The Pandora Sequence: The Jesus Incident, the Lazarus Effect, the Ascension Factor (4 page)

Chapter 7

Why are you humans always so ready to carry the terrible burdens of your past?

—Kerro Panille,
Questions from the Avata

SY MURDOCH did not like coming out this close to Colony perimeter, even when sheltered behind the crysteel barrier of Lab One’s private exit. Creatures of this planet had a way of penetrating the impenetrable, confounding the most careful defenses.

But someone Lewis trusted had to man this observation post when the hylighters congregated on the plain as they were doing this morning. It was their most mysterious form of behavior and lately Lewis had been demanding answers—no doubt jumping to commands from The Boss.

He sighed. When he looked out on the unprotected surface of Pandora, there was no denying its immediate dangers.

Absently, he scratched his left elbow. When he moved his head against the exterior light, he could see his own reflection in the Plaz: a blocky man with brown hair, blue eyes, a light complexion which he kept meticulously scrubbed.

The vantage point was not the best available, not as good as the exterior posts which were always manned by the fastest and the best the Colony could risk. But Murdoch knew he could argue his importance to the leadership team. He was not expendable and this place did serve Lewis’ purpose. The crysteel barrier, although it filtered out almost a fourth of the light, framed the area they needed to watch.

What was it those damned floating gasbags did out there?

Murdoch crouched behind a swivel-mounted scope-cum-vidicorder, and touched the controls with a short, stubby finger to focus on the ‘lighters. More than a hundred of them floated above the plain about six kilometers out.

There were some big orange monsters in this mob, and Murdoch singled out one of the biggest for special observation, reading what he saw into a small recorder at his throat. The big ‘lighter looked to be at least fifty meters in diameter, a truncated sphere somewhat flattened along the top which formed the muscular base for the tall, rippling sail membrane. Corded tendrils trailed down to the plain where it grasped a large rock which bumped and dragged along the surface, kicking up dust, scattering gravel.

The morning was cloudless, only one sun in the sky. It cast a harsh golden light on the plain, picking out every wrinkle and contraction of the ‘lighter’s bag. Murdoch could make out a cradle of smaller enfolding tentacles cupped beneath the ‘lighter, confining something which squirmed there . . . twisting, flailing. He could not quite identify what the ‘lighter carried, but it definitely was alive and trying to escape.

The mob of accompanying ‘lighters had lined out in a great curved spread which was sweeping now across the plain on a diagonal path away from Murdoch’s observation post. The big one he had singled out anchored the near flank, still confining that flailing something in the tentacle shadows beneath it.

What had that damned thing captured? Surely not a Colonist!

Murdoch backed off his focus to include the entire mob and saw then that they were targeting ground creatures, a mixed lot of them huddled on the plain. The arc of hylighters swept toward the crouching animals which waited mesmerized. He scanned them, identifying Hooded Dashers, Swift Grazers, Flatwings, Spinnerets, Tubetuckers, Clingeys . . . demons—all of them deadly to Colonists.

But apparently not dangerous to hylighters.

All of the ‘lighters carried ballast rocks, Murdoch saw, and now the central segment of the sweeping arc dropped their rocks. The bags bounced slightly and tendrils stretched out to snatch up the crouching demons. The captive creatures squirmed and flailed, but made no attempt to bite or otherwise attack the ‘lighters.

Now, all but a few of the ballasted ‘lighters dropped their rocks and began to soar. The few still carrying rocks tacked out away from the capture team, appearing to search the ground for other specimens. The monster bag which Murdoch had studied earlier remained in this search group. Once more, Murdoch enlarged the image in the scope, focusing in on the cupped tendrils beneath the thing’s bag. All was quiet there now and, as he watched, the tendrils opened to release their catch.

Murdoch dictated his observations into the recorder at his throat: “The big one has just dropped its catch. Whatever it is it appears to be desiccated, a large flat area of black . . . My God! It was a Hooded Dasher! The big ‘lighter had a Hooded Dasher tucked up under the bag!”

The remains of the Dasher struck the ground in a geyser of dust.

Now, the big ‘lighter swerved left and its rock ballast scraped the side of another large rock on the plain. Sparks flew where the rocks met and Murdoch saw a line of fire spurt upward to the ‘lighter which exploded in a flare of glowing yellow. Bits of the orange bag and a cloud of fine blue dust drifted and sailed all around.

The explosion ignited a wild frenzy of action on the plain. The other bags dropped their captives and soared upward. The demons on the ground spread out, some dashing and leaping to catch the remnants of the exploded ‘lighter. Slower creatures such as the Spinnerets crept toward fallen rags of the orange bag.

