomped toward an electronic console set into the wall. Using many orifices at once, she began making gushy noises; these must have been instructions in the Cashling tongue because seconds later, the airlock closed and the ship gave a tremendous shudder.

  “Finally!” she exclaimed in English. “If everyone’s wasted enough time, may we please start recording the broadcast?”

  Nobody answered. The Divians were still doubled over, and Festina was staring through the roof at Royal Hemlock. I could tell the moment she caught sight of the twig-thing clinging to the hull; her jaw grew tight under the purplish skin of her cheek. She turned to Lady Bell and asked, “Does your ship have long-range scanners?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you call up a readout?”

  “When we get to the broadcast studio,” Lady Bell snapped. “Let’s go!”

  Without waiting for a reply, she strode toward a door at the far end of the room. Her elongated limbs let her cover the ground most rapidly indeed—we could not have kept up with her, even if we ran. As it turned out, none of us showed any desire to match her speed; therefore she was forced to stop at the exit, gesturing peevishly for us to hurry along.

  Festina was not to be rushed. She crouched beside Uclod and Lajoolie, asking in a low voice, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Uclod mumbled. “Just…getting used to the smell…”

  “I’ll stay with them,” Nimbus told Festina. “To make sure they’re all right.”

  “No need,” Uclod said, wiping his mouth. “We’ll come with you.” He turned toward Lajoolie. “Right, honey?”

  Lajoolie said nothing, but nodded. She looked most miserable indeed; I wondered if she was simply feeling ill or if she was ashamed to have vomited in public. The precepts of “femininity” demanded by her strange upbringing were still a great mystery to me. Nevertheless, I suspected that spewing half-digested choilappa was not considered the height of womanly allure.

  Thoughts On A Spiritual Vocation

  The corridors of Unfettered Destiny were no cleaner than its receiving bay—specked with patchy nubbins of substances best unexamined, and cluttered with boxes containing wrinkly clothes, water-stained paper, or cracked ceramic candleholders. Most of these boxes had been shoved against the wall in an attempt to leave a clear path down the middle…but the ship’s passageways were so narrow, one was often forced to step over chunky obstructions. With their long legs, the Cashlings experienced no trouble; those of us with shorter gait did not have such an easy time.

  Festina in particular was constantly compelled to hop over ungainly hurdles. She succeeded with admirable grace, for I never noticed the slightest stumble or hesitation. However, the look on her face was not gracious at all, and from time to time I heard her muttering imprecations in the colorful tongue of her ancestors.12

  On the positive side, Unfettered Destiny appeared to be constructed of glass all the way through, not just in the receiving bay. As we walked, I could glance behind my shoulder and see our ship drawing away from the Hemlock. We drifted silently into the blackness as another small ship from the crusade took our former position at Hemlock’s airlock. Lady Bell must have sent instructions to her followers while she was at that control console back in the receiving bay; now the disciples were hurrying to obey their prophet’s commands.

  I could not help thinking, It must be excellent to be a prophet, if people do whatever you say. So I spent a brief time wondering how one became a prophet in the Cashling culture, and if there were any negative aspects to a prophet’s calling. Having a flotilla of docile adherents was all very well, but prophethood would not be so fine if one was required to practice overzealous chastity or to cut out one’s heart in a ritual manner at the coming of winter. On the other hand, if one simply declared, “I am prophet,” and people bent themselves obsequiously to fulfill your slightest whim…

  T
hat would not be a bad profession for a woman trying to make her way in an unfamiliar world. It would not be a bad job at all.

  12 Festina curses most casually in English. When she curses in Spanish, it is serious.

  21

  WHEREIN I MAKE A VAIN ATTEMPT TO BECOME A RECORDING STAR

  Reaching The Studio

  “Oar? Oar? Oar!”

  Someone was tugging on my arm—Festina, gripping me tightly in Unfettered Destiny’s corridor.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  “We’re here. At the studio. You walked straight past it.” She stared at me keenly. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine, Festina. I was simply lost in thought.”

  “Really.” She did not let go of my arm. “You’re sure you’re okay? Sergeant Aarhus told me you passed out in Nimbus’s room…and I noticed you acting strangely in Hemlock’s transport bay.”

  “There is nothing wrong with me,” I said, detaching myself from her grasp. “If you think my brain has become faulty, you are quite mistaken.” The look of concern on her face did not lessen. “Truly,” I told her, “I am perfectly well…though I have not eaten in four years, and therefore would benefit from the intake of appropriate nourishment.”

  “We’ll get you some food, don’t worry,” Festina said. “Come into the studio and sit down; I’ll ask Lady Bell…no, I’ll ask Lord Rye to bring you something from the galley.”

  She attempted to take me by the arm and guide me through a nearby door. I did not wish to be guided—I was not some frail muddle-head whose brain might go blank at any moment, I had simply been distracted by the notion of becoming a prophet. There is nothing sinister about a momentary preoccupation; it was most annoying for Festina to Show Undue Concern. Therefore, I shrugged off her efforts to baby me, and surged boldly through the door myself.