Later, coming to the end of the ridge, Sorrel saw that she was alone. But she naturally assumed her companion had grown tired and gone back to rejoin the others. There wasn't cause for worry, and she didn't like worry, and so Sorrel didn't give it another thought.
But the other tourists hadn't seen her missing friend, either.
A search was launched. But the heavy snowfall turned into what can only be described as an endless avalanche from the sky. In the next hour, the glacier rose by twenty meters. By the time rescue crews could set to work, it was obvious that the missing passenger had stumbled into one of the vast crevices, and her body was dead, and without knowing her location, the only reasonable course would be to wait for the ice to push to the sea and watch for her battered remains.
In theory, a human brain could withstand that kind of abuse.
But the AI guide didn't believe in theory. "What nobody tells you is that this fucking island was once an industrial site. Why do you think the engineers covered it up? To hide their wreckage, of course. Experimental hyperfibers, mostly. Very sharp and sloppy, and the island was built with their trash, and if you put enough pressure on even the best bioceramic head, it will crack. Shatter. Pop, and die, and come out into the sea as a few handfuls of fancy sand."
Her friend was dead.
Sorrel never liked the woman more than anyone else or felt any bond unique just to the two of them. But the loss was heavy and persistent, and for the next several weeks, she thought about little else.
Meanwhile, their voyage through the Great Ship reached a new sea.
One night, while surrounded by a flat gray expanse of methane, Sorrel happened upon the J'Jal man wearing his red jacket and red slacks, and the fancy white tie beneath his nearly human face. He smiled at her, his expression genuine with either species. Then quietly, he asked, "Is something wrong?"
Nobody in her own group had noticed her pain. Unlike her, they were convinced that their friend would soon enough return from the oblivion.
Sorrel sat with the J'Jal. And for a very long while, they didn't speak. She found herself staring at his bare feet, thinking about the fragility of life. Then with a dry low voice, she admitted, "I'm scared."
"Is that so?" Cre'llan said.
"You know, at any moment, without warning, the Great Ship could collide with something enormous. At a third the speed of light, we might strike a sunless world or a small black hole, and billions would die inside this next instant."
"That may be true," her companion purred. "But I have invested my considerable faith in the talents of our captains."
"I haven't," she countered.
"No?"
"My point here…" She hesitated, shivering for reasons other than the cold. "My point is that I have lived for a few years, and I can't remember ever grabbing life by the throat. Do you know what I mean?"
"Very well," he claimed.
His long toes curled and then relaxed again.
"Why don't you wear shoes?" she finally asked.
And with the softest possible touch, Cre'llan laid his hand on hers. "I am an alien, Sorrel." He spoke while smiling, quietly telling her, "And it would mean so much to me if you could somehow, in your soul, forget what I am."
"We were lovers before the night was finished," she admitted. A fond look passed into a self-deprecating chuckle. "I thought all J'Jal men were shaped like he was. But they aren't, he explained. And that's when I learned about the Faith of the Many Joinings."
Pamir nodded, waiting for more.
"They did eventually find my lost friend, you know." A wise sorry laugh came out of her. "A few years later, a patrol working along the edge of the glacier kicked up some dead bones and then the skull with her mind inside. Intact." Sorrel sat back in her chair, breasts moving under the blouse. "She was reconstituted and back inside her old life within the month, and do you know what? In the decades since, I haven't spoken to my old friend more than three times.
"Funny, isn't it?"
"The Faith," Pamir prompted.
She seemed to expect the subject. With a slow shrug of the shoulders, Sorrel observed, "Whoever you are, you weren't born into comfort and wealth. That shows, I think. You've had to fight in your life… probably through much of your life… for things that any fool knows are important. While someone like me—less than a fool by a long way—walks through paradise without ever asking herself, 'What matters?'"
"The Faith," he repeated.
"Think of the challenge," she said. Staring through him, she asked, "Can you imagine how very difficult it is to be involved —romantically and emotionally linked —with another species?"
