The Spheres of Heaven

“He’s right,” Dag Korin said. “Go and eat. I’m not so sure about the nap. We have to leave the poor old Hero’s Return as soon as possible. The place won’t be habitable much longer.”

The lights flickered, as though emphasizing his point. Chan nodded and left the control room, heading toward the bow of the ship. He had hoped to be left alone, but he should have known better. Deb followed him into the corridor.

“I haven’t had anything to eat, either,” she said. “If you’re going to have a meal, I thought that we might—”

“Actually, I’m not.” Chan halted. “Not going to eat, I mean. I’m too rushed. And I need some time alone.”

He saw the expression on her face, and went on, “I have to record exactly what the Malacostracans said to me, while it’s still fresh in my mind. It’s difficult to do that when other people are around.”

“I see.” She seemed ready to say more, but instead she turned abruptly and hurried back the way that they had come.

Chan resisted the urge to go after her. He did need time alone, even if it was not for the reason he had given Deb. He needed time to think, and then to create a crucial document. He ducked away into a side chamber, once used as a small-arms supply room but now empty and deserted. Water had seeped in from some unseen crack, leaving the floor slick and treacherous. Two of the three lights were no longer working, and the remaining one glowed faint and feeble.

Chan leaned against the wall, reviewed what he intended to do, and made a decision. He dared not tell Deb his plan, much as he would like to; and because of that he could not see her again before he left the Hero’s Return. Which meant that he would not see her again, ever.

The thought froze his soul. He left the little armory and moved along the length of the ship until he came to the forward observation chamber. In another life, the view from here had been of stars and glowing gas clouds and pinwheeling galaxies. It was from here that he and Elke Siry had watched Ceres fall behind, and he knew that their long journey had begun.

Now Chan saw nothing ahead but the murky waters of Limbo. He said loudly, “Is the computer working in here?”

The audio outlet replied, SERVICE IN THIS LOCATION IS GUARANTEED FOR THE NEXT TWENTY-ONE HOURS, BUT NOT BEYOND.

“That will be more than enough. I want you to record what I say, then make a single printed copy. After I review that document and make changes, I want a single final printed output, sealed in an envelope. No copies.”

THERE IS NO OUTPUT UNIT AT THIS LOCATION. THE NEAREST IS IN ROOM I-293, THIRTY-EIGHT METERS AFT ON THIS LEVEL.

“That will be fine. I’ll pick it up from there. Prepare to record.”

READY FOR INPUT.

Chan took a deep breath. “To General Dag Korin, from Chan Dalton. Some of my actions in the next twenty-four hours will be useless unless they are accompanied by very specific actions on your part. Let me first define my plan. I intend to proceed as follows …”

He spoke, calmly but with numerous pauses, for the next hour. The review and revisions took even longer. By the time that Chan finished he was feeling the hunger that he had pretended to earlier. He was light-headed from lack of food. He also had to solve one other problem: how was the document that he had created to be delivered to Dag Korin, after Chan left the ship and not before? The logical answer was Deb Bisson, but maybe that wasn’t logical at all. Maybe it only reflected his aching need to see her one last time.

When Chan left the observation chamber the interior of the Hero’s Return seemed like the dead ghost ship that it was soon to become. The corridors were empty, and Chan felt reluctant to disturb their silence. He was intending to spend most of the night in a suit, alone in the dark waters of Limbo, waiting for the time when he could again go ashore. He knew it would be unpleasant; but he could face that prospect, and what lay beyond, more easily than the next few hours on the dying ship.

He walked quietly back toward the control room, the sealed envelope held close to his chest. He was passing one of the unused passenger suites, in a location where none of the team had living quarters, when he heard someone talking.

“ … be working. When all the others are so busy …”

It was Bony Rombelle’s voice. Chan realized that the Bun and Liddy Morse had not been on board the Hero’s Return when everyone else chose living quarters. They must have settled here, farther forward.

Liddy — easier to hear then Bony — said, “They’re not all busy, they’re resting. Nothing is going to happen until tomorrow morning. We’ll be resting, too. Afterwards. Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I do! I have, ever since I first met you.”

“Well, then.”

“But to do it now — it seems such a bad time. The ship is disintegrating, and if we reach the shore the Mallies are more likely to kill us than help us. By tomorrow night we could be dead.”

“So this could be our last night. What would you rather be thinking when we go ashore tomorrow: We did what we both wanted to do, and it was absolutely wonderful, and now we can face whatever comes next? Or we passed up our chance last night, and we didn’t do anything, and now maybe we never will?”

“Oh, Liddy. You know what I’d rather …”

Chan moved on. He felt uncomfortable, an unwitting audience to private words that no one else was intended to hear. And yet, oddly enough, it solved his own problem.

He walked on, past the control room, past dark chambers that once contained monstrous weapons systems, past the engine room, past the supercooled nerve center of the failing computer, until at last he came to the quarters that he and Deb Bisson shared.

The final steps were the hardest. He went in, half hoping that Deb would not be there; but she was, lying facedown on the bed. He walked forward, leaned over, and placed his hand on the small of her back.

That was a dangerous thing to do with a weapons master like Deb, who relied for survival on instinctive reaction. It told Chan something when Deb did not move.

He said quietly, “I’m sorry for what I told you after the meeting. I really did need time to myself, but it was to write a letter. This letter. I want you to hold it for me and give it to Dag Korin after I leave the ship.”

Before Chan overheard Bony Rombelle and Liddy Morse’s private conversation, he had intended to stop at that. He would see Deb one last time, ask her to deliver his letter, and leave. Instead he went on, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but what I did was horrible and wrong. I want to say I’m sorry. And I’d like to explain why I did it, and what I must do next. And I want to tell you why.”

She sat up to face him. Looking into her sad brown eyes he found himself telling her everything, in a tide of words that he could not hold back.

As he spoke her face filled with comprehension, then misery, and finally despair. She shook her head.

Chan put his arms around her. “I know. But it is the only possible answer. And I’m the only one who can do it.”

He expected an argument, maybe a denial. Instead she pushed her long dark hair back from her face, lay down again, and said, “Chan, come and hold me.”

“I will.” He leaned forward and felt the room spin about him. How long was it since he had eaten? “I will lie down. But if I could just have something to eat — anything at all.” That would surely be the last straw, the final insult. “Deb, I’m sorry, but if I don’t have food—”

“You stay there and take it easy. I’ll make something for you. And for me, too. I’m famished. I was hungry when I followed you from the meeting, but after you sent me away I couldn’t eat a thing.”

Before Chan could reply she sat up and slipped off the bed in one graceful movement. As he watched her preparing food in the little galley, he was possessed by a sense of longing and loss and vanishing reality. The feeling persisted when Deb lifted loaded plates and glasses and came to sit cross-legged opposite him. The food tasted fine. The wine was as pleasant as ever. Was this how a condemned man savored his final meal, pretending that it was no different from a thousand others?