The Children Star (25 page)

At Station, the master of
Proteus
was just preparing to depart. His program for Prokaryon was in place, with only a last-minute glitch or two. A few miners remained at large on Spirilla, and the L'liites were still listed as “missing,” though they could never have survived; no doubt Verid had kept them listed, always the clever bureaucrat. His contacts at the Secretariat would soon clear that up. More troubling, from a financial point of view, was the sudden weather instability that had cost him some good equipment. Replacement was no problem, but now he would have to arrange some weather control before proceeding. He would eventually write off the expense.

One last neutrinogram arrived, from the Secretary herself. Verid appeared, her owlish shape looking little different in the gray snow than she did in person. “Nibur Lethe
shon
, chief executive of Proteus Unlimited,” she began in a formal tone. “It is my duty to inform you that your full holdings on Prokaryon, third planet of star Iota Pavonis, now exceed fifty percent. As Fold regulation six-oh-six-seven-three-three of the colonial code prohibits any single corporate entity from ownership of more than fifty percent of a colonial world under Fold protection . . .”

So she found out. Nibur shrugged. He had hoped to postpone detection longer, but it made little difference. He would activate his plans to challenge the claim, in three different world courts. The legal process would take decades to work through, and the regulation might well be changed before then.

“And so,” Verid concluded, “we rely upon your high standards of Elysian honor and integrity to rectify the situation and comply with this ruling forthwith.” She leaned forward, and her tone changed. “I hear Iras quite enjoyed herself in the mountains. Always the excellent host, my friend. Take care of yourself, dear—and Iras, too.”

Irritated, Nibur brushed aside the patronizing remark. He himself had a few last neutrinograms to send, before the express trip home across the space folds. His ship always jumped the shortest route, though it might cost ten times the fuel.

At last Iras rejoined him, to board
Proteus
. Their octopods gathered, ready to meet any need. Iras folded up her talar and smiled with amusement. “I trust you scanned clean?”

“Indeed,
Shon
sib, as you did.” Even for Elysians, the medics had required extra scans prior to departure, and for his dog as well. Banga now sniffed ahead at the gate to the docking tube, his tail waving.

As the nanoplast of the gate melted in, its edges peeled back to reveal the rotating tube. Nibur caught a handle, bracing himself for the changing forces. Banga stepped forward into the tube. As he did so, the ageless dog gave a yelp and doubled backward, tail between his legs.

Surprised, Nibur caught the dog's collar. Banga was well used to docking tubes; yet now he refused to enter. The artificial gravity must have shifted more suddenly than usual.

Iras had gone ahead, but she stopped and caught her forehead. “Goodness—my nanoservos must be malfunctioning.”

With Banga straining at the collar, Nibur took a step forward, then he stopped. His head felt the oddest sensation; there was altogether too little “gravity” here, he thought. Perhaps too little oxygen as well? His stomach convulsed, and a very foul liquid came out, a thing that had never happened to his body before, in five hundred years.

As he tried to cry out, strange glowing shapes appeared. The shapes moved with his head; they must be within his
eye, or his brain. From his nanoservos? The shapes formed concentric circles; then they dissolved, and came together to form the letters, NO. That was the last he knew before he lost consciousness.

A
t the Spirit Colony, the tumbleround had reached the wall outside the nursery and planted its fibers in the siding, reaching just up to the sill of the boarded-up window. The colonists had all their heavy equipment packed and the rest ready to go once their last food ran out. Without fields to tend, at least the children were catching up on their lessons, their math and reading, and their constitutional rights as citizens of the Free Fold. The nationalist protesters could have no complaints now.

“Did you hear,” exclaimed Brother Geode, “about that dreadful Proteus person, and his financier? They're both critically ill—with ‘spacer's spit-up'!” His eyestalks twisted gleefully, until Rod frowned. “Unlike mortals, who get over it,” Geode added, “the Elysians develop complications—meningitis.”

“So I've heard.” Rod vowed to pray for their recovery. “Is the cause still unknown?” Khral must be going crazy
over it; she would have no time for tumblerounds now.

“It's a mystery,” said Geode. “They tried triplex antibiotics on the dog—and the dog died. Perhaps they'll think again about this planet.”

“They'll think no good.” The very hint of death, even a dog's death, could make Elysians turn the heavens inside out.

That evening as the colonists prayed outside, the llamas calling to the dusk, an occasional whirr strayed over from the tumbleround. Rod found his eyes momentarily clouded with bright, inchoate shapes, reminiscent of his previous encounter with the beast. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Should he go up to Station for testing? What could they do for him, if they could not even cure the Elysians?

The next morning, the image of Proteus Unlimited appeared on the holostage. The sexless speaker stood the same as always, above the never-ending curl of water.

“Your plans have changed,” the speaker announced, as if the colonists had ever made their own plans. The Spirit Callers listened stoically. “You will depart promptly tomorrow. The transport vessel will arrive, at this hour precisely.”

So that was it. The children would walk—or be carried out by octopods. Rod kept his face frozen, and his hands at his sides.

Mother Artemis asked, “Is our homestead ready on Chiron? Will the children have a roof over their heads?”

