“Wake up, man.”
He didn't want to, of course. The abyss of oblivion was too deep.
“Damn. Looks bad, doesn't it?” The two people speaking nearby had no idea how little he felt like anything in particular.
“Guy's in rough shape. Whole damn body is bruised. Life signs borderline.” Was it God who spoke? First, He had spoken of a Guy, and Choron had sprung into existence. Then He had called forth a Body that suddenly made itself known to the Guy through a myriad of sensations. Choron decided that no God would have added the Bruises.
The second voice returned. “Did we really blow our harvest just to reach this kid right when he died?”
“Relax,” commanded the first. “He was wanted dead or alive. Cheaper dead, though. Plus, he's just unconscious.”
A miniscule, primitive dose of self-awareness surged through Choron's veins. Me in a chair—chair in a cabin—cabin in a ship—ship in orbit—orbit around the Rock. Oh yes, the Rock. He wanted to go back. That dome he had seen, it was very nice. It was home. Was it? No, but it would be.
“I say give him a full dose.”
Clicks, creaking of stiff clothes, and a cold thing on his neck. It made a little puff that drove a man-sized spike of consciousness into him. Choron formed anew, with the same chain of thought, but each link tinged with the bitterness of urgent memory. Home would not be home unless he acted. So, said a voice within, act.
“He's breathing faster. Moving, too. How do you feel, Kid Or?”
As if bidden by the question, darkness shrouded his mind once again; this time, with his nerves plugged back in, he noticed that his distant body was thrashing with convulsions. Human hands pinned him down. “What do I do?” asked the closest voice. “Quick! Give me that zapper!”
There was a brief span of time during which a high-pitched sound close to his head distracted him. As its pitch rose further, he felt his body tingle. Then came a shock that knocked the restlessness out of his body.
“You killed him! How did you think frying him would help?”
“Be patient. I think he's coming around.”
The dryest of groans was the only answer that could come from his parched throat.
“Good work, Genius. Looks like he'll last all the way back to Orefall.”
The name of his old planet made him open his eyes. Two unfamiliar bearded faces hovered over his. Miners, from the smell—bodoy odor mixed with the twang of metal—and their appearance. The older one had black eyes hooded under deep red eyebrows that matched the hair on his head and arms. The younger one turned his narrow face to his associate. “We got anything for this guy?”
“Water bag is floating right behind you, Fus.”
Fus reached behind himself with the unsettling miner's grasp of spatiality and grabbed a pouch of water while the other man eased Choron out of the chair. They knew his name, and his family name at that. How strange; Miro had carefully avoided registering Choron's half of the ship under his full name. Their source of information must have been from somewhere other than the Plenty.
The water soothed his lips, mouth, throat, and esophagus as it went down, but it was too warm for him to feel it enter his stomach. That was just as well; he was nauseous. Microgravity was so confusing, so uncertain, after the absolute power that had held him to the Planet, that had fought to keep him there and had nearly won.
He winced when the older miner clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. “Name's Sefulir. And my partner, Fus. You sure been through a tough time. What the hell happened?”
So they didn't know he had landed on the Great Rock. They might have saved him from the brink of death, but matters of faith—namely, violating the sacred Planet—came before whatever matter of business had brought them out here. There was a distinct possibility that they would change their minds and leave him to die the rest of the way if they knew how he had ended up half-dead.
“I can't remember,” Choron lied. “Where am I now?”
Fus fumbled uncomfortably with a strap on his jacket. “We're around Him. The Great Rock.”
Choron tried to look surprised. “How did I get here?”
“You really don't know? Well, your old man back on Orefall got this message you sent—S.O.S., it was—so he asked any miners in the area to look for you. Big price attached to you, man.”
Choron brushed aside his internal questions about the distress signal and asked the only thing he wanted to know: “When are we heading back?”
“Right away, of course,” said Sefulir. “We'll get you cleaned up and put a good meal back in you.”
