Edith bowed slightly. An organ equivalent to a human heart was visible through her loose, almost translucent skin. It beat slowly, methodically, like an organic metronome. “What was your opinion of the ceremony?”

  “I thought it was fascinating,” Meyers answered honestly. “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course,” the elder said calmly. “Whatever you wish.”

  “The use of gold and gemstones as a store of wealth . . . is that ceremonial? Or insurance against the possibility that the Confederation might collapse someday?”

  The Hudu’s eyes were large and black. She blinked, and a pale, almost transparent film appeared, then disappeared. “An excellent question. We have chosen our storyteller (publicist) well. The answer is both. Back in ancient days, before the Hudu found the ship(s) and journeyed to the stars, we had no need for symbolic value. One’s wealth totaled what was in one’s purse or was locked in the family vault. Now, in our role as traders, we deal with symbolic wealth all the time. But to give each other wealth that has no heft would be to lessen the value of the gift. Besides, what Hudu in his or her right mind would place value in a piece of paper? Or a square of plastic?”

  It took Meyers a moment to realize that the last had been a joke, and she laughed appreciatively. “And the governmental aspect? That’s a concern as well?”

  Alice twittered her amusement. “You bet your sitter downer it is. The Confederation is stable at the moment, but our prognostications suggest that the present state of affairs won’t last forever. The Hudu stand ready to profit no matter what happens.”

  Meyers thought the reply was honest but less than tactful. Other races could be and probably would be offended. That wasn’t her problem, however. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, the Meyers female thanks you.”

  “And we thank you,” Edith replied formally. “Now, if you are willing to forgo the feast, the rest of the elders would like to meet you.”

  If the free-for-all she had just witnessed had been amazing, the anthropologist figured the feast would be even more spectacular—especially if there was a food fight—so she hated to miss it. But she knew the elders were an extremely important force in Hudu society and what had been framed as a casual invitation amounted to a summons. She forced a smile. “I’d be honored to meet the elders. Please lead the way.”

  Edith signaled agreement as if she had expected nothing less and took her seat in the small grav chair. As she guided it across the now empty meeting hall, Meyers and Alice hurried to keep up. Tons of trash had been discarded and left behind, but not a single coin, gem, or pearl could be seen.

  Phosphorescence exploded upward and outward as the ship celebrated their passage, and a forest of strange organic shapes rose all around them. The anthropologist passed structures that looked like roots in a mangrove swamp or blood vessels in a monstrous body; some pulsed as if filled with fluid. Meyers was fairly sure she’d never passed that way before, so she tried to identify landmarks and remember them, but the landscape, if “landscape” was the proper word, was so strange that it was hard to memorize a single feature.

  Meanwhile Edith and Alice chattered about the successful “giving” and speculated on which clan would attempt to best them. Meyers took note of the fact that the Family that Lives in the Now had set a new record for the amount of wealth given away—something that would make it that much more difficult for their competitors to best them. Meyers was still considering the implications when the passageway opened into a steam-filled room. Edith disappeared into the mist as Alice touched Meyers’s arm. “Watch your step.”

  The anthropologist found herself in a large room dotted with what looked like individual hot springs—not just one or two, but dozens. All were occupied by two, three, or four skeletal-looking elders. The hot springs were located on terraces that rose all around her, and bright green vegetation fed off the vapor-laden air and brought the otherwise gray environment a touch of much needed color. Grav chairs, towels, and other accouterments lay scattered all about. Edith had abandoned her vehicle and was lowering herself into a pool of bubbling water.

  “Our body temperatures decrease as we age,” Alice explained, “and the warmth feels good.”

  Meyers nodded, remembered that the motion meant nothing to Alice, and spoke instead.

  “Are the baths a natural aspect of the ship?”

  “No,” the Hudu replied, “they were installed (grown) about two hundred years ago.”

