The Children Star (21 page)

His throat was swollen so he could barely swallow.
The Spirit should grant me a world
, he had demanded once. Now he was losing the one world he had.

“Success!” Nibur Lethe
shon
spoke with authority, with
all the kind assurance of a Spirit Father. “This is, of course, only the beginning. Inland, across the continent, cleansing will probe deep beneath the crust, generating magma chambers to thrust the steam upward.” Volcanoes and geysers throughout the fields—the terrain would become unrecognizable. “The cleansing will continue over the next Prokaryan year, reducing the native biota by ninety-nine percent. Then we will seed the crust with thermophiles, microbes that live at steam temperature. The thermophiles will convert all the molecules in the soil to forms compatible with human physiology, while outgrowing the few native organisms that remain.”

Bronze Sky, Rod remembered. All of Bronze Sky had been terraformed this way. The resulting vulcanism had colored its sky for centuries.

“In the next stage, we inoculate the land with phase-one human-compatible life-forms, including mosses and lichens, annelid worms, and—”

“Brother Rod,” called T'kun from outside. “There's a visitor at the door. Hurry.”

Rod left the holostage, closing the door behind him to avoid the children seeing such unsettling sights. But how much longer could he shield them? From the nursery T'kela and Qumum were wailing for attention; he hoisted them up, one in each arm. T'kun whispered, “I don't like this visitor.”

“Sh, mind your manners.” The outer door was ajar; Rod pushed it out with his elbow. T'kun followed, trying to hide behind him while peeking out to see.

There stood an octopod. Its gray arms folded about whichever way, without an obvious head. Beyond, next to the llama barn, three more octopods emerged from a lightcraft that bore the cresting wave of Proteus.

“Greetings.” The octopod spoke in a monotone, advertising
its lack of sentience. “We are here to assist you in relocating to your new homestead in Chiron.”

Rod held the children tighter. His feet shifted instinctively for a defensive move, though no unarmed human could disable an octopod. “Greetings to you, and your master,” he spoke in the warmest tone he could manage; at this, of all times, he must honor the Spirit. “Please convey our deepest regret, for we do not intend to leave.”

The octopod seemed to pause, while the three others stood there threateningly. The babies began to whimper; Rod tried to soothe them. Whatever would those cursed machines do now? Try to take them by force?

“You have received your final thirty-day extension,” the octopod said at last. “Use your time well. We will remain available to help you relocate.”

So that was it. Another thirty days—was that from Mother Artemis? Why had she sent no neutrinogram? What if they did not let her return? Most incoming traffic had been canceled. For a free world of the Fold, any halt in traffic would be unthinkable. But Prokaryon was a colony world, subject to the Fold's protection—and its whim.

As the octopods left, Rod found himself shaking all over, and he set the babies down. T'kun came out and asked, “What does it mean, ‘relocate'?”

“ ‘Relocate” means to move your things to go live somewhere else.”

T'kun spread his hands. “Where else is there?”

The children would have to be told. If only Mother Artemis were back—but they could wait no longer. All their neighbors had gone by now, one way or another. There was no word from Diorite or Feldspar, who were trying to hide in the mountains and force postponement of the cleansing. A few dissidents from New Reyo sent out a manifesto, announcing an underground militia to “fight for
independence.” Scarcely practical, but it was good to see at least some of the Chiron colonists cared.

“Brother Rod,” called Geode, “there's a neutrinogram.”

“From Mother Artemis?”

“From our Most Reverend Father.”

The bearded Father spoke as always out of the snowy monochrome. “The Spirit be with you, Brother Geode, and Brother Rhodonite,” began the Most Reverend Father of the Sacred Order of the Spirit. “All our sympathy pours out for you, in your hour of trial. Mysterious are the ways of the Spirit; and who can say what our ultimate calling will be? We call on the Spirit to give you all strength in the face of the world's minions.

“Over the centuries, Callers of the Spirit have ever been subject to persecution. Our sacred witness ever inspires hatred in those who are deaf to higher things. Pity them, my Brothers. Pity them—and let them have their dominion in this world. It is hard to leave a place of attachment, but you will prosper in your new home. Be sure that all of the Fathers of Dolomoth will hold you up to the Spirit in our hearts.”