"It disgusts me," he lied.
"It disgusts a lot of us," she replied. For an instant, she wore a doubting gaze, perhaps wondering if he was telling the truth about his feelings. Then she let the doubt fall aside. "I wasn't exceptionally horrified by the idea of sex outside my species," she admitted. "Which is why I wasn't all that interested either. Somewhere in the indifferent middle, I was. But when I learned about this obscure J'Jal belief… how an assortment of like-minded souls had gathered, taking the first critical steps in what might well be the logical evolution of life in our universe…"
Her voice drifted away.
"How many husbands did you take?"
She acted surprised. "Why? Don't you know?"
Pamir let her stare at him.
Finally, she said, "Eleven."
"You are Joined to all of them."
"Until a few years ago, yes." The eyes shrank, and with the tears, they brightened. "The first death looked like a random murder. Horrible, but imaginable. But the second killing was followed a few months later by a third. The same weapon was used in each tragedy, with the same general manner of execution…" Her voice trailed away, the mouth left open and empty. One long hand wiped at the tears, accomplishing little but pushing moisture across the sharp cheeks. "Since the dead belonged to different species, and since the members of the Faith… my husbands and myself… are sworn to secrecy—"
"Nobody noticed the pattern," Pamir interrupted.
"Oh, I think they saw what was happening," she muttered. "After the fifth or sixth death, security people made inquiries at the library. But no one there could admit anything. And then the killings slowed, and the investigation went away. No one was offered protection, and my name was never mentioned. At least that's what I assume, since nobody was sent to interview me." Then with a quiet, angry voice, Sorrel added, "After they linked the murders to the library, they didn't care what happened."
"How do you know that?"
She stared at Pamir, regarding him as if he were a perfect idiot.
"What? Did the authorities assume this was some ugly internal business among the Joined?"
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe they received orders telling them to stop searching."
"Who gave the orders?"
She looked at a point above his head and carefully said, "No."
"Who wouldn't want these killings stopped?"
"I don't…" she began. Then she shook her head, adding, "I can't. Ask all you want, but I won't tell you anything else."
He asked, "Do you consider yourself in danger?"
She sighed. "Hardly."
"Why not?"
She said nothing.
"Two husbands are left alive," Pamir reminded her.
A suspicious expression played over him. Then she admitted, "I'm guessing you know which two."
"There's the Glory." Glories were birdlike creatures, roughly human-shaped but covered with a bright and lovely plumage. "One of your more recent husbands, isn't he?"
Sorrel nodded, and then admitted, "Except he died last year. On the opposite side of the Great Ship, alone. The body was discovered only yesterday."
Pamir flinched, saying, "My condolences."
"Yes. Thank you."
"And your first lover?"
"Yes."
"The J'Jal in the red suit."
"Cre'lla
n, yes. I know who you mean."
"The last man standing," he mentioned.
That earned a withering stare from a pained cold face. "I don't marry lightly. And I don't care what you're thinking."
Pamir stood and walked up beside her, and with his own stare, he assured, "You don't know what I'm thinking. Because I sure as hell don't know what I've got in my own soggy head."
She dipped her eyes.
"The J'Jal," he said. "I can track him down for myself, or you can make the introductions."
"It isn't Cre'llan," she whispered.
"Then come with me," Pamir replied. "Come and look him in the eye and ask for yourself."
XIII
As a species, the J'Jal were neither wealthy nor powerful, but among them were a few individuals of enormous age who had prospered in a gradual, relentless fashion. On distant worlds, they had served as cautious traders and inconspicuous landowners and sometimes as the bearers of alien technologies; and while they would always be aliens on those places, they had adapted well enough to feel as if they were home. And then the Great Ship had arrived. Their young and arrogant human cousins promised to carry them across the galaxy—for a fee. The boldest of these wealthy J'Jal left a hundred worlds behind, spending fortunes for the honor of gathering together again. They had no world of their own, yet some hoped to eventually discover some new planet reminiscent of their cradle world —an empty world they could claim for their own. Other J'Jals believed that the Earth and its humans were the logical, even poetic goal for their species —a place where they might blend into the ranks of their highly successful relatives.
