“Belief,” Amund said.
“That’s what this is about?” Amund asked.
“Stubborn, stubborn, slow to change, and far too big to see the need,” he said. Then he shook his head, saying, “Shit, that sounds like you and me. And particularly, both of you.”
6.
The rivers’ pre-catastrophe broadcasts used the Ship’s language, and that’s what the two of them spoke now. Most of the day was invested in vain efforts at conversation. The creature didn’t respond but there was no end of noise, moving water and the slurping of slow gelatins mixed with the chirpy whine of little creatures lurking along the shoreline. Sometimes Mere would hear what sounded like a spoken word. Or Rococo. Except no, that was imagination at play. Only one of them heard the voice, not the other. Fear and fatigue were on display, and despair, the desperate mind inventing a soft “hello” just to feed itself that momentary dash of hope.
Preset strategies were followed, but without any sense of being heard, Rococo eventually abandoned that original script. A wink to Mere, and he launched into a peculiar story about the roaring majesty of a newborn river, and how a boy stood too close and was swallowed, drowning without dying and then left lost inside a wasteland of mud.
Mere found herself listening, and then listening carefully. But just as she became intrigued by the buried head and the thoughts trapped within its mind, the story was interrupted.
A clipped, clumsy sentence was offered.
“I hear you,” said the river.
“Are you listening?” They’d asked that hours ago. Was this the river’s response, and what did its timing mean? Mere had no way to answer either question. She’d never conversed directly with any river. Was the alien innately slow? Maybe those words had to be drawn from memories stored hundreds of kilometers from here. Or maybe rivers were patient, or this river was being cautious. Unless it had taken this much time to build a working mouth. Or the river wanted to ignore them entirely, and this phrase had leaked free, like a small social blunder.
“I hear you,” came out from that blue-gray surface.
A rather human, entirely feminine voice.
Rococo quit sharing his secrets.
Then the river said, “I hear you and understand every word, and you say you need me.”
“We need you,” Mere agreed.
“You need to be somewhere else,” said the river.
Rococo said, “Yes.”
“On your great ship,” said the river. “But you need to cross me and stand inside your little ship. Yes yes yes?”
“Yes” was an excellent word for most situations.
Mere said, “Yes.”
There was a pause, almost too brief to notice. Then the voice declared, “I will carry you.”
It was Mere’s experience that the Universe was built from questions. And every question, particularly the richest few, triggered a cascade of possible answers. But she refused to push any hypothesis ahead of the others. In her work, guesses were hazards. Every insight invited belief, and nothing was more dangerous than revelation. The exobiologist never stopped fighting the impulse to frame what she was seeing. Believing the bare minimum. That was a wise strategy, and that’s why she couldn’t accept the river’s good words or its sudden promise to help.
Whatever the situation, it was time to call to Amund.
The mortal hadn’t moved for hours. Sitting on the high ground, he nodded down at her while pulling a hand across his mouth, as if pushing his jaw closed. Then he stood, one arm and then both arms helping him lift the backpack and kit, and as he walked down the brief hill, Mere noticed what was different about Amund. The local gravity was intense, and the man had to be tired, but she thought that she saw the beginnings of a swagger riding on those short, careful steps.
The river had fallen silent. Sacks of salty water gathered on its surface, proteins inside the sacks weaving structures that quickly linked with their neighbors. Then the water was yanked away from the sacks, with a shrill keening screech, leaving behind a peculiar and mostly dry object that looked like a boat and smelled exactly like fresh meat.
Mere didn’t believe any good news, but Rococo was a portrait of enthusiasm. Looking back at the mortal, he shouted, “We have a yacht now.”
Amund was smiling and then he wasn’t.
Winking at Mere, Rococo said, “Every world looks better when you don’t have to walk it. Don’t you agree?”
The gift was no yacht. The object resembled ancient pontoon boats, except unlike any vessel cobbled out of animal hides or spun boron, this boat would never float. Certainly not like two bottles riding on a current. The river was semi-solid and denser than water, the darkest blue flesh marbled with little white threads and spinning red wheels of light. To her bare palm, the creature was warm enough to be pleasant and a little stubborn when shoved. A person could walk across its surface, but only for as long as the river cooperated. On a whim, it could liquefy. That’s what the old videos showed. Whenever it wished, the river could engulf the pontoons and platform and then everybody on board. That grim prospect had to be in Rococo’s mind too. Yet the man didn’t hesitate to walk across the blueness and climb on board, practically running from one end to the other. Following warily, Mere found a wood-like platform edged with simple low rails. There were three cabins, each with a flat roof and its own walls, and one door that could be swung closed. And there was a fourth room with nothing inside but a toilet. The biggest shock was how planned everything was, functional and unadorned yet entirely useable, perhaps even comfortable.
What should the two of them offer in response? Praises and thanks, perhaps. With few hard threats against anyone who might try to set a trap. Rococo and Mere shared glances, trying to guess each other’s mind.
Amund had reached the shoreline.
And the blue flesh rippled,