Rod and Geode sat still for a long while after the message had melted into snow. The message troubled Rod deeply, more for what it lacked than what it said, but he was not about to criticize the Most Reverend Father. Besides, what else could be done? He took a breath. “The time has come,” he said. “We have to tell the children.”

“Yes, but . . . how do we tell them?”

“We'll tell the older ones first. They'll help with the younger ones.”

That evening Rod and Geode met with Haemum and Chae. The rain pattered outside, and a helicoid sought shelter under the window frame. Chae sat straight, a long-legged
youth just past his tenth birthday; Haemum was nearing her thirteenth. More adults than children, Rod thought. Geode replayed the neutrinogram for them. The two young colonists watched, their mouths small. When it was over, there was silence. A helicoid in the window scratched at the pane, trying to get in.

“You know what's going on,” Rod said at last. “The Fold wants us to leave our home.”

Chae nodded quickly. “The octopods and all. But Reverend Mother will put a stop to it.”

Rod swallowed hard. “The ways of the Spirit can seem obscure at times. Yet even Reverend Mother must obey.”

Haemum frowned. “A lot of folks don't like what's going on, even people on Valedon and Bronze Sky. I saw, on the holo. They say it's wrong; that our whole world could die.”

“That's true. But what they think may not matter in time for our colony.”

Silence lengthened. Chae looked down, his forehead knotted in premature wrinkles.

“How can they do it?” Haemum wondered. “All the singing-trees, and all those flocks of helicoids. Even the tumblerounds—Brother Rod, you and I always took such care with them, though we could have used the hide for shoes.”

Rod started to smile, then he turned cold. If the tumblerounds grew angry, who would they punish? How would “the masters” know who to blame? Could the children be safe anywhere on this planet?

Geode's eyestalks twisted and untwisted, then he extended two of his arms. “Sister, you've always done the best you can. It's not your fault; never believe that. It's all a matter of adults. Foolish adults—and even more foolish sentients.”

“But what matters is the Spirit,” insisted Haemum. “What does the Spirit call on us to do?”

“The Spirit,” said Rod, “calls on us to obey worldly authorities.”

“Well that's not how the Spirit calls me.” Haemum crossed her arms and her voice hardened. “The Spirit calls me to flee into the forest. The land can't be ‘cleansed' before we're found.”

Chae nodded. “Me too.”

Taken aback, Rod paused. “You are brave indeed; but you'll only gain the few extra days to find you. Think of the little ones.”

“Send the little ones back to Station,” said Haemum. “The rest of us can hide our tracks by crossing tumbleround territory. Tumblerounds mess up any trail, and their secretions foul nanoplast; even sentients refuse to follow.”

Rod glanced at Geode, but his eyestalks only twisted lamely in the face of this insubordination. For a moment Rod wondered. “You have grown into adults, speaking adult words. When Reverend Mother returns, you may tell her your calling.”

The next day he began to sort and pack—the lathe and polishers, the grain mill, the few extra clothes. The llamas were another problem; he had no idea how the independent-minded beasts would be moved. Meanwhile, the sky was crossed by huge transport craft to set up further sites for cleansing all over Spirilla. Their plasma spikes pierced the air, and their sonic booms terrified the children. The little ones had to stay indoors; the sapphire mine lay empty. Octopods stalked the grounds of the colony, as if to intimidate them. Rod's sense of disgust deepened.

As Geode worked beside him, the sentient suddenly came to life. “It's Mother Artemis—I've got her signal!”

“She made it back? Haemum will fetch her—” Rod
stopped. The old lightcraft still lay out in the field where it crashed.

“She got a lift—look there!” Above in the sky a plasma spike grew, descending surely to the colony. “It's Quark.”

Somehow all the children seemed to know in an instant that Mother Artemis was home, and they came running and crawling outside to see her. Her nano-strands of hair extended to those her arms could not reach.

“Verid said we could stay on,” Mother Artemis told Rod, when at last they had a moment to breathe. Her voice alone was such a relief to hear. “I would have sent a neutrinogram, but we need to save expense.”

