Heaven (40 page)

He said as much.

“That’s where the trapdoor leads,” said Sam. “If you wish to accompany me, I will not attempt to stop you.”

“You’re takin’ the ’Thal girl?”

“No. I don’t want to move her until I’m sure Heaven can save her. And it may be dangerous. You must take care if you come
with me.”

“I’ve got a battle suit,” said Second-Best Sailor.

“The Church is powerful,” said Sam. “Even an armored suit may not protect you.”

“I’ll take that chance,” said the mariner, stepping politely aside. “After you.”

The trapdoor led to a deep cylindrical shaft. A narrow staircase wound its way down the interior in a steep coil. The walls
near them glowed with an inner pink light, which accompanied them as they made their way down into the darkness. The stairway
was like the ramp had been, but far narrower.

As they descended, Sam forced himself to review yet again the logic of his deductions. He knew there was a Heaven on Aquifer.
But what was it here for? Why was it secret? He had asked himself these questions before, and he had deduced that Aquifer
had been chosen for the construction of a very small, very select Heaven. A Heaven for important members of the Church, yes.

Very
important members.

His deductions still rang true. Every true believer knew that the ecclesiarchs, the spiritual leaders of Cosmic Unity, were
to be found on the Cloister Worlds, four sparsely inhabited orphan planets in the starless region of the Trailing Spiral Arm
known as Intermundia. All true believers had experienced, through their primary sensory media, the periodic Ceremony of the
Affirmation of Deliverance, conducted from the Cloister Worlds by the ecclesiarchs themselves. Every true believer hoped to
be chosen for the signal honor of a pilgrimage to Intermundia, to be near the spiritual center of the Church.

However, the true believers were wrong. They had been deliberately misled. The ecclesiarchs were not on the Cloister Worlds,
not within ten thousand light-years of them. No doubt they visited the Cloister Worlds from time to time—with transibles,
distance was no problem, and the wealth of the Church would pay for a hundred such visits every day, if need be.

The ecclesiarchs were on Aquifer, in Heaven.

That was why this particular Heaven was so small, why it was so secret. Why its very existence had to be concealed behind
the facade of a monastery of equals. Why the innocent and the misguided—and, Sam had to admit, the occasional genuine heretic—had
to be tortured into submission and belief in the Memeplex. All of it was cover for the true purpose of the installation at
the Nether Ice Dome.

If the faithful were permitted the gratification of Heaven, how could it be denied to those whose faith was greatest? Why
should leaders deny themselves pleasures that were given freely to their followers? It was twisted logic, a hierarchy in a
self-proclaimed communion of equals, but that kind of self-deception was hardly new. There was a clear Church hierarchy, for
a very good reason:
Someone
must make the important decisions, even if all were nominally equal. Cosmic Unity’s concept of equality applied mainly in
the abstract.

Discorporated in a Heaven, though, the ecclesiarchs would be vulnerable. Some power-crazed heretic might make an attempt upon
their lives while their attentions were otherwise engaged. An invisible, unknown Heaven was the answer. One whose physical
location changed fairly often, maybe every twenty or thirty years. He wondered how many ecclesiarch Heavens there had been.
One thing was sure: An underground Heaven would also be safe from levithons.

If Nerydd had been in Aquifer Heaven, she would still be living.

The end of the shaft interrupted Sam’s reverie. An arched gateway opened into a small antechamber, initially bathed in the
same pink light; gradually, the illumination changed to the spectrum of natural Aquiferian sunlight.

Sam recognized the equipment. The chamber was a Vestibule of Heaven, just like the one that he had visited, and where he had
lost . . . not his faith, for he still believed in the lifesoul and its trinity of Giver/Cherisher/Stealer. He had lost his
blind adherence to the Memeplex of the Church of Cosmic Unity. Respect had turned to hatred. And yet . . . there was much
that was admirable in the Memeplex. The error centered on the Two Great Memes. Two Great Mistakes.

There were servomechs in the vestibule, of course, but that was good. They would provide assistance with the equipment. One
rolled across, its optical scanners giving the intruders an unnerving inspection. Sam stiffened his back. Second-Best Sailor
increased the impermeability of his battle suit and checked his weapons.

“You cannot enter this facility,” said the servomech. “You have no authority.”

