Limits, page 18
The expedition had crossed a great bay of the Ring Sea in twelve hours. Rachel could cross it in three; but she’d be rid of what followed her moments after she left shore. She had heard Lightning mention the parasitic fungus that floated on this arm of the Ring Sea, that was deadly to fuxes and any Medean life…unless the flare had burned it away.
The flare was long over. She rode through the usual red-lit landscape, in a circle of the white light from headlights, taillights, searchlight. She hungered and thirsted for the light of farming lamps, the color of Sol, of ship’s sunlights; the sign that she had come at last to Touchdown City.
But she hungered more for the fungus that would kill the rock demons and the Daddy-long-legs. She hated them for their persistence, their monstrous shapes, their lust for her flesh. She hated them for being themselves! Let them rot, slow or quick. Then three hours to cross the bay, half an hour more to find and navigate that rubble-strewn pass, and downhill toward the bluewhite light.
That was the shoreline ahead.
Ominously blood-colored beasts milled there. One by one they turned toward the howler.
Rachel cursed horribly and without imagination. She had seen these things before. The expedition’s searchlights had pinned a tremendous thousand-legged worm, and these things had been born from its flesh. They were dog-sized, tailless quadrupeds. Flare time must have caught a lot of the great myriapods, brought vast populations of parasites to life, for this many to be still active this long after the flare.
More than active. They leapt like fleas…toward Rachel. She turned to heatward. Weak as she felt now, one could knock her out of the saddle.
Her entourage turned with her. Two more rock demons had dropped out. Eight followed, and the great spider, and a loyal population of proto-mice, exposed now that the bushes had ended. And hordes of insects. Rachel’s reason told her that she was taking this all too personally. But what did they see in her? She wasn’t that much meat, and the spider wasn’t that hungry. It reached down now and then to pluck a proto-mouse, and once it plucked up a rock demon, with equal nonchalance. The demon raved and snapped and died within the spider’s clamshell mouth, but it clawed out an eye, too.
And the demons had the proto-mice for food, but they had to streak down to the water every so often to cool off, and fight their way back through the blood-red quadrupeds, eating what they killed. The mice had fed well on the yellow bushes, and who knew about the tiny might-be-insects? What did they all want with Rachel?
After a couple of hours the shore curved south, and now it was white tinged with other colors: a continuous crust of salt. Rachel’s climate suit worked well, but her face and hands were hot. The wind was hot with Argo-heat and the heat of a recent flare. The Daddy-long-legs had solved its heat problem. It waded offshore, out of reach of the red parasites, pacing her.
It was five hours before the shore turned sharply to coldward. Rachel turned with it, staying well back from shore, where blood-colored quadrupeds still prowled. She worried now about whether she could find the pass. There would be black, tightly curled ground cover, and trees foliated in gray hair with a spoon-shaped silhouette; and sharp-edged young mountains to the south. But she felt stupid with fatigue, and she had never adjusted to the light and never would: dull red from Argo, pink from two red dwarf suns nearing sunset.
More hours passed. She saw fewer of the red parasites. Once she caught the Daddy-long-legs with another rock demon in its clamshell jaws. The hexapod’s own teeth tore at the side of the spider’s face…the side that was already blind. Flare-loving forms used themselves up fast. Those trees…
Rachel swung her searchlight around. The ground cover, the “black man’s hair,” was gone. A black fog of insects swarmed over bare dirt. But the trees were hairy, with a spoon-shaped silhouette. How far had those trees spread on Medea? She could be in the wrong place.…
She turned left, uphill.
There were low mountains ahead, young mountains, all sharp edges. A kilometer short, Rachel turned to parallel them. The pass had been so narrow. She could go right past it. She slowed down, then, impatient, speeded up again. Narrow it had been, but straight. Perhaps she would see farming lamps shining through it. She noticed clouds forming, and began cursing to drive away thoughts of rain.
When the light came it was more than a glimmer.
