Radiant

They’d landed east of the city, on a highway that continued several kilometers into the countryside. (The road led to a limestone quarry that must have supplied raw materials for the city’s skyscrapers.) The highway made a good airstrip: it was one of the few paved roads that wasn’t lined by tall buildings, so there was little danger of the shuttle hitting anything on its way in. Crash-landing had rendered the shuttle unrecognizable as an aircraft… but that just meant the craft’s crumple zones had done their job, absorbing the crash’s impact to protect the cockpit and passenger cabin. Other safety features had done their job too, including automatic airbags and flame-retardant materials that prevented fires after the crash — all measures that worked despite the electrical systems being EMP’d out of commission. Therefore, Li and Ubatu had come through unscathed, give or take a few bruises. Enough pain to prove they’d faced danger, but without causing real inconvenience. The sort of injuries they’d talk about endlessly at cocktail parties.

Getting out of the ruined shuttle was more of a challenge. Since all exterior hatches were part of crumple zones, the usual exit doors had been crushed. That wouldn’t have mattered if the crash took place in a populated area, where rescue crews could rush to the scene and extricate survivors with laser cutters. The shuttle’s designers, however, had allowed for crashes on planets where no outside help would appear. A number of hand tools were cached in the passenger cabin: drills and saws and long-handled metal snips that could (with diligence and strength) be used to mangle one’s way to freedom. Neither diplomat had much knack for manual labor, but Commander Ubatu was an uberchild with bioengineered muscles, dexterity, and stamina; she’d found the tools and begun cutting. Whenever she started to slow — and as a pampered daughter of the Diplomatic Corps, she had little experience with physical exertion that lasted longer than an aerobics class — Ambassador Li made snide remarks till Ubatu got back to work. Escape was therefore a team effort: brawn and bad temper. By the time we reached the crash site, they were minutes away from success.

It hadn’t been hard to persuade Tut and Festina to follow me to the site. I’d told a version of the truth — that the Balrog had given me a 'vision' of where the diplomats were. Festina grumbled about 'the damned moss telling us where to go' but didn’t otherwise question my story. She fully expected the Balrog to force images into my mind if it wanted to compel us down a particular path; that was just the sort of high-handed manipulation one received from alien parasites. It didn’t hurt that Pistachio’s cameras could get blurry photos of the shuttle exactly where I said it was. Festina still suspected the Balrog of playing games, but since the 'vision' had saved us time searching, she let me lead the way.

As we walked, she continued her report to Captain Cohen. Tut spent his time watching for Rexies, though my sixth sense reported none in the vicinity. I divided my attention between spying longdistance on Li and Ubatu and eyeing Stage One EMP clouds hiding all around us.

The clouds lay invisible to normal vision, spread microscopically thin along the pavement or compressed into cracks in mosaic murals. The cloud particles blazed with impatience: a hunger to see us removed. We were constant reminders of what they had once been. We had intelligence and physicality; we could affect the world directly with our hands. Threads of malice in the clouds’ auras hinted that the pretas wanted to see us brought low like them — disintegrated into nearly impotent Stage One smoke.

But with my expanded perception, I saw that blazing anger was only part of the pretas’ story. Beneath the fury, subtler feelings quivered: grief, regret, yearning, bewilderment. The clouds, after all, had been everyday people — not abnormally evil, even if they were now subject to extremes of emotion. Their desire to see us vaporized was more pique than true malevolence.

Mostly, the clouds just wanted us gone. The sight of us made them think and remember. Once we were removed, the pretas could go back to a neutral existence: drifting, purposeless, hopeless, hollow, neither asleep nor awake, letting the centuries plod numbly past but at least not tormented by reminders of what they had lost.

Seeing us caused them sharp regrets. They preferred the long, dull ache.

None of this was an individual decision — the clouds were a hive of hives. Each cloud was a composite being made of individual particles, but the clouds as a whole formed a loose gestalt: a collective emotional consciousness. They couldn’t combine their brainpower, but they helplessly shared each other’s feelings. Their auras showed that a tiny change in the mood of one cloud spread almost instantly to every other within range of my perceptions… even to clouds kilometers away. Conceivably, a single pang of torment might spread to pretas all around the planet.

So our presence caused global pain. The ghosts couldn’t escape suffering just by keeping their distance from us. As long as we were on Muta, they’d feel us and burn.

Was it any wonder that the clouds wanted us gone, even if that meant sending Rexies to kill us?

One other thing I sensed from the smoke: the pretas didn’t know about the Balrog. The moss had stayed concealed inside me; the one time it acted overtly was transferring spores to Ohpa, and that was done quickly in a room the clouds avoided because Ohpa caused them discomfort. Tut, Festina, and I had mentioned the Balrog in conversation, but Fuentes clouds wouldn’t understand English, and the pretas of Team Esteem probably couldn’t either — the Unity disdained all languages but their own. Only official Unity translators ever learned other tongues.