  Meyers resisted the temptation to nod and smiled instead.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” Alice said formally. Her voice was softer than usual. “We must be silent and wait for the elders to speak.”

  Meyers took note of the fact that Alice had included herself in the prohibition against speech and wished she had a lot fewer clothes on; her khakis were damp and clung to her skin. The anthropologist recognized Edith’s twitter. “Greetings, birth mates. I bring the Meyers female (of no familial status) here that you might tell her about the final journey, for she has been chosen (hired) to record (publicize) our story.”

  Final journey? What was Edith referring to? Meyers felt adrenaline start to flow. Something important was about to take place. But what? Unlike many human cultures, the Hudu felt no need to speak continuously. Time stretched as water bubbled, vapor eddied, and Meyers waited. When the words finally came, it was from the far side of the room. It took her a moment to spot the male who uttered them. He looked old, very old, like the definition of age itself.

  “Does the human (female) understand how the first journey begins?”

  “No,” Meyers replied, “I do not understand.”

  There was another long silence, as if the male was gathering his thoughts. Finally, after a minute or so, he spoke again. “We, meaning the individuals you see before you, plus some of those on the other five hundred and twenty-four ships, were born within the same three-day period one hundred and ten years ago.”

  All the elders gazed at her with the same expectant look. They were waiting for her to process what had been said and react to it. Her mind did a slow stutter step and the translator rendered her words into a series of high-pitched squeaks. “If you were born within days of each of other—does that mean you will die within days of each other as well?”

  The reply came quickly this time. “Yes, Meyers female (of no familial status), that is exactly what it means. The final journey has begun. We will die (terminate trading activity) within thirty standard days.”

  Meyers looked around. She saw Edith and hundreds more. They, plus those on the other ships, would die at the same time. She felt a lump form in her throat and forced it down. “I’m sorry.”

  Another elder, a female this time, stood and looked Meyers in the eye. Water cascaded off her emaciated body. “There is no reason for sorrow. We have accumulated vast wealth, given it away, and accumulated yet again. All journeys must end—and, in ending, start anew. You must come and witness our passing so that others will come to know and understand us.”

  Meyers looked at Alice, received no help, and looked back.

  “Where? Where will the great dying take place? On your home world?”

  The elder lowered herself into the steaming-hot water, and Alice spoke for the first time. “No. Our home world hasn’t been habitable for thousands of years. Before long, all five hundred and thirty-two ships wil drop into orbit around a planet we call Peace. The dying will commence shortly thereafter.”

  Meyers wanted to ask more questions, but the audience was clearly over, and Alice led her away. Later, in the privacy of her own quarters, the anthropologist had time to think—and, more than that, to feel lonely. The Hudu were charming in their own way, but they weren’t human, and months had passed since Meyers had heard a human voice.

  Fortunately she had the books and vids loaded onto her perscomp to help pass the time.

  But before returning to the bodice ripper she’d been reading, the anthropologist took a moment to look up the coordinates for the planet called Peace. What she discovered was that the world belonged to a large corporation—and was currently called Calag 4782/X. She imagined the planet, the corporate types who worked there, and smiled. Wait until the Hudu arrived! The people who ran the place were in for a surprise. She hoped they were human.

  Chapter Five

  It seems strange that while in one species, the state of aloneness can provoke a deep sense of yearning, in others—the Xerapanth come to mind—the presence of another sentient within their hunting/breeding territory is next to intolerable. So much so that the entire race numbers less than a thousand individuals. Surely the great Mother/Father God must love diversity above all else.

  (Excerpted from Book of Musings by the Sentha poet/philosopher Mulu-Murlo.)

  Calag Planet 4782/X

  “Is not!”

  “Is so!”

  “Is not!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I’m human, and what I say goes,” Rogan growled as he tapped a wrench against the harvey’s number twelve gearbox. “Why can’t you get it through your thick processor that it’s better to improvise a solution than to wait three months for a factory-made part?”

