“I do,” Rococo said.
“By all means,” said Mere.
Their companion was a stubborn, frustrating puzzle. Whatever they called themselves, humans or luddies, the mortals were usually courageous believers in the temporary nature of life, and most importantly, they were endowed with the sacred duty of passing out of existence, making way for others. Yet Amund didn’t seem to be that sort of animal. Surrendering his life for a cause? No, he was missing the noble heart, and more importantly, the self-congratulatory flair. And there was no trace of the natural explorer either. They were traveling to a realm as alien as any, yet day after day, he asked nothing. Read nothing. Even went so far as to ignore the latest broadcasts from the rivers. Even his conviction for his faith failed to convince. He was an authentic human sharing a tiny volume with machines that pretended to be human, yet he couldn’t muster the proper disgust. Particularly when he stared at Mere, which was often and always with a keen intensity. In other words, Amund was exactly the wrong kind of fellow to willingly sacrifice anything so precious as his own life.
“I have an opinion, if you want to hear it.”
“I do.”
“By all means.”
He smiled, in a fashion. “First of all, I don’t give a shit about those left-be-hind aliens. The bal’tin.”
Rococo smiled, and Mere smiled.
Their companion glanced at the diplomat. Then he twisted his neck and stared at Mere. Whatever he wanted to say was ready. That much was obvious. Perhaps he wrote the words months ago, biding his time for the perfect moment.
“Just so I’m certain,” Amund said. “You two have never worked with each other. Not in any direct fashion. Is that right?”
They never had, no. And they wouldn’t have collaborated here, except both were available when the rivers shouted at the Great Ship, and a mission built on high stakes and inflexible parameters had to use the very best people.
“Well, that answers one mystery,” the mortal decided, lifting his body from the cushions, apparently for no reason but to shrug his shoulders at them.
“What does that explain?” Mere asked.
“We’re going to visit some peculiar beasts,” Amund said. “As soon as we get there, the two of you are going to do your dances and give speeches, trying every kind of magic. And when the job’s done, you’ll declare the winner.”
That earned a long pause from his audience.
“That’s all that this loud stupid endless dance of yours is trying to decide,” Amund said. “Who is the goddamn best.”
4.
Five days of floating and then water stopped being water. The cold river thickened and grew blue, but still not blue enough and not nearly thick enough. This was good news or bad. The immortals offered conflicting opinions along with evidence that always seemed starved. Which was the inevitable problem. Orbiting war machines had hammered their little streakship. Nothing but their crash vault survived the landing. Sensors and other fancy tools would have been invaluable, if only they could have been salvaged. What they possessed was one heavy backpack with a survival kit onboard. The fist-sized reactor was powering a Remora-built factory, food and pure water delivered without fail. The kit also supplied lights in the darkness, and for one of their ranks, medical help. Everything else was done by the smart fabrics. Clothes and boots, boats and shelter. Honestly, if the immortals were a little less brilliant and a little more shrewd, they would never leave their homes. Shirts and trousers could march into the unknown Universe. Ruled by some very strong underwear, of course. With gloves and boots ready for the really hard shit.
“You’re laughing,” Rococo said.
“I am,” Amund agreed.
Mere was kneeling below them, studying the boundary between normal water and what was alive. The living rivers were built from protein weaves, concentrated salts, and dissolved metals, giving the bodies their characteristic density, the irresistible mass. That’s why the wild river flowed over the blue flesh, and the flesh drank what it wanted for the next few hundred meters, which was the point where the wild water was swallowed up and gone.
Amund and Rococo stood on higher ground, accompanied by a knee-high forest of blue-gray toadstools that weren’t toadstools. Little winged beasts were resting nearby. They resembled bats but perched like birds. Not alien so much as wrong. This ecosystem was simple, weedy, and inefficient, but the living river was close. Its blue body was viscous and warmer than the surroundings, promising that it had recovered from the firestorms. The immortals were assuming that the river was conscious. Which was a good sign, Mere claimed. Rococo claimed. But that didn’t mean that this was the same river that spoke to the Great Ship, promising planets and moons. In some fashion or another, that creature was a casualty of a very peculiar war.
A long while passed, and then Mere finally stood, gesturing to her colleague.
“Wish us luck,” Rococo said.
“I’m stupid,” Amund said. “But I’m not superstitious.”
Laughing at that, Rococo set down the pack and walked down to join Mere. The two of them spoke for a moment and then walked together without walking together, working their way downstream.
Amund tried to lift the pack and kit with one hand and couldn’t. He barely succeeded with both hands and his back. This world had too much gravity, which was another reason to feel endlessly tired. After age, that is. The pack was hyperfiber mesh doctored to look like old canvas. Amund made a request, triggering small motions inside, and he reached beneath the top flap, his hand closing around an edible flask filled with a flavored water. Then he drank the chilled sweetness before eating the exterior like an apple.
The immortals continued their hike, and Amund tried to think about anything besides them. The antirad patch riding his neck began to itch. He scratched at the irritation. Machines didn’t care about radiation, certainly not at