He shuddered to think what a chunk of their budget her ticket had cost.

“But the octopods gave us thirty days,” Geode told her.

“Verid is two hundred light-years away. She warned us things might be made . . . difficult.”

Rod added, “The octopods have kept us inside. We can't tend the fields. How can we last?”

She did not answer.

Geode told her, “There's the neutrinogram from the Most Reverend Father.”

Mother Artemis viewed the neutrinogram, as best she could with the toddlers creeping up into her lap and down again. When it was over, she nodded slowly. “We will obey. We will pack our things, very slowly. We must live each day here for itself, as if it were our last, and as if we had thousands to come. When the time comes, who knows? The future lies behind a shroud.”

Rod clenched his fists. “Haemum and Chae say they have a different ‘calling.' They want to escape.”

“How wonderful that young adults call for themselves. I will speak with them.” She lifted baby T'kela over her
shoulder. “This one has certainly grown. How are the others; how is 'jum?”

Geode's eyestalks straightened. “ 'jum is visiting Sarai—at her request, imagine!” He told the story.

Rod said, “We were short-handed, and it seemed best. But now that you're home, we'll fetch her back immediately.”

“Is she happy there?” Mother Artemis asked.

“Sarai has not taken calls.”

“Then they must both be content. Would they have kept you ignorant, were it otherwise?”

He had to admit this was so.

“Scandalous,” muttered Geode. “The last kind of role model 'jum needs.”

“We'll see,” said Mother Artemis. “For now, at least, Sarai will have to take care of the child's lifeshaping, and save us the expense.” She looked him over carefully. “Brother Rod, are you holding your weight on Prokaryan food?”

“Nearly.”

“You must go for your checkup immediately. Take Qumum and T'kela, too; you're all overdue.”

Through the rotating connector, Rod held T'kela tight to convince the infant he was not falling into space. Qumum seemed unconcerned, crowing and solemnly examining his fingers. At the gate they met Khral, bearing Quark's eyespeaker; the lightcraft had been running an experiment at Station, all the while during his trip to pick up the colonists. No wonder sentients made humans feel inadequate.

“Look at the babies,” Khral exclaimed. “They've grown twice as big.” She gave Rod a quick hug, and her
cheek brushed his. “You know, Three Crows is just dying to see them again.”

“It's a pleasure.” Rod hoped he did not look as confused as he felt.

“I'm so sorry about—oh, everything.” Her eyelids fluttered beneath her simian brow. “Pushing you all off your own homestead—how could the Fold allow it?”

“For better farmland,” he said bitterly. He took a deep breath and tried not to think how her arms had felt around him. “How is your project, Khral? Are the micros still growing?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones from Sarai. You mean, you have others?”

“Oh, there are thousands of strains. Sarai's strain is a completely new species, unlike those from the singing-tree pods. We even named the strain for her,
Sarai phycozoöidensis
. That smoothed her feathers a bit. I'm trying to get her up here for a seminar.”

Rod smiled. “Good luck.”

“They're growing, all right. We were making
such
progress decoding them, until Station pulled me off the project to isolate that spaceship bug, the one Three Crows got sick on.”

“ ‘Spacer's spit-up,' they call it,” chirped Quark at her shoulder.

Khral wrinkled her brow at the eyespeaker. “That's right, rub it in. Anyway—if you've got a moment, I'll show you what we've learned so far.”

They entered the laboratory. An oblong vessel of culture stood on a stand, amid several angular instruments. Khral tapped it gently; it shook like gelatin. “That's our tumbleround soup in there—the stuff the microzoöids grow in, remember. They're incredibly active chemically; they put out
polymers to gel the whole thing, and excrete all kinds of fibers.”

Rod's scalp prickled. “Did you . . . chop up a tumbleround, or what?”

“We snipped a bunch of vegetative root-limbs. You know, the ones the tumbleround extends forward and pulls up behind, as it travels. They break naturally anyhow; the tumbleround doesn't seem to mind. The micros grow well in the stuff, but slowly, by microbial standards—about twenty-four hours to reproduce, a generation time of one day. Anyway, let's magnify them.”