  The maintenance bot was far from convinced but knew enough to shut up and watch as Rogan tore the gearbox apart. Once the broken worm gear had been removed, he put the new one in. Though made to specs, it was the product of the computer-controlled lathe in his shop.

  After skinning his knuckles, Rogan replaced the cover and pumped number two lube into the box. It would have been nice to start the harvester remotely, but that was impossible until he completed the long journey up to the cab where he rewired the ignition. The modification wouldn’t help this time, but who knew? Maybe it would save some time later on.

  Once the changes were complete, he pressed a button. Starters whined, engines caught, and the harvey lurched forward. The homemade worm gear worked like a charm. Rogan watched the machine scoop huge brick-shaped potatoes out of the ground, grade them by size, and sort them into bins. Pleased by what he had accomplished, Rogan turned to confront the spider bot. “See? I told you so.”

  The robot was silent for a moment, as if considering the human’s comment. Its voice had a hard, grating sound. “The use of unauthorized parts will invalidate the harvester’s warranty and leave the company vulnerable to additional costs. Taking such risks runs counter to my programming. What if the Rogan-made part causes damage to the whole machine?”

  Rogan treated the robot to a look that would have killed a lesser creature. Robots weren’t supposed to talk back. “Should that occur, I will inform Purchasing that you went bonkers, fabricated the part yourself, and installed it without my permission.”

  The machine had more than met the imperatives of its programming and made no reply.

  Rogan chose to interpret the robot’s silence as victory. “Well, I guess that shut you up.

  Dismissed.” The machine was happy to escape the electronic angst created by conflicting commands and scurried away.

  Wally’s voice was sardonic. “Nice work . . . You put that robot in its place.”

  Rogan ignored the cyborg’s tone. “Yeah, I guess I did. What an idiot. Any sign of the fleet?”

  Wally heaved an internal sigh. The fleet that Rogan referred to was the quarterly Calag Inc. pickup fleet. If past experience was any guide, it would consist of a command and control vessel, usually referred to as “the tug,” and between fifteen and twenty computer-controlled freighters. The freighters were huge boxlike affairs designed to transport large amounts of cargo at the lowest possible cost. They carried no crew and no pressurized spaces other than a single Life Support Module intended for emergencies.

  Once they arrived, the task of loading them within the company’s unrealistically short time frames would begin. Making the occasion all the more stressful was the fact that Jennifer Tran was due to arrive on the tug.

  Wally sent an electronic query to the tug’s navigational computer (navcomp) and received an almost instantaneous reply. He passed it on to Rogan. “The fleet should enter orbit fifteen hours, thirty-two minutes, and fifteen seconds from now.”

  Rogan felt his spirits soar. Jennifer was in-system! Everything was about to change. She would love the planet as much as he did. They would take long walks, swim in their own ocean, and lie under private stars. A careful exploration would ensue as each revealed more and more of his or her true self until knowledge gave way to passion and the certainty of a long-lasting marriage. He could hardly wait but sought to hide his excitement from Wally. “Thanks. I’m going to jump in the truck and check on the launcher.”

  The launcher, or rail gun, was one of Wally’s responsibilities and had been tested repeatedly over the last few days. But anything that kept Rogan busy for a while would constitute a blessing.

  Rogan climbed into the grav truck and took off. Sensors beeped as a flight of computer-controlled grav trucks came in from the south. They were heavy with loads of grain and flying at a fuel-efficient five thousand feet. They looked like little more than specks from a distance, but each one carried a thousand tons of grain.

  They were part of a fleet of vehicles that took to the air four times a year. For days now, hundreds of such craft had been shuttling back and forth between the far-flung processing plants where the produce was irradiated and the launcher where it would be boosted into space.

  The basic concept had been around for a long time. Spectacular though early shuttles had been as they rode tails of fire up through roiling clouds, they were terribly inefficient, especially when loaded with cargos like meat and potatoes. In fact the sort of shuttles used during the early part of the twenty-first century had been ninety-nine percent hull and fuel, and that’s why electromagnetic launchers, also known as rail guns, had been developed.