“Unexpected delays have developed. Chiron requires further tests for habitability; it must be cleansed of deadly disease, before any further colonies may be established. We have arranged temporary accommodation of all Prokaryan colonists on an orbital satellite.”

A refugee ship. The children would be refugees.

“Once the disease is cleared out, and quarantine is lifted, you will be free to go.”

“What do you mean, ‘cleared out'?” Rod was shaking. Would the whole world be “cleansed,” to eliminate one bit of sickness that endangered only Elysians?

The empty figure did not reply. Geode extended his eyestalks, and some of Mother Artemis's hair outstretched, like a futile plea. “The Spirit be with you,” murmured the Reverend Mother at last.

Afterward, she tried to send a neutrinogram to the Secretariat, but was told the transmitter was out of order. That afternoon, however, a neutrinogram arrived from the Most Reverend Father of Dolomoth.

Out of the snow formed the gray shape of the Most Reverend Father, his beard longer than ever. “The Spirit be with you, Brothers and Sisters,” he began. “Our hearts are heavy indeed to hear the sad news from Prokaryon. At least, we thank the Spirit, you were spared the worst afflictions of this deadly plague. Alas, who could have foreseen the unfortunate destiny of your work on that desolate world?

“Remember that you are not the first colonists to have made a valiant effort in a strange new land, only to withdraw from the attempt. You took a courageous stand, and you raised your children well in the light of the Spirit. When you return to Valedon, be assured that the Spirit Council will not forsake you. We have excellent Spirit-filled orphanages to guide your youngsters to adulthood, at which time they themselves may experience the sacred calling.

“All of the Congregation of Dolomoth will call unto the Spirit to give you strength, as you undertake your final journey home.”

The brokenheart stew for supper was flavored with helicoids caught from the rafters, since the last of the zoöid meat was gone. As Chae spooned it out down the long tables, Rod still could not believe this would be their last meal in the home they had built twelve years before; in fact, their last supper on Prokaryon. Gaea clung to him without eating, and the twins whined.

T'kun popped up from under the table. “Are we going to live in a spaceship? Can I bring my pet zoöid?”

Haemum led the prayer, calling the Spirit for truth and grace. Rod found he could not meet her eyes.

After dinner the last of the pots and spoons were packed away. Most of the farm equipment had already been transported—supposedly to Chiron, now no one knew where. Each child kept one treasure: a bit of quartz from the sapphire mine, a helicoid propeller, a dried twisted pod.

As the light faded, the children sat out on the wheelgrass, and Mother Artemis spread her skirt one last time for a story. In the folds of nanoplast shone a planet and a star. The planet was half in darkness, green lapped by tongues of cloud, while its star glowed so brightly it was hard to look upon.

There was a world where only children dwelt. Where every creature grew with a saddle made for riding, and every tree formed little steps for climbing. Every insect came with pinholes ready for pinning into boxes, and a vine grew from every tree for swinging
. . .

The children laughed, and they quickly added others.

“Every zoöid grows a leash for leading,” called T'kun.

“And they grow food pods, so we don't have to hunt them.”

“And crayons grow on trees.”

This world had lived a million years. But its star was growing old and seeing the last of its hydrogen fuel. With its hydrogen gone, the star told the world, “I need to grow.
I need to grow enough to burn my next best fuel. But fear not, little world, for you will never die.” So the star grew larger and redder. It grew so large that its surface filled the orbit of the tiny world. As the star approached, the world's creatures fell asleep in the heat; until at last the entire world fell into it, dissolving into stardust. But what the star said was true, for that world never died. It will live forever in the hearts of children who remember.”

The children grew calm, snuggling close for comfort. Only Haemum and Chae stood aside, their faces sullen. Rod felt torn apart inside. There was love and comfort here, but was there truth? Did the Spirit never call for more?

After the children were in bed, and the last packing done, Rod could not sleep. He stood outside as the nightly rain continued, finally tapering off to reveal the stars. A faint glow came from the distant band of singing-trees, their colors racing across the tops with their enigmatic patterns. Somewhere in the wheelgrass a nocturnal zoöid called for its mate, and another answered. A breeze brought the scent of the tumbleround.

As he watched, an octopod came from behind the llama barn to tour around the main compound, at the same hour it always did. The octopods were highly regular in their habits; their pattern of patrols was familiar to him, their paths crisscrossing the same way every night. Rod reached a decision.

He went inside to find Mother Artemis, now a gray lump sleeping. Regretfully he touched her surface to interrupt her sleep. She came awake slowly, arms extending and hair regenerating out of the amorphous nanoplast.

“Reverend Mother, I must ask your release,” Rod told her. “I have called on the Spirit for so many years—but the Spirit who calls back is from this planet. I cannot return to Valedon, and leave this world here to die.”

“Indeed,” said Mother Artemis. “You have listened well. But what can you do?”

“I've been watching the octopods. They're only Proteus servos after all, not sentients. I've studied their movements; and I know a few moves myself that might get me past a servo. With your permission, I'll leave tonight, hiding my tracks in the trail of the tumbleround.” He shuddered, but there was no better way. “By hiding in the forest, I can help postpone the final cleansing, while the planet's masters start to fight back. Who knows—perhaps the Fold Council will see reason in time.”