So the clouds didn’t know what we were saying… and they didn’t know the Balrog had hitched a ride in my body. A good thing they couldn’t read auras — I could see the Balrog bright within me, shining like a forest fire. Ohpa, with his limited wisdom, had also seen the glow immediately; but the clouds were blind to the Balrog’s brilliance.

If the pretas had known, perhaps a whole stampede of Rexies would be heading our way.

As we approached the shuttle, we could hear loud noises inside: not just the clatter of cutting tools, but Ubatu shouting and Li yelling back. Ubatu had reverted to some unfamiliar language, but I didn’t need a translation — curses sound the same in any tongue. Li, on the other hand, opted for intelligibility in his outbursts. He spoke full English sentences devoid of actual profanity but loaded with the sort of insinuations that cause duels, bar brawls, and major diplomatic incidents. I could hear him accusing Ubatu of incompetence on the job, ignorance of every worthwhile achievement of human culture, and such a shameful degree of cowardice that Ubatu probably demanded general anesthetic when she got her scalp tattooed.

Listening to this, Festina rolled her eyes. 'If we walk away now, will they end up killing each other or sleeping together?'

'Why not both?' Tut replied.

Festina sighed. 'At least they’re alive. And they sound healthy. Or rather, uninjured. So there’s no need for us to stick around. We’ll just leave some supplies and head for the Stage Two station.'

'You think that’s a good idea?' Tut asked.

'It’ll be all right,' Festina answered. 'They’re smart enough to wait someplace safe till we come back…' Her voice faltered. 'They’ll get into trouble, won’t they?'

'Eaten by Rexies for sure,' Tut said.

'Yeah.' Festina sighed again. 'We’ll have to set them up somewhere warm and secure. But they’re not coming south with us; they’d get in the way and slow us down. So neither of you say a word about where we’re going. We’ll put them in a Fuentes building, high enough up to be out of harm’s way. We’ll give them food and water, then get out fast before they can follow. Pretend we’re going back to Camp Esteem for more supplies. With luck they’ll stay put a few hours… by which time the storm will arrive and discourage them from going anywhere.'

'You want to travel through the storm?' I asked.

'Yes,' Festina said, 'we can’t waste time. The Stage One microbes are working on us. Who knows how long before they pull us to pieces? And who knows how long we’ll need to start the Stage Two process?'

'How do you know we can start it?'

'I’m crossing my fingers the Balrog wouldn’t be here unless there was a way to set things right. That seems to mean activating Stage Two. Maybe the Balrog will help us… though it’s been remarkably useless so far.'

I made a noncommittal shrug. The Balrog had actually helped us reach Var-Lann (by augmenting my kick on the storehouse door), talk to Ohpa (by passing on the ability to speak English), and find our missing diplomats (by locating the shuttle via sixth sense). The important question wasn’t if the Balrog would start helping us, but if it would stop.

'Not to be a pessimist,' Tut told Festina, 'but you realize the Balrog doesn’t need us? ‘Us’ meaning you and me, Auntie. Mom’s got spores in her pores, and the Bumbler says she’s immune to Stage One. So whatever needs to be done on Muta, maybe the Balrog doesn’t care if you and I turn misty — Mom will survive to save the day.'

'Then you should be happy, Tut,' Festina said. 'If you turn to smoke and Youn Suu activates Stage Two, you’ll become a demigod. Wasn’t that what you wanted?'

'If I become a cool demigod. Like a ninja Hercules, or a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Godzilla.' He looked at Festina. 'What about that, Auntie? Wouldn’t you want to become hemi-demi-semi-divine if you could be, like, a combination of Kali, Helen of Troy, and Picasso?'

'No,' Festina answered.

'Cleopatra, Peter Pan, and a monkey?'

'I already said no, Tut. I respect humans more than gods or superheroes. Besides, surpassing mere humanity always has a price. Doesn’t it, Youn Suu?'

'Yes. You pay and pay and pay.' I tried to keep bitterness out of my voice.

'See, Tut?' Festina said. 'Better to stick with humanity. It’s what I’m good at. Being human.'

'What if you don’t have a choice?' Tut asked. 'What if your only options are godhood or a billion years as a cloud?'

Festina didn’t answer. None of us spoke.

We listened to Li and Ubatu snap at each other till they’d cut through the shuttle’s hull.

As soon as the diplomats had a modest-sized hole in the fuselage, they pushed out the cutting tools and demanded we finish freeing them. I doubt I was the only one who considered throwing the tools in the river and leaving the stowaways in the shuttle — they’d be safe inside, since the hole was too small