Still hurting all over, and noticing the dried, bloody vomit on his clothes, Choron followed his rescuers to the small ship's airlock. The Plenty clung to the side of the miners' much larger house-ship with the help of the stiff connecting tunnel between the two craft. Choron's vessel was tiny; it only had a cabin and sleeping quarters. Its stockpile of dehydrated food could last a month, after which he would have to trade information to miners in exchange for rations—the life of a prospector was stringent until he set foot on Orefall. Then, the months spent collecting and selling rumors, co-ordinates, rock samples, and scraps of knowledge finally saw a reward. The electronic bank accounts that were useless in space allowed a prospector to celebrate for days or even weeks before the well of money ran dry.
Miners lived a steadier rhythm. Their mobile homes were well-equipped to serve as bases of operations for extended periods, but family life on the ship, inefficient use of space, and a desire to return to civilization more often kept them tied more tightly to Orefall.
A current of air from the other ship carried with it the odors of home that had long before filtered out of the recycled atmosphere in the Plenty. Smelling a real home after time spent prospecting always introduced forgotten scents, both pleasant and unpleasant; however, Choron and Miro had agreed that the odors of real, cooked food were always welcome. His mouth watered just a little bit when the fumes of home cooking entered his nostrils.
The Plenty, it turned out, had been almost completely dark. The light coming from the far end of the joining tunnel took him by surprise, but his eyes adjusted in time for him to see the curious faces of several small children peeking at him. They were gone when the three men stepped out of the confines of the connector; excited little whispers were the only signs of the young ones around a distant corner.
Sefulir floated solemnly to Choron's side and inclined his head in a traditional bow. “Welcome aboard the Doro-Strisma.”
Choron returned the bow. “Thank you, Captain Sefulir.”
Fus spoke up. “Take a left up there,” he pointed down a hallway, “and you'll reach my side, the Strisma. Everything you need is there: a shower, fresh clothes, and a bunk. In the meantime, I'll put your ship in the hold so we can spin up some gravity and eat.” He floated back through the tunel into the Plenty.
“My wife,” explained Sefulir with a smile, “is cooking lunch as we speak. She's waiting for the ship to spin so she can finish. We will get you when everything is ready.”
Choron drifted down the corridor until he found the bulkhead marking the beginning of the Strisma. It was common for miners to join their ships together; because the Doro was the first ship Sefulir had used in the combined name, he was the primary owner of the venture. He must have needed extra cargo space for his present run among the asteroids.
The bunk was the most comfortable bed Choron has touched in half a year. He knew that his aches would only go away if he slept, but he couldn't stop reliving the launch from the Planet. It was mainly the words God had sent through Miro's phantom that flowed through Choron's mind. He barely noticed when the Doro-Strisma accelerated to begin its voyage home. The acceleration, dampened by various field generators, settled Choron into the bunk. A moment later, the great machinery deeper inside the Doro-Strisma ground into action, setting the passenger zone into a spin. He smiled at the gentle gravity.
And, reflecting on his visions, he thought of Nara. She knew about such things. He thought the command of God was clear enough, but only after listening to Nara's council would he act.
He decided it was time to wash the filth from himself. The shower module was only an arm's length away. He resumed his thoughts while he bathed under a stream of hot, soothing water.
Choron knew what it would take to sway the miners, but the task would be difficult. He had been reluctant to set foot on God, and that had been the reaction of a half-pious believer. The most hardened of the miners would likely try to have him imprisoned by the Church for expressing the outrageous notion that the whole world not only set foot on God, but live on Him, dig into Him. Even so, Choron's belief was that Orefall hung in a peculiar balance. When it came down to the most basic tenets of his people, the desire to perservere came before all else. If it was God's will that they join Him as he traveled the Universe, there was no reason not to leave Orefall; the other choice was to let God pulverize them.
If only he could prove to them that his story was true.
Dazed attempts to find absoulte proof of his experience passed through him. As countless men had come to understand throughout human history, he quickly realized that matters of faith had trouble standing up to intense scrutiny.
The sustained rumble of the ship's engines lulled his mind into vacancy until someone knocked at the door.
“The food's ready,” came Sefulir's muffled voice through the door.
Choron quickly dried himself and dressed in the unfamiliar clothes Fus had left him. The desire to eat overcame his distant problems; he could muse later. Following the captain through a fairly standard set of hallways, Choron tried to guess what the hostess had cooked. Lunch traditionally blended the heavier foods of a protein-righ breakfast with the lighter, more flavorful fruits and greens of supper. It had been so long since Choron's last full meal that he could hardly make sense of the mixed smells in the air.