She saw a sun, a white sun, a real sun, shining against the mountains. As if flare time had come again! But Phrixus and Helle were pink dots sinking in the west. She swerved toward the glare. The rising ground slowed her, and she remembered the spider plodding patiently behind her; she didn’t turn to look.
The glare grew terribly bright. She slowed further, puzzled and frightened. She pulled the goggles up over her eyes. That was better, but still she saw nothing but that almighty glare at the end of a bare rock pass.
She rode into the pass, into the glare, into a grounded sun.
Her eyes adjusted.…
The rock walls were lined with vehicles: flyers, tractor probes, trucks, crawlers converted to firefighting and ambulance work, anything that could move on its own was there, and each was piled with farming lamps and batteries, and all the farming lamps were on. An aisle had been left between them. Rachel coasted down the aisle. She thought she could make out man-shaped shadows in the red darkness beyond.
They were human. By the pale mane around his head she recognized Mayor Curly Jackson.
Finally, finally, she slowed the howler, let it sink to the ground, and stepped off. Human shapes came toward her. One was Mayor Curly. He took her arm, and his grip drove pain even through the fog of fatigue. “You vicious little idiot,” he said.
She blinked.
He snarled and dropped her arm and turned to face the pass. Half the population of Touchdown City stood looking down the aisle of light, ignoring Rachel…pointedly. She didn’t try to shoulder between them. She climbed into the howler’s saddle to see.
They were there: half a dozen rock demons grouped beneath the long legs of the spider; a black carpet of proto-mice; all embedded in a cloud of bright motes, insects. The monsters strolled up the aisle of light, and the watching men backed away. It wasn’t necessary. Where the light stopped, Rachel’s entourage stopped too.
Mayor Curly turned. “Did it once occur to you that something might be following your lights? Your flare-colored lights? You went through half a dozen domains, and every one had its own predators and its own plant eaters, and you brought them all here, you gutless moron! How many kinds of insects are there in that swarm? How many of them would eat our crops down to the ground before it poisoned them? Those little black things on the ground, they’re plant-eaters too, aren’t they? All flare-loving forms, and you brought them all here to breed! The next time a flare goes off would have been the last time any Medean human being had anything to eat! You’d be safe, of course. All you’d have to do is fly on to another star…”
The only way a human being can turn off her ears is to turn off her mind. Rachel didn’t know whether she fainted or not. Probably she was led away rather than carried. Her next memory began some time later, beneath the light of home, with the sounds and the smells of home around her, strapped down in free fall aboard the web ramship Morven.
On the curve of the wall the mobile power plant and one of the crawlers had finally left the realms of crusted salt. They ran over baked dirt now. The howler was moored in the center of the ground-effect raft, surrounded by piles of crates. It would be used again only by someone willing to wear a spacesuit. The four remaining fuxes were in the crawlers. Argo was out of camera range, nearly overhead. The view shifted and dipped with the motion of the trailing crawler.
“No, the beasts didn’t actually do any harm. We did more damage to ourselves,” Mayor Curly said. He wasn’t looking at Captain Borg. He was watching the holo wall. A cup of coffee cooled in his hand. “We moved every single farming lamp out of the croplands and set them all going in the pass, right? And the flare-loving life forms just stayed there till they died. They aren’t really built to take more than a couple of hours of flare time, what they’d get if both suns flared at once, and they aren’t built to walk away from flarelight either. Maybe some of the insects bred. Maybe the big forms were carrying seeds and insect eggs in their hair. We know the six-legged types tried to breed as soon as we turned off the lamps, but they weren’t in shape for it by then. It doesn’t matter now. I suppose I should…”
He turned and looked at her. “In fact, I do thank you most sincerely for melting that pass down to lava. There can’t be anything living in it now.”
“So you came out of it with no damage.”
“Not really. The locusts hurt us. We moved the farming lamps in a hurry, but we took our own good time getting them back in place. That was a mistake. Some flare-hating bugs were just waiting to taste our corn.”
