New Horizons

This Peaceful State of War-4

I’ve come here to observe, not to solve everyone’s problems. How could I possibly stop this war without the massive slaughter Brother Copernicus wants me to order, or the massive slaughter that will happen when we withdraw? The Hern or the Pari? Since when does humanity have the right to determine who will live? Whatever we decide at that Solaris board meeting, we will have blood on our hands. We don’t want interference, but we’re already in too deep.

A light flickers on my PAD that lies face-up on the desk. The beamsweep has crawled through our little section of space and delivered its payload. There is a flashing message icon on the screen. I haul the file through the de-scrambler to read it.

The results from my earlier query about the white powder. It’s titanium oxide, the same stuff that’s used in paints and sun protection. It’s intensely white. I knew all of that already. Titanium makes up a surprisingly high proportion of biomass on Bianca, about 98% of it in the form of oxide. It appears to be taking part of the function of carbon as building material, since Bianca is quite low on carbon.

I sigh with the irrelevance of it. There is so much more pressing stuff I should have asked, and the next beamsweep, damn, is not due for another three days, by which time Armageddon might have broken out, if not outside, within the mission.

I wake up at banging on the door loud enough to rattle the walls of the room. I open my eyes and I still can’t see a thing. There is an odd rumble on the roof.

"Who is it?"

My voice is rough with sleep. I sit up, realizing the rumble on the roof is torrential rain. What is the time? Where is the light switch?

I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and reach for the crutches. Can’t find them. Stumble for the door. Oh damn, my knee.

More banging.

"Hello? Envoy?"

I open the door. Brother Tycho is in the corridor.

"It’s about Brother Copernicus," he says.

My mind flashes with unpleasant scenarios. Brother Tycho’s found out what happened in that deserted lab. Worse, he’s found out what Brother Copernicus said to me—

"He’s dead. Shot himself in the head."

I want to protest. He’s okay; I only saw him just before going to bed, but I know it is true. The pieces of the puzzle come together. He was a broken man allowing himself one long-denied pleasure before taking his own life. After losing his faith, there was nothing left for him.

I find the light switch and my crutches, and slip the protective robe over my head.

Brother Tycho takes me through the dark corridors to the brothers’ sleeping quarters: row upon row of cell-like rooms, possibly even smaller than mine. What is the big deal with the rabbit cages? Apart from extruder materials, there isn’t much extra running cost, and with the level of UV, certainly none that can’t be generated locally. Give these men a pleasant living environment and they might actually stay sane.

Brother Copernicus lies on the bed on his back, his eyes closed. He looks asleep except his chest isn’t moving. The gun lies nestled between his neck and shoulder, the safety still off. There is little damage from the shot as I know there wouldn’t be with plasma weapons. Just an intense red patch of skin on his left temple. I imagine him lying there, holding the gun to his head and pushing the trigger. His body convulsing as the charge hits. My eyes mist over.

Clumsy as I am, I kneel on the side of the bed and take his hand, cold and stiff. The hand that caressed me only a few hours ago. My lips twitch involuntarily.

I rummage in my pockets. Amongst keys and data chips I find a piece of "wood" I picked up from the Pari camp. Somehow, it seems appropriate as farewell token. I place it on his robe, letting my hand linger on his unmoving chest, seeing him surrounded by the small Pari. I don’t think he understood them, but he cared. He cared too much.

"Don’t remove it from him," I say to Brother Tycho while I struggle to my feet.

At Solaris, we farewell people by placing tokens with the body before incineration.

He says nothing as I walk past him into the corridor, desperate not to let him see my face or the tears running down my cheeks.

I’m not a few steps gone when someone yells down the corridor, "Alarm! The Hern have escaped from the compound!"

Someone else shouts, "Everyone mobilize!"

Within seconds, brothers are rushing into the corridor, pulling on robes and strapping on masks. In the throng of bodies, a brother hands me a plasma gun. "Safe to use at night," he says before moving on.

It turns out the brothers have another secret weapon: a vehicle, which they say also can only be used at night. I wonder why, but want to waste no one’s time with questions.

We pile in. The door hisses shut; the air lock hums open. Red signs flash on the walls, "Beware Fire Danger." The driver shifts the truck into gear, and it jerks forward. Rain pelts down on the cabin, literally as if someone is hosing the windows. I think I understand why guns and the truck are safe to use at night: nothing burns long in this downpour. One of the brothers is yelling instructions and safety precautions. No one is to take off their gloves and head protection at any time. I know. The rain is so acid it causes blisters.

The vehicle jumps over the uneven ground. Wheels churn in slippery mud. I hang onto the handhold, alternately squashed into the side by the weight of bodies on my bench, or holding on so I don’t squash the people next to me.

First stop: the Hern camp.

The door opens, letting in a cloud of humidity. I hang onto my mask, feeling claustrophobic again. A camp guard yells over the pelting rain.