"But neither solution gives me any particular pleasure," said the gentleman wearing red. With a nearly human voice, he admitted, "The boundaries between the species are a lie and impermanent, and I hope for a radically different future."
According to his official biography, Cre'llan was approximately the same age as Homo sapiens.
"What's your chosen future?" Pamir inquired.
The smile was bright and a little cold. "My new friend," the J'Jal said. "I think you already have made a fair assessment of what I wish for. And more to the point, I think you couldn't care less about whatever dream or utopia I just happen to entertain."
"I have some guesses," Pamir agreed. "And you're right, I don't give a shit about your idea of paradise."
Sorrel sat beside her ancient husband, holding his hand fondly. Divorced or not, she missed his company. They looked like lovers waiting for a holo portrait to be taken. Quietly, she warned Cre'llan, "He suspects you, darling."
"Of course he does."
"But I told him… I explained… you can't be responsible for any of this…"
"Which is the truth," the J'Jal replied, his smile turning into a grim little sneer. "Why would I murder anyone? How could it possibly serve my needs?"
The J'Jal's home was near the bottom of Fall Away, and it was enormous. This single room covered nearly a square kilometer, carpeted with green woods broken up with quick little streams, the ceiling so high that a dozen tame star-rocs could circle above and never brush wings. But all of that grandeur and wealth was dwarfed by the outside view: The braided rivers that ran down the middle of Fall Away had been set free some fifty kilometers above their heads, every diamond tube ending at the same point, their contents exploding out under extraordinary pressure. A flow equal to ten Amazons roared past Cre'llan's home, water and ammonia mixing with a spectacular array of chemical wastes and dying phytoplankton. Aggressive compounds battered their heads together and reacted, bleeding colors in the process. Shapes appeared inside the wild foam, and vanished again. A creative eye could see every face that he had ever met, and he could spend days watching for the faces that he had worn during his own long, strange life.
The window only seemed to be a window. In reality, Pamir was staring at a sheet of high-grade hyperfiber, thick and very nearly impervious to any force nature could throw at it. The view was a projection, a convincing trick. Nodding, he admitted, "You must feel remarkably safe, I would think."
"I sleep quite well," Cre'llan replied.
"Most of the time, I can help people with their security matters. But not you." Pamir was entirely honest, remarking, "I don't think the Master Captain has as much security in place. That hyperfiber. The AI watchdogs. Those blood-and-meat hounds that sniffed our butts on the way in." He showed a wide smile, and then mentioned, "If I'm not mistaken, you'd never have to leave this one room. For the next ten thousand years, you could sit where you're sitting today and eat what falls off these trees, and no one would have to touch you."
"If that was what I wished, yes."
"But he is not the killer," Sorrel muttered.
Then she stood and stepped away from the ancient creature, her hand grudgingly releasing his grip. She approached Pamir, kneeling before him. Suddenly she looked very young, serious and determined. "I know this man," she implored. "You have no idea what you're suggesting, if you think that he could hurt anyone… for any reason…"
"I once lived as a J'Jal," Pamir allowed.
Sorrel leaned away from him, taken by surprise.
"I dyed my hair blue and tinkered with these bones, and I even doctored my genetics, far enough to pass half-assed scans." Pamir gave no specifics, but he understood he was telling too much. Nonetheless, he didn't feel as if he had any choice. "I even kept a J'Jal lover. For a while, I did. But then she saw through my disguise, and I had to steal away in the middle of the night."
The other two watched him now, bewildered and deeply curious.