“Too bad.”
“And a nest of B-70s killed two children in the oak grove.”
Captain Borg’s mind must have been elsewhere. “You really reamed Rachel out.”
“I did,” Curly said, without satisfaction and without apology.
“She was almost catatonic. We had to take her back up to Morven before she’d talk to anyone. Curly, is there any way to convince her she didn’t make a prize idiot of herself?”
“At a guess I’d say no. Why would anyone want to?”
Captain Borg was using her voice of command now. “I dislike sounding childish, especially to you, Curly, but baby talk may be my best option. The problem is that Rachel didn’t have any fun on Medea.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“She won’t even talk about coming down. She didn’t like Medea. She didn’t like the light, or the animals, or the way the fuxes bred. Too bloody. She went through thirty-odd hours of hell with your power plant expedition, and came back tired to death and being chased by things out of a nightmare, and when she finally got to safety you called her a dangerous incompetent idiot and made her believe it. She didn’t even get laid on Medea—”
“What?”
“Never mind, it’s trivial. Or maybe it’s absolutely crucial, but skip it. Curly, I have sampled the official memory tape of Medea, the one we would have tried to peddle when we got back into the trade circuit—”
Curly’s eyes got big. “O-o-oh shit!”
“It comes to you, does it? That tape was an ugly experience. It’s unpleasant, and uncomfortable, and humiliating, and exhausting, and scary, and there’s no sex. That’s Rachel’s view of Medea, and there isn’t any other, and nobody’s going to enjoy it.”
Curly had paled. “What do we do? Put Rachel’s equipment on somebody else?”
“I wouldn’t wear it. No rammer is really manic about her privacy, but there are limits. What about a Medean?”
“Who?”
“Don’t you have any compulsive exhibitionists?”
Curly shook his head. “I’ll ask around, but…no, maybe I won’t. Doesn’t it tell you something, that she couldn’t get screwed? What man could go with a woman, knowing she’ll be peddling the memory of it to millions of strangers? Yuk.”
The crawlers had stopped. Human shapes stepped outside, wearing skintight pressure suits and big transparent bubbles over their heads. They moved around to the ground-effect raft and began opening crates.
“It’s no good. Curly, it’s not easy to find people to make memory tapes. For a skill tape you need a genuine expert with twenty or thirty years experience behind him, plus a sharp-edged imagination and a one-track mind and no sense of privacy. And Rachel’s a tourist. She’s got all of that, and she can learn new skills at the drop of a hat. She’s very reactive, very emotive.”
“And she very nearly wiped us out.”
“She’ll be making tapes till she dies. And every time something reminds her of Medea, her entire audience is going to know just what she thinks of the planet.”
“What’ll happen to us?”
“Oh…we could be worried over nothing. I’ve seen fads before. This whole memory tape thing could be ancient history by the time we get back to civilization.”
Civilization? As opposed to what? Curly knew the answer to that one. He went back to watching the wall.
“And even if it’s not…I’ll be back. I’ll bring another walking memory like Rachel, but more flexible. Okay?”
“How long?”
“One circuit, then back to Medea.”
Sixty to seventy earthyears. “Good,” said Curly, because there was certainly no way to talk her into any shorter journey. He watched men in silver suits setting up the frames for the solar mirrors. There was not even wind in the Hot End, and apparently no life at all. They had worried about that. But Curly saw nothing that could threaten Touchdown City’s power supply for hundreds of years to come.
If Medea was to become a backwash of civilization, a land of peasants, then it was good that the farmlands were safe. Curly turned to Janice Borg to say so. But the rammer’s eyes were seeing nothing on Medea, and her mind was already approaching Horvendile.
THE LOCUSTS
with Steve Barnes
There are no men on Tau Ceti IV.