  Simply put, a rail gun consisted of a power source and two parallel rails, both made of conductive materials. The trick was to send a powerful electronic pulse down the rails, complete a circuit via the projectile itself, and create a magnetic field that would push the payload to the other end of the gun. The larger the power source and the longer the ramp, the greater the projectile’s velocity would be—and at five miles a second, it was relatively easy to put a small object into space. With that accomplished, it wasn’t long before scientists developed better heat shields and computer-controlled propulsion systems that could steer individual containers to orbiting freighters. Then, once they were close enough, an armada of garbage-can-sized tugs could push, shove, and coax them into waiting holds.

  As Rogan peered through his insect-spattered windscreen, a ramp-shaped mountain loomed in front of him. It had been carved out of the planet’s crust during the terraforming process, and thanks to the fact that the rail gun was located ten thousand feet above sea level, it took twenty percent less power to operate.

  The planet’s air traffic control computer had very little to do during most of the year but was busy now. It’s voice was brisk and efficient. “Control to grav craft zero-zero-one. Your intentions, please.”

  “This is grav craft zero-zero-one. I’m inbound for launch control. Vector, please.”

  “Roger that, zero-zero-one. You have vector one-four-seven at ten thousand. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “One-four-seven at ten thousand. Roger that.”

  Rogan had enjoyed the fakey “welcome to the neighborhood” bit the first time he’d heard it, but that was a thousand interactions ago, and now it was getting old. Jennifer would say new things—things he hadn’t heard before—and the thought made him smile.

  The mountain looked huge now. The black basalt was dotted with hardy-looking trees that grew in clumps wherever soil collected on a ledge or in a crevice. Taken together, they helped to soften the man-made structure’s harsh angularity.

  Firing had commenced. As each cargo module was propelled upslope and launched into the sky, it looked like a quickly dwindling dot. Then, after three or four seconds, it was lost in the overarching blueness above. The truck shuddered as waves of displaced air struck it and sonic booms rumbled across the land.

  Rogan checked with launch control and was directed to landing pad zero-zero-one, which was off to one side and reserved for his use. The other pads, starting with zero-zero-two and running all the way through one-zero-zero, were stops on an enormous assembly line that snaked across the valley and disappeared into the mountain. Once inside, the trucks would be emptied, refueled, and dispatched for another load.

  The scale was enormous and involved a great deal of complicated equipment, but because it was used only eight weeks a year, there was plenty of time for maintenance, and malfunctions were rare. They weren’t unheard of, however, which was why Rogan wanted to see how things were going. Wally had a tendency to pooh-pooh such visits—but Wally didn’t have to deal with Sector Director Elvas Werkmor.

  The pad consisted of little more than a well-marked chunk of duracrete surrounded by the lights used for night landings. Rogan hovered to allow a train of six enormous grain haulers to pass. Then the truck bumped its way down through their wakes and slid toward the pad.

  Launch control activated a large flashing X and the grav truck’s navcomp offered to take over.

  Rogan frowned. Sometimes it seemed as if the goddamned machines thought humans were helpless. Who did they think had made them anyway? The tooth fairy?

  The grav truck touched down with what Rogan fancied was a very gentle thump. The door whined open, and a grav-equipped robot approached as Rogan stepped out. Though humanoid in appearance, the android had no need for legs, so they had been omitted, and even though Rogan had seen a thousand floating torsos, they never ceased to make him feel uncomfortable.

  Knowing that the robot might have to interact with VIPs from time to time, the technoids at Wareco had equipped the machine with Executive Interaction Skills 16.3. It was a rather slippery program written by an ex–public relations executive. “Greetings, Planetary Manager Rogan! What an unexpected pleasure. You look extremely fit. What sort of exercise regime do you follow?”