"Anyway," he continued. "During my stay with the J'Jal, a certain young woman came of age. She was very desirable. Extraordinarily beautiful, and her family was one of the wealthiest onboard the ship. Before that year was finished, the woman had acquired three devoted husbands. But someone else fell in love with her, and he didn't want to share. One of the new husbands was killed. After that, the other husbands went to the public hall and divorced her. They never spoke to the girl again. She was left unattached, and alone. What rational soul would risk her love under those circumstances?" Pamir shook his head while studying Cre'llan. "As I said, I slipped away in the night. And then several decades later, an elder J'Jal proposed to the widow. She was lonely, and he was not a bad man. Not wealthy, but powerful and ancient, and in some measure, wise. So she accepted his offer, and when nothing tragic happened to her new husband, not only did everyone understand who had ordered the killing. They accepted it, too. In pure J'Jal fashion."
With a flat, untroubled voice, Cre'llan said, "My soul has never been thought of as jealous."
"But I'm now accusing you of jealousy," Pamir countered.
Silence.
"Conflicts over females is ordinary business for some species," he continued. "Monopolizing a valuable mate can be a good evolutionary strategy, for the J'Jal as well as others, too. And tens of millions of years of civilization hasn't changed what you are, or what you can be."
Cre'llan snorted, declaring, "That old barbarism is something I would never embrace."
"Agreed."
The green gaze narrowed. "Excuse me, sir. I don't think I understand. What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"This is a beautiful, enormous fortress," Pamir continued. "And as you claim, you're not a jealous creature. But did you invite these other husbands to live with you? Did you offer even one of them your shelter and all of this expensive security?"
Sorrel glanced at the J'Jal, her breath catching for an instant.
"You didn't offer," Pamir continued, "because of a very reasonable fear: What if one of your houseguests wanted Sorrel for himself?"
An old tension rippled between the lovers.
"Every other husband was a suspect, in your mind. With those two harum-scarums being the most obvious candidates." He looked at Sorrel again. "Gallium would be his favorite —a relatively poor entity born into a biology of posturing and violence. His species is famous for stealing mates. Both sexes do it,
every day. But now Gallium is dead, which leaves your husband with no one to worry about, it seems."
"But I am not the killer," Cre'llan repeated.
"Oh, I agree," Pamir said. "You are innocent, yes."
The statement seemed to anger both of them. Sorrel spoke first, asking, "When did you come to that conclusion?"
"Once I learned who your husbands were," Pamir replied. "Pretty much instantly." Then he sat forward in his chair, staring out at the churning waters. "No, Cre'llan isn't the murderer."
"You understand my nature?" the J'Jal asked.
"Maybe, but that doesn't particularly matter." Pamir laughed. "No," he said. "You're too smart and far too old to attempt this sort of bullshit with a human woman. Talk all you want about every species being one and the same. But the hard sharp damning fact is that human beings are not J'Jal. Very few of us, under even the most difficult circumstances, are going to look past the fact that their spouse is a brutal killer."
Cre'llan gave a little nod, the barest smile showing.
Sorrel stood, nervous hands clenching into fists. She looked vulnerable and sweet and very sorry. The beginnings of recognition showed in the blue-white eyes, and she started to stare at the J'Jal, catching herself now and forcing her eyes to drop.
"And something else was obvious," Pamir mentioned. "Pretty much from the beginning, I should think."
With a dry little voice, Cre'llan asked, "What was obvious?"
"From the beginning," Pamir repeated.
"What do you mean?" Sorrel asked.
"Okay," Pamir said, watching her face and the nervous fists. "Let's suppose that I'm killing your husbands. I want my rivals dead, and I want a reasonable chance of surviving to the end. Of course, I would start with Cre'llan. Since he enjoys the most security… better than everyone else combined, probably… I would hit him before he could smell any danger…"
That earned a cold silence.
Pamir shook his head. "The killer wants the husbands out of your life. From the start, I think he knew exactly what was required. The other ten husbands had to be murdered, since they loved you deeply and you seemed to love them. But this J'Jal… well, he's a different conundrum entirely, I'm guessing…"
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Third Annual Collection Page 25
