"Well, I liked March from the start," Yael said. "He's from backwoods Outworld, like me, and he's the first spaceman we met."
As though those were sufficient recommendations! Melody gave a mental shrug; to each her own values.
But now they had a problem. They had lost their torch; and apparently there was no other way to remove the monstrous anchors from the hull. Magnetic, so they could not be pried off, the anchors were designed to hold the weight of an entire ship! The huge cables were impervious steel, uncuttable by normal means.
The group stood on the hull, hanging by their foot-magnets from the planetlike mass of the ship. A film of corrosion covered the metal, like mold, weakening the strength of the footholds. The ship was, indeed, a moldering corpse.
Melody looked along the length of the great vessel, down the handle to the flaring blade of the sword. The light-collecting troughs were still in place, but she knew that soon they would collapse as the decreased rotation became insufficient to keep the guy-wires taut. Then there would be no further energy input, even if it were possible to fix the corroded mechanism and wash off the fogged surfaces. One little brush with a Spican cloud... doom. It seemed very final, out here.
She looked into space and saw the lights of the life-craft, already in space, moving across the mighty starry field of the Milky Way galaxy. They were signaling to other ships for a pickup.
Marooned on a derelict. No doubt the battle still raged, but with the naked eye nothing was visible; they might have been alone in the universe. Was this the ultimate reality of the supposedly exciting engagement of fleets, the War of Two Galaxies?
At last her gaze fell on the two magnets. They were touching the surface, despite the corrosion. Of course! Their normal mode of repulsion would send them shooting into space, here; Slammer had surely learned that. Had he rolled across the hull when he was out here before? He must have, and she had not been paying attention. The magnet species was remarkably well adapted to space. She would have to clean off the corrosion once they went back inside, though. No sense having it eating into the magnets.
They walked to the nearest anchor, scarcely a quarter mile around the hull. It was a block of metal, three feet thick and twenty across, with its chain rising at an angle. Its field was so powerful that Slammer and Beanball could not approach it; the current would have overcome them.
Too bad! But for the overwhelming field, Slammer might have attacked the anchor-cable and perhaps frayed and severed it. No chance of that now!
They tramped silently back into the airlock and climbed carefully in. No one except the magnets had touched the corroded surfaces with anything but footwear (or Llume's wheelwear)—but what did it matter? Death was only a matter of time.
"You and Llume can still transfer out," Yael said.
"Where would that leave you?" Melody retorted. "And the men?"
"There are worse ways to die than alone with three men," Yael said. "I guess if I'd been able to choose it, this is the way I'd go."
Melody considered that, and decided she couldn't find much fault with it. But she did not feel free to admit that. "The others know we're here. When they see the ship remains derelict, they'll send a boat back."
"First they have to get picked up themselves," Yael pointed out. "And we might get blasted or holed before they get here."
All this time, rotation had been slowing. Now gravity was hardly an eighth normal, and fading rapidly. Melody started to strip out of her suit, but hesitated, realizing she would have no footing without the magnetic shoes. The air, under shipwide pressure, seemed good; each level of the ship was sealed to prevent pressure rising inordinately near the hull. But with the access-chutes open and power off, there was a draft as the air settled. And more than air was required for life support! Still, no sense using up the suit prematurely. She doffed it.
"Men," Melody said aloud as their helmets came off. "It appears we are going to die, perhaps quite soon." She was not certain in her mind that this was so, but the odds seemed to favor it, so she was playing it safe, ironic as that was. "I am an old Mintakan in transfer to this fine young Solarian host. The host-entity has volunteered to entertain you as you may wish during the final moments. There is a transfer unit in this ship. I shall, if you choose, use it to transfer my identity to some other host in the fleet. Possibly I can arrange for your rescue. But I think you should not gamble on my success to the extent of turning down my host's offer. Are you amenable?" And privately she thought that if she had had perspective like this in youth, she never would have thrown away her adult life.
The three men exchanged glances in the light of Llume's glow. "Sir," March said after a moment. "This is generous of you—and your host. You are surely aware that you have the aspect of a remarkably attractive woman, despite your present dishabille. Physically and mentally. But I have lived in a civilized manner, with the interests of my world and my species paramount, and I prefer to die that way. I would not touch you or your host unless it were your honest preference, with the prospect of life ahead of you—and I doubt that is the case."
"That's all you know," Yael muttered. "Who cares about Kirlian aura—that's a man."
"I suggest we hold a Service of Termination," March continued. "Then see how we feel."
A Service of Termination. This was a segment convention, so Melody understood the concept directly. It was a means by which entities of different Spheres could together comport themselves for approaching demise without the rancor of contrasting philosophies or customs. It was contrived to have no objectionable elements, yet to provide strong support for all participating entities. And it did not have to wait for the certainty of death; any reasonable likelihood sufficed.
"I agree," Melody said. She knew she should transfer out, because of the value of her aura to the segment, but this was a matter of personal integrity. These people were here because of her; she could not desert them. Not before the service. She glanced at Llume.
"I also agree," Llume said. "This convention is known to Sphere /."
March stiffened. "The Polarian is of Andromeda?"