"No damage to the perimeter... all asleep..."

The door shuts again. Everyone is talking and with the noise of the engine and the rain, I’m missing half the conversation, but I gather that the Hern who have mounted an attack on the Pari did not come from the detention area.

We arrive at the Pari camp. The cabin door opens and everyone is pushing to get out. Onto the muddy ground, where my crutches promptly sink into the soft soil. Someone helps me into the hall of the central building, where we’re out of the rain. A small group of Pari waits there in a pool of light from a neon storm lamp strung onto the lift ropes. I’m wondering where the rest of the Pari are and why they haven’t gathered here to be together and safer in the face of an attack. Maybe the rest of the brothers will bring them here.

Brother Tycho is speaking to another missionary.

"Who were these Hern? Where did they come from?"

The missionary doesn’t know. Says he’s not familiar enough with the Hern to be able to tell individuals apart.

The Pari just stand there, staring. Surely, they know these Hern well enough to recognize them?

"Anyone here who can speak a few words of their language?" I ask.

A brother comes forward.

"We can protect you from the Hern," I say, and the brother translates. "You have to help us. I want you to point out the individuals who attacked so they can be punished. If we can catch these killers, then we can start negotiating peace."

"Peace," one of them repeats and drops to the ground, knees in the mud.

"Peace," says another, and within a few seconds, all the Pari are on their knees, murmuring peace until the sound mingles with the teeming rain.

I feel like tearing my hair out. At least Brother Copernicus could make some sort of sense out of them. "You want peace? Then tell me, who came here? Where did they come from?"

They stop their murmuring, eyeing me from under deep frowns. Angry, although I don’t know why.

Someone is shouting elsewhere in the camp. A flash. A zap of fire.

We peer into the rain. To my horror, it falls less heavily than before.

Dark shapes run through the camp, too tall to be Pari. All around me, brothers unlock their weapons with definitive clicks.

"Any news from the others?" I ask a brother who’s wearing a headset.

Whatever answer he would have given drowns in shouts from the Pari camp. The brother runs, pulling his crossbow from over his shoulder. A few steps into the rain, he stops and takes aim. Shoots. Runs forward. Shoots again.

Too late: the Hern swarm all over the gathering house, where the Pari are still sitting on their knees.

I scream, "Get up! Fight!" I find a bundle of sticks and toss them into the group, but the Pari just sit there, passive, still murmuring peace.

Brothers discharge guns at random, but the Hern take no notice. They take hits, but walk on, oblivious to their wounds. Their comrades are killed, but they don’t seem to care.

I’m holding the gun in outstretched arms, but I know I won’t use it. The shot might hit a Pari or a brother.

The Hern pick up the Pari as if they’re dolls, slicing open their bellies with long nails. They scoop out handfuls of blood and drink it. The black fluid runs down their faces, necks and pale-skinned bellies.

In the c*****e, I spot a Hern wearing a white armband. The murdering bastard! In my rage, I don’t think, but struggle forward, pointing the gun at the creature.

"Stop it, now!" I scream.

The Hern does. Turns her head. Her eyes meet mine.

As a black mixture of blood and entrails oozes from her fingers, I recognize her face. No, she hasn’t killed the Pari girl I gave that arm band. She is the Pari girl I gave the armband. I lower the gun, trembling.

She wipes blood on her thighs and takes a few steps towards me. The dark patches on her skin have grown and have turned green. She reaches out and touches my robe with a bloodstained hand. I need all my willpower not to discharge the gun.

"Munni." She takes my hand and places it on her belly. I slide my fingers up and down the blood-covered skin. It feels tight, even through my gloves, like her entire belly cavity is taken up by a huge football, a white membranous sac brimming with eggs.

This is absurd. The Hern think I’m pregnant rather than obese.

And I realize: the Pari and Hern are not separate species, but stages in the life cycle of one species. That’s why there are no young, why the Pari don’t seem to reproduce: they are immature. That’s why the Hern don’t eat regular food: their bodies only need to feed the eggs. Of course they’re angry with us—for disrupting the process. And trying to stop it is utterly futile.

"Stop shooting!" I shout at the brother nearest to me, but his eyes are glazed over. I push him hard causing him to fall. The gun slips from his hands. I step on it before he can pick it up. "Stop shooting. There’s no point."

He sits there, panting. The next moment he’s on his feet again and he takes off into the darkness.

The Hern girl that used to be Pari is dragging bodies into a pile, many of them bloodied and mangled beyond recognition. She’s alternately cramming grisly entrails into her mouth or clutching her belly, gagging and coughing.

"Are you okay?" I ask, foolishly.

She looks up, frothy vomit dribbling down her chin, seems surprised I’m still here and motions with her hand over the top of the trees, where the sky has turned light blue.