And when it was over, the demons sped away or burrowed into the plain as was the particular habit of each.

Murdoch methodically described this into his recorder.

When it was done, he scanned the plain once more. All of the ‘lighters had soared away. Not a demon remained. He shut down the observation post and signaled for a replacement to come up, then he headed back toward Lab One and the Garden. As he made his way along the more secure lighted passages, he thought about what he had seen and recorded. The visual record would go to Lewis and later to Oakes. Lewis would edit the verbal observations, adding his own comments.

What was it I saw and recorded out there?

Try as he might to understand the behavior of the Pandoran creatures, Murdoch could not do it.

Lewis is right. We should just wipe them out.

And as he thought of Lewis, Murdoch asked himself how long this most recent emergency at the Redoubt would keep the man out of touch. For all they really knew, Lewis might be dead. No one was completely immune to the threats of Pandora—not even Lewis. If Lewis were gone . . .

Murdoch tried to imagine himself elevated to a new position of power under Oakes. The images of such a change would not form.

Chapter 8

Gods have plans, too.

—Morgan Oakes,
The Diaries

FOR A long time, Panille lay quietly beside Hali in the treedome, watching the plaz-filtered light draw radial beams on the air above the cedar tree. He knew Hali had been hurt by his rejection and he wondered why he did not feel guilty. He sighed. There was no sense in running away; this was the way he had to be.

Hali spoke first, her voice low, tentative.

“Nothing’s changed, is it?”

“Talking about it doesn’t change it,” he said. “Why did you ask me out here—to revive our sexual debate?”

“Couldn’t I just want to be with you for a while?”

She was close to tears. He spoke softly to avoid hurting her even more.

“I’m always with you, Hali.” With his left hand he lifted her right hand, pressed the tips of his fingers against the tips of her fingers. “Here. We touch, right?”

She nodded like a child being coaxed from a tantrum.

“Which is we and which the material of our flesh?”

“I don’t . . .”

He held their fingertips a few centimeters apart.

“All the atoms between us oscillate at incredible speeds. They bump into each other and shove each other around.” He tapped the air with a fingertip, careful to keep from touching her.

“So I touch an atom; it bumps into the next one; that one nudges another, and so on until . . .” He closed the gap and brushed her fingertips. “. . . we touch and we were never separate.”

“Those are just words!” She pulled her hand away from him.

“Much more than words, you know it, Med-tech Hali Ekel. We constantly exchange atoms with the universe, with the atmosphere, with food, with each other. There’s no way we can be separated.”

“But I don’t want just any atoms!”

“You have more choice than you think, lovely Hali.”

She studied him out of the corners of her eyes. “Are you just making these things up to entertain me?”

“I’m serious. Don’t I always tell you when I make up something?”

“Do you?”

“Always, Hali. I will make up a poem to prove it.” He tapped her wire ring lightly. “A poem about this.”

“Why’re you telling me your poems? You usually just lock them up on tapes or store them away in those old-fashioned glyph books of yours.”

“I’m trying to please you in the only way I can.”

“Then tell me your poem.”

He brushed her cheek beside the ring, then:

“With delicate rings of the gods

in our noses

we do not root in their garden.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“An ancient Earthside practice. Farmers put rings in the noses of their pigs to keep the pigs from digging out of their pens. Pigs dig with their noses as well as their feet. People called that kind of digging ‘rooting.’”

“So you’re comparing me to a pig.”

“Is that all you see in my poem?”

She sighed, then smiled as much at herself as at Kerro. “We’re a fine pair to be selected for breeding—the poet and the pig!”

He stared at her, met her gaze and, without knowing why, they were suddenly giggling, then laughing.

Presently, he lay back on the duff. “Ahhh, Hali, you are good for me.”

“I thought you might need some distraction. What’ve you been studying that keeps you so shut away?”

He scratched his head, recovered a brown twig of dead cedar. “I’ve been rooting into the ’lectrokelp.”

“That seaweed the Colony’s been having all the trouble with? Why would that interest you?”

“I’m always amazed at what interests me, but this may be right down my hatchway. The kelp, or some phase of it, appears to be sentient.”

“You mean it thinks?”

“More than that . . . probably much more.”

“Why hasn’t this been announced?”

“I don’t know for sure. I came across part of the information by accident and pieced together the rest. There’s a record of other teams sent out to study the kelp.”

“How did you find this report?”

“Well . . . I think it may be restricted for most people, but Ship seldom holds anything back from me.”

“You and Ship!”

“Hali . . .”