Near the equator on the ridged ribbon of continent which reaches north and south to cover both poles, the evidence of Man still shows. There is the landing craft, a great thick saucer with a rounded edge, gaping doors and vast empty space inside. Ragged clumps of grass and scrub vegetation surround its base, now. There is the small town where they lived, grew old, and died: tall stone houses, a main street of rock fused with atomic fire, a good deal of machinery whose metal is still bright. There is the land itself, overgrown but still showing the traces of a square arrangement that once marked it as farmland.
And there is the forest, reaching north and south along the sprawling ribbon of continent, spreading even to the innumerable islands which form two-thirds of Ridgeback’s land mass. Where forest cannot grow, because of insufficient water or because the carefully bred bacteria have not yet built a sufficient depth of topsoil, there is grass, an exceptionally hardy hybrid of Buffalo and Cord with an abnormal number of branching roots, developing a dense and fertile sod.
There are flocks of moas, resurrected from a lost New Zealand valley. The great flightless birds roam freely, sharing their grazing land with expanding herds of wild cattle and buffalo.
There are things in the forest. They prefer it there, but will occasionally shamble out into the grasslands and sometimes even into the town. They themselves do not understand why they go: there is no food, and they do not need building materials or other things which may be there for the scavenging. They always leave the town before nightfall arrives.
When men came the land was as barren as a tabletop.
Doc and Elise were among the last to leave the ship. He took his wife’s hand and walked down the ramp, eager to feel alien loam between his toes. He kept his shoes on. They’d have to make the loam first.
The other colonists were exceptionally silent, as if each were afraid to speak. Not surprising, Doc thought. The first words spoken on Ridgeback would become history.
The robot probes had found five habitable worlds besides Ridgeback in Earth’s neighborhood. Two held life in more or less primitive stages, but Ridgeback was perfect. There was one-celled life in Ridgeback’s seas, enough to give the planet an oxygenating atmosphere; and no life at all on land. They would start with a clean slate.
So the biologists had chosen what they believed was a representative and balanced ecology. A world’s life was stored in the cargo hold now, in frozen fertilized eggs and stored seeds and bacterial cultures, ready to go to work.
Doc looked out over his new home, the faint seabreeze stinging his eyes. He had known Ridgeback would be barren, but he had not expected the feel of a barren world to move him.
The sky was bright blue, clouds shrouding Tau Ceti, a sun wider and softer than the sun of Earth. The ocean was a deeper blue, flat and calm. There was no dirt. There was dust and sand and rock, but nothing a farming man would call dirt. There were no birds, no insects. The only sound was that of sand and small dust-devils dancing in the wind, a low moan almost below the threshold of human hearing.
Doc remembered his college geology class’s fieldtrip to the Moon. Ridgeback wasn’t dead as Luna was dead. It was more like his uncle’s face, after the embalmers got through with him. It looked alive, but it wasn’t.
Jase, the eldest of them and the colony leader, raised his hand and waited. When all eyes were on him he crinkled his eyes happily, saving his biggest smile for his sister Cynnie, who was training a holotape camera on him. “We’re here, people,” his voice boomed in the dead world’s silence. “It’s good, and it’s ours. Let’s make the most of it.”
There was a ragged cheer and the colonists surged toward the cargo door of the landing craft. The lander was a flattish dome now, its heat shield burned almost through, its Dumbo-style atomic motor buried in dust. It had served its purpose and would never move again. The great door dropped and became a ramp. Crates and machinery began to emerge on little flatbed robot trucks.
Elise put her arm around her husband’s waist and hugged him. She murmured, “It’s so empty.”
“So far.” Doc unrolled a package of birth control pills, and felt her flinch.
“Two years before we can have children.”
Did she mean it as a question? “Right,” he said. They had talked it through too often, in couples and in groups, in training and aboard ship. “At least until Jill gets the ecology going.”
“Uh huh.” An impatient noise.
Doc wondered if she believed it. At twenty-four, tall and wiry and with seven years of intensive training behind him, he felt competent to handle most emergencies. But children, and babies in particular, were a problem he could postpone.