Sam shoved his copy of the ceremonial Ankh of the hierocrat in front of its scanners. “This is my authority.”

The servomech inspected the symbolic object, then referred to its standing orders. “Without the presence of the hierocrat
in person, your authority is limited. And I know that she is not on this planet. What instructions do you wish me to implement?”

“There is a Neanderthal child,” Sam blurted. “Her name is Fall. She is close to death. If she could be discorporated—”

“No,” said the servomech. “Your authority does not stretch that far. No new lifesoul can be discorporated without the personal
approval of the hierocrat, or an ecclesiarch. And they are no longer on this world—corporate or discorporate.”

Sam was pleased to have his deductions confirmed, but disappointed that the ecclesiarchs had been incorporated and transibled
offplanet. However, that would have been an obvious precaution once the Neanderthal ship had appeared on the scene. He realized
that his vague plan to kill the ecclesiarchs in Aquifer Heaven would never have worked, anyway.

He bit his lip in disappointment. He must find another way to save Fall. But it made sense. The ecclesiarchs wanted complete
control over who joined them, and the local hierocrat would normally be the way to ensure that.

“Is that your only wish?” the mech asked. “If so, you have no further business here, and must leave.”

“The prisoner,” Second-Best Sailor whispered to Sam. “The other mariner. Find out where ’e is.”

Before Sam could speak, the servomech said, “The being that just spoke, hoping not to be overheard, is known to this facility.
He is one of the offworld invaders that was captured recently. Was he not killed?”

Oh-oh
. Sam had not anticipated this development. “No,” he lied. “He
resembles
the invader, but—”

“He is the same. His eye patterns are identical.” The robot waited for a moment, as if consulting higher authority. “It is
irregular. The records say that he was disabled and released into the desert. Why is he here?”

“What right do you have to ask?” said Sam, deciding to go on the offensive. “His presence is not to be questioned by a mere
machine. I have the Ankh of Authority! Stop wasting my time!”

“Very well.” Sam had not expected such rapid capitulation, but the servomech was a machine. It did not waste effort trying
to maintain an untenable position. It knew exactly how far the authority of an Ankh-bearer extended, and it had to obey, even
if the commands were irregular. “Your companion was referring to the other invader that was captured.”

So much for whispering. “Good, you heard. Where is the prisoner being held?”

“He is not being held,” said the servomech. Second-Best Sailor waited for the worst. Was the mariner dead after all? “He is
in Heaven.”

We know that
. “The prisoner’s discorporation was an oversight,” said Sam. “He has not yet been properly interrogated. He was prematurely
rendered discorporate. The hierocrat has ordered that the process should be reversed so that he can be questioned.” He waved
the ankh. “Incorporate the polypoid prisoner
now
.”

“That is . . . within the permitted guidelines,” said the servomech. Sam breathed a sigh of relief; Second-Best Sailor maintained
a float-the-cube expression. “Provided you are adequately protected against any violence on his part.”

Second-Best Sailor held out his laser rifle. The servomech glanced at it. “That is adequate, but you should disengage the
safety interlock.”

“Uh—yeah, I’ll do just that,” said the mariner. “As soon as it’s necessary.” Perhaps he
should
have taken the time to undergo a proper orientation.

“It will become necessary,” replied the robot, “ninety seconds from now. Reincorporation has been initiated. But when it is
complete, the being must be equipped with life support and conveyed to this location. Please wait.”

Second-Best Sailor fumbled surreptitiously with the rifle’s safety interlock. He’d
known
he’d forgotten something vital. Good job he hadn’t needed to fire the thing.

“The prisoner will be enclosed in an environmental wrap,” said the servomech. “For his own safety. Do not be alarmed at his
appearance.”

“We know the procedures,” replied Sam curtly, giving silent thanks that the process of incorporation was being carried out
in the caverns of Heaven itself, not alongside them in the Vestibule. He wasn’t sure he could face watching meat in an invisible
blender being molded into the form of a living entity. Not again. The very thought made him want to puke.

Before his stomach could humiliate him in front of several dozen servomechs, a gate opened, and a figure wrapped in a life-support
membrane staggered through.

It spoke. “Good day to ya, Cap’n.”