“Oh, all right. What’s in this report?”

“The kelp appears to have a language transmitted by light but we can’t understand it yet. And there’s something even more interesting. I can’t find out if there’s a current project to contact and study this kelp.”

“Doesn’t Ship . . .”

“Ship refers me to Colony HQ or to the Ceepee, but they don’t acknowledge my inquiries.”

“That’s nothing new. They don’t acknowledge most inquiries.”

“You been having trouble with them, too?”

“Just that Medical can’t get an explanation for all the gene sampling.”

“Gene sampling? How very curious.”

“Oakes is a very curious and very private person.”

“How about someone on the staff?”

“Lewis?” Her tone was derisive.

Kerro scratched his cheek reflectively.

“The ’lectrokelp and gene sampling, Hali, I don’t know about the gene sampling . . . that has a peculiar stink to it. But the kelp . . .”

She interrupted, excited: “This creature could have a soul . . . and it could WorShip.”

“A soul? Perhaps. But I thought when I saw that record: ‘Yes! This is why Ship brought us to Pandora.’”

“What if Oakes knows that the ’lectrokelp is the reason we’re here?”

Panille shook his head.

She gripped his arm. “Think of all the times Oakes has called us prisoners of Ship. He tells us often enough that Ship won’t let us leave. Why won’t he tell us why Ship brought us here?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know.”

“Ohhh, he knows.”

“Well, what can we do about it?”

She spoke without thinking: “We can’t do anything without going groundside.”

He pulled his arm away from her and dug his fingers into the humus. “What do we know about living groundside?”

“What do we know about living here?”

“Would you go down to the Colony with me, Hali?”

“You know I would but . . .”

“Then let’s apply for . . .”

“They won’t let me go. The groundside food shortage is critical; there are health problems. They’ve just increased our workload because they’ve sent some of our best people down.”

“We’re probably imagining monsters that don’t exist, but I’d still like to see the ’lectrokelp for myself.”

A high-pitched hum blurted from the ever-present pribox on the ground beside Hali. She pressed the response key.

“Hali . . .” There was a clatter, a buzz. Presently, the voice returned. “Sorry I dropped you. This is Winslow Ferry. Is that Kerro Panille with you, Hali?”

Hali stifled a laugh. The bumbling old fool could not even put in a call without stumbling over something. Kerro was caught by the direct reference to someone being with Hali. Had Ferry been listening? Many shipside suspected that sensors and portable communications equipment had been adapted for eavesdropping but this was his first direct clue. He took the pribox from her.

“This is Kerro Panille.”

“Ahhh, Kerro. Please report to my office within the hour. We have an assignment for you.”

“An assignment?”

There was no response. The connection had been broken.

“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Hali asked.

For answer, Kerro drew a blank page from his notebook, scribbled on it with a fade-stylus, then pointed to the pribox. “He was listening to us.”

She stared at the note.

Kerro said: “Isn’t that strange? I’ve never had an assignment before . . . except study assignments from Ship.”

Hali took the stylus from him, wrote: “Look out. If they do not want it known that the kelp thinks, you could be in danger.”

Kerro stood, blanked the page and restored it to his case. “Guess I’d better wander down to Ferry’s office and find out what’s happening.”

They walked most of the way back in silence, intensely aware of every sensor they passed, of the pribox at Hali’s hip. As they approached Medical, she stopped him.

“Kerro, teach me how to speak to Ship.”

“Can’t.”

“But . . .”

“It’s like your genotype or your color. Except for certain clones, you don’t get much choice in the matter.”

“Ship has to decide?”

“Isn’t that always the way, even with you? Do you respond to everyone who wants to talk to you?”

“Well, I know Ship must be very busy with . . .”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Ship either speaks to you or doesn’t.”

She digested this for a moment, nodded, then: “Kerro, do you really talk to Ship?”

There was no mistaking the resentment in her voice.

“You know I wouldn’t lie to you, Hali. Why’re you so interested in talking to Ship?”

“It’s the idea of Ship answering you. Not the commands we get over the ‘coders, but . . .”

“A kind of unlimited encyclopedia?”

“That, yes, but more. Does Ship talk to you through the ‘coders?”

“Not very often.”

“What is it like when . . .”

“It’s like a very distinctive voice in your head, just a bit clearer than your conscience.”

“That’s it?” She sounded disappointed.

“What did you expect? Trumpets and bells?”

“I don’t even know what my conscience sounds like!”

“Keep listening.” He brushed a finger against her ring, kissed her quickly, brotherly, then stepped through the hatch into the screening area for Ferry’s office.