"Andromedan—Spican—Polarian," Melody said. "She is a transferee of the enemy, but she renounced her galaxy in favor of ours. In this situation we may not discriminate against her."
Again, the men exchanged glances. "Agreed," March said tersely.
They gathered in a circle, facing out. March flanked Melody on her left, and another man was on her right. Then Llume, and the third man.
"One moment," Melody said. "Slammer. The magnet is entitled too. He's a sapient entity."
No one protested. Slammer and Beanball moved to March's left, completing the circle. The humans kneeled, Llume settled, and the magnets dropped near the deck.
For several minutes all remained in silent meditation. Melody tried to compose her thoughts, but they were a jumble of uncertainties. What decisions could she have made to avoid this present doom? Had there ever been any hope, or was the Andromedan onslaught prevailing galaxywide? Surely Segment Knyfh was holding out, and the other center-galaxy cultures. Maybe Captain Mnuhl was whining the battle at this moment! But how could she be sure? Regardless of the condition of this ship, the service might be in order—for the termination of the Milky Way galaxy.
Then she spoke aloud. "I yield my floor to my host, Yael of Dragon." And she released the body to its natural mind.
"Everybody here stayed to save the ship," Yael said. "To save the galaxy. Even if it didn't work, I think that's great, and I love you all."
After a moment, the man on Melody's right spoke. "I always admired the Society of Hosts, and I thought about being a host myself. Now I admire it more. I hereby proffer my membership, for what it's worth now, and I hope the God of Hosts will accept my spirit."
He didn't know that the hostages on Planet Outworld had infiltrated the Society of Hosts and nullified it. Still, did that make any real difference? The Society had sent Melody herself out here, and she had done her best to honor its o
riginal aims.
Then Llume: "Let this struggle be resolved without loss of a galaxy, though it take a thousand years. Let my people of / redeem themselves as truly civilized entities, not as exploiters."
The other man did not speak, but hummed a tune. He had inexpert control, but it was recognizable as a folk song common to Solarians. After a moment Melody picked it up, drawing the tune from Yael's memory, using her inherent Mintakan musical ability to fill out her host's voice. She had been without music for this whole adventure, and suddenly she missed it terribly. To die in music; that was her real wish.
Llume joined in, her ball vibrating against the deck in such a way as to make the sound seem to rise from the entire deck in descant, adding a dimension. Her body glowed in time to the beat, adding visual appeal. Now the two remaining men added their voices, and though they also were untrained, the imperfections seemed to cancel out, leaving the whole more perfect than it might have been.
Yet there was more, a special tonal quality that Melody did not at first recognize. In her own Mintakan body she could have identified it instantly, but the human ears were far less precise. She searched it out while she sang—and suddenly placed it. The magnet! Slammer was vibrating in such a manner as to produce a sustained sound, varying in pitch in time to the musical beat. And Beanball contributed a high pitch.
The magnets were singing too.
The harmony swelled, becoming much more than it had been, more than the mere total of the contributing voices. It expanded into a transcendent experience that suffused air, body, and spirit. It was almost like home, after all!
At last it faded. Melody opened her eyes, unaware of when she had closed them, and saw a ring of spheres around the kneeling group. The other magnets of the ship had come, attracted by the sound. How could she have forgotten them? They were all living, feeling creatures, doomed to die with the ship. Magnets could not travel well on lifeboats; there was not enough metal, and the necessary coal-crushing was too hard on the light hulls. They all belonged in this Service of Termination. But she made no immediate sign, letting it proceed.
Now the song was over, and it was Slammer's turn. Of course he could not speak—not in human voice—but the magnet was entitled to its space. It vibrated.
Llume spoke. "I translate the message of the magnet," she said, as though this revelation of magnet speech were routine. "He is aware of the crisis, and wishes to help. The magnets do not wish to perish. They can make this ship operate to a certain extent, but they lack direction."
Nice gesture, Melody thought. But the human crew could make this ship operate, too—if it were operable. About all they could do was close off a section and enhance life-support mechanisms there, so as to extend life and comfort. The magnets had even poorer comprehension of such realities than Melody herself had had. That made their offer useless.
It was March's turn. "In this my last day, perhaps, I want the truth to be known. I was a guard at the Ministerial Palace of Imperial Outworld. I shot a Minister by accident, but he turned out to be an agent from Sphere * of Andromeda, the first hostage we discovered. I was exiled so that the hostages on Outworld would not know they had been discovered. But we were already too late, for the hostages had taken over the fleet. So it was for nothing. Had we known...." He faltered, then continued. "It is pointless, but I did not want to die under an alias."
There at last was the answer to the riddle of this man! He had, in his fashion, been responsible for bringing Melody here. He had done what he could to preserve the Milky Way galaxy, and now feared, as she did, that it had not been enough.
"This time I speak for myself," Melody said in her turn, suddenly appreciating how well the Service of Termination served to ease its participants. "March's sacrifice was not wasted. Because of the discovery he made, the segment's highest Kirlian aura was summoned, drafted against her preference to fight for her galaxy. I am that entity, and though the effort may have failed, we believe we came close to repelling the Andromedan takeover. It was worth the effort, and now it is an honorable demise. I thank you all for showing me the nobility that exists in your several species. I was near death anyway; this is a better termination than I would otherwise have had." And why not accept it, remaining here, instead of going out again in transfer to witness the humiliation of her galaxy?