Along the way, Sefulir rustled his children from their room. He introduced them one by one, but Choron forgot their names almost immediately—they were close in age and all had the same intense red hair as their father did. The only distinction to Choron was whether a child was a boy or a girl.
The short trip ended in the family chamber, the heart of the Doro. A large retractable table protruded from the farthest wall of the room. It held steaming dishes that had come from the adjacent galley, over which presided the thin woman of the house, whom Sefulir greeted with a kiss as Marmi.
As Choron had expected, the meal was beyond delicious. Sefulir, his wife and children, and the unmarried Fus, fit perfectly into the idyllic description of a jolly, working-class mining family. It bothered him; even the asteroids were growing increasingly lighter, their metals slowly hauled away for trade. It was because of the increasing rarity of big finds that prospecting was the essential and lucrative, if dangerous, occupation that it was: the loners like Miro, in their tiny ships, could afford—barely—to float in space for months because their operating costs were so much lower.
While Orefall's people had almost no need for the metal thanks to careful recycling programs, they had never been able to establish a self-sufficient world; only some estates, like the one belonging to Choron's family, cultivated soil imported ages before: cyclic farming helped renew their plots of land. The hydroponic farms supplied merchants with produce, but the minerals to sustain those crops had to come from other worlds.
With the dwindling metal supplies, it became more difficult every year to trade for those life-giving nutrients. The few women who studied the sciences had long known what their husbands were just now finding out through crude, desparate experiments: Orefall's indigenous rock could never give rise to real topsoil.
He knew from the alien look of a grin on Sefulir's face that the family had only recently gained a reason to be so happy. Nara's father had worn that smile countless times, and then had gone on to beat his wife and daughter nearly every night. Choron understood that a miner's life was hard, but he hated Nara's old man for what he had made her live. It was no wonder, or misfortune, he had died in a savage bar fight.
During a lull in the unnatural merriment surrounding Choron, one of the captain's daughters turned to her father and asked him, “Papa, how will that man make us rich?”
The entire table fell silent, letting the little girl and Choron know she had said something wrong.
“I'm sorry, master Or. My daughter does not know what she says,” managed Sefulir.
Again with the “Or” honorific, thought Choron. “We were all young once, Captain,” he replied. “But I, too would like to know how I'm going to make you rich.” The tension was palpable. Choron was quick smile and to add, “I'm only a prospector, after all.”
Sefulir was glad to explain. “Your father has offered a substantial reward for your safe return. We were the closest to the Planet; we found you first.”
Miners didn't just abandon their cargo, even for large sums of money; they valued the physical presence of their newly-mined wealth far more than they valued the numbers stored in their bank accounts. Only a truly immense offering could have swayed the two captains. Choron let himself chew on that thought while he finished the wholesome lunch his hosts had provided. Choron knew his father cared for his only son, yet felt apprehensive about the motivations behind his rescue. He dismissed it as a symptom of the shock he had suffered.
“I assume you gentlemen had to drop your ore to get here so quickly.”
Fus tried not to look too worried. “Yeah. We got the money coming to us, but I'm not sure how much good it'll do. Traders don't want Orefall cash, only metal.”
“What if I could guarantee your livelihood for the next month?” asked Choron. “Would you start on a special assignment for me?” The captains didn't know what to think. “You don't have to decide now. Not on so little information. I'll tell you more before we get to Orefall. Right now, however, I could use a little rest.
The meal over, Choron excused himself and returned to the Strisma. He did not feel tired; even so, rest would prepare him for his new proposition to his hosts. He stared up at the matte ceiling that capped his sleeping cell. After-images, burned into his eyes from that unbearable Color, drifted before him in time with his thoughts. The geometric designs transported him back to the cradling force of God. Never before had he felt so deeply possessed by anything—it was as though his body was on the way to Orefall while his mind remained on the Great Rock, ready to receive divine influence. He closed his eyes, allowing the Color to stand out in relief against the darkness beneath his eyelids. There, hew saw once again the city that had formed under his feet; his mouth quietly, and unknown to him, formed a word: home.