Second-Best Sailor’s siphons faltered in their rhythm. There was no mistaking the voice.

It was Fat Apprentice.

Fourteen Samuel Godwin’sson Travers had never witnessed a polypoid greeting before. It was evidently an emotional event, with
much wrestling of tentacles and pounding of torsos, accompanied by high-pitched squeals as high-pressure seawater was forced
from overpressurized siphons. The life-support membrane and armored suit muffled the sounds and obstructed the thrashing tentacles,
but not much. The greeting would have gone on quite a bit longer, but Second-Best Sailor could tell that his most promising
crew member was in poor physical shape. His tentacles lacked their customary grip and tension. Fat Apprentice had gone soft
for lack of physical activity; he needed to get back on a boat and haul some rigging before his muscular tone disappeared
altogether.

Fat Apprentice had also been wounded in the attack on No Bar Bay, but, he insisted, it was only a few flesh wounds, mainly
a perforated lateral fin and a heavily lacerated tail fan.

He had not seen Second-Best Sailor captured. As soon as the laser cannon opened up, he had realized what was coming and flopped
out of the sea, making his way across stinging sand to a small tidal pool among the rocks. There he had lain until the barrage
ceased and all of his companions were dead. There the patrol had found him, slowly drying out in the inadequate waters of
the pool. They had sprayed him with a temporary life-sustaining membrane and taken him away for questioning.

He would never again be quite as agile in the water as before, but
agile
had never been the appropriate word to describe Fat Apprentice.

The mariner captain and his apprentice had each given the other up for dead. For a few minutes, the bond of genuine affection
between them was evident to anyone. Then, almost in embarrassment, they reestablished their relationship on a more businesslike
footing.

“Your wounds’ll be all right until we can get back to the ’Thal ship?” Second-Best Sailor inquired, seeking refuge from his
emotions in practical matters.

Fat Apprentice agreed that they could. “When d’ya plan to return to
Talitha
?”

“Soon,” said Second-Best Sailor. “The priest here ’as some important business to attend to.”

’Thal ship? Of course!
“Fall needs medical attention, quickly,” Sam amplified. “You must take her to your ship. Please.”

“Sure. Ain’t ya comin’ wiv us?”

Sam had not dared hope for that, not after what he had done to the mariner. “I thank you for your generosity of spirit. It
will not be abused. But”—he forced the words out—“Fall’s needs must temporarily take second place.” He was referring to the
destruction of Heaven, but he couldn’t say that with the servomechs present.

At this point, Fat Apprentice interrupted, to point out that he had no idea who Fall was. Sam brought him up to speed in a
few well-chosen sentences. Meanwhile, the servomechs went about their normal business, ignoring the polypoids and the human.
As long as the three sentients didn’t interfere with the running of Heaven, the servomechs had no interest in them.

Many things were puzzling Second-Best Sailor, and he settled on the one that was uppermost in his mind.

“This idiot”—he told his apprentice, gesturing toward Sam—“threw me out into the desert to die. No, don’t worry, ’e’s all
right. It was a mistake. But . . .
you
ended up in Heaven. No one threw
you
out! How the flounce did ya manage
that
?”

The true answer was that the portly apprentice was a lot cleverer than his captain, as his Neanderthal friend Smiling Teeth
May Bite had quickly noticed when they had begun their philosophical discussions on
Talitha
. But even the lion-headed Neanderthal woman underestimated just how powerful Fat Apprentice’s natural intelligence was. Being
brought up in a sailing family, like eight-ninths of No-Moon’s young males, he had never had the chance to get himself a broad
education. But he made good use of datablets, and had covered an amazing quantity of intellectual territory.

Fat Apprentice was a very clever young polypoid indeed, and he had sized up the priests of the monastery of equals the moment
they had begun his interrogation. Instead of parrying their questions or trying to withhold the information they seemed to
want, he had engaged them in theological debate.

They had verifiers to tell whether he was lying, and these showed him to be entirely sincere in his interest in the deep philosophy
of the Memeplex. Moreover, the interest did not flag. The more intense the debate, the more esoteric the topic, the happier
Fat Apprentice became, and the more enthusiastically he attacked their assumptions. He was a natural born disputant, and he
could slice logic with the best minds in the Church.