Their statements complete, they paused for another period of meditation. Then, slowly, guided by a common impulse, they turned inward. Those in Solarian form reached out their arms to touch their neighbors. The men on either side of Slammer touched his surface with their fingers, and it was the same with Llume.
"God of Hosts, be with us yet," Melody said with feeling. Slowly, in the course of this adventure, she had come to believe in this concept.
"Lest we forget, lest we forget," the others responded sincerely. Lest we forget our galaxy!
Now Melody projected her aura along the channels provided by the touching bodies. It merged with Llume's aura, and with Slammer's magnetism, and as the song had done, it expanded in circuit. The trifling auras of the three Solarian males were magnified beyond anything they could ever have experienced. Like an invisible flame it rose, like the glow of sunrise on a planet, transformed into ethereal radiance, health, joy.
This is nirvana! Melody thought, and felt the agreement of the group. The failings of her body and of her mind faded, replaced by exhilaration, by perfect health and beingness. Nirvana—the final unity of all sentience, in which self did not exist because self had become the universe. It was not bliss so much as fulfillment, that fulfillment that sexual congress only hinted at. It transcended male-female mergence, because it was the mergence of life itself. We are all siblings, she thought, and felt the concurrence of the service.
For a moment that was eternal it remained, this holy unity, this fragmentary vision of identity; then the glow subsided. Melody opened her eyes again, feeling her body and mind healed, and saw the face of the man across from her, shining wet. Then she became aware of her own face, soaked with tears.
Their hands dropped. The service was over.
Melody felt clean.
Then she stood and turned to face the waiting ring of magnets. "I think there is little we can do," she said. "But we have to try. To what extent are you capable of making this ship function?" She felt no particular emotion; she was satisfied to allow her life to end, now. But as a matter of consistency, it was necessary to explore all available avenues.
Beside her, Slammer hummed. Llume translated: "We can activate magnetically controlled systems and manual systems. These include life-support and weaponry."
"Let's go back to the control room and see what we can do," Melody said, putting a positive face on what she knew remained disaster. They were all doomed, and had accepted that doom. She herself might escape it, but for what purpose, if the galaxy had fallen? Only by saving this ship, it somehow seemed, could she save the galaxy.
Now there was some light from lens-vents in the hull; the slow turn of the ship had brought this side sunside. But even though rotation was greatly reduced, they would be darkside again in due course. And there would be no lenses in the interior levels.
So first they needed light—reliable light. The power remaining in storage had to be conserved for emergency life-support, or they would perish as the quality of air in the ship deteriorated and the temperature changed. Unable to rotate the vessel, they could not get the solar collection system functioning properly; there would be no power renewal. But there were so few breathing entities aboard now that the reserves could be made to last for a long time. A worse problem might be the interior weather caused by the uneven heating and cooling of the hull. Hot air was already beginning to push through to the cold side, making vague howling noises in the distance. A true poltergeist—a noisy ghost. The ship was a haunted tomb.
"There are lamps at the hobby shop," Llume said. "Antique fossil-fuel devices for novelty parties, cumbersome and inefficient, but self-contained."
"Excellent
," Melody said. "Will you fetch some for us?"
Llume's glow disappeared down the hall. Melody watched it fade with mixed emotions. She liked the Andromedan, but still could not afford to trust her completely. If this dead ship should not be the end for them, would they be enemies again?
"We'd better get some emergency supplies, too," March said. "Food, water."
"Yes," Melody agreed. It was amazing how the acceptance of death had stimulated them to handle the little details of life! "I'll wait here."
They departed, using oddly gliding steps. Melody was alone with the magnets, who simply hovered in place. She started for a sanitary cubicle; tension and exertion had a certain effect on the Solarian body. But with her first brisk step she sailed into the air so forcefully she banged her head on the ceiling. Without her foot-magnets she'd have to watch her step, literally! She rubbed her hurting human head as she bounded-glided the rest of the way to the cubicle and used it.
Too late she realized that, in the absence of power, the refuse could not be pumped up to the reclamation unit. Well, no help for it. The functions of life continued unremittingly while life endured.
The men returned with packaged supplies, forming a pile on the deck. Llume rolled back with a contraption of metal and transparent glass.
"I recognize that!" Yael exclaimed. "It's an old-fashioned kerosene mantle lamp! My folks used them all the time."
Melody gave her rein, and Yael removed what she termed the "chimney"—a glass tube open at both ends —turned up the "wick"—a fiber tube whose top end was barely visible as it projected from the body of the lamp —struck a "match"—a tiny stick of wood with a dab of frictive flammable substance on one end—and touched it to the fuel-soaked wick. When it ignited the whole way round, she turned it to a low circle and replaced the chimney above it. The whole thing was so incredibly complex that Melody wondered how the primitive Solarians had ever managed after the sun subsided.
Chaining the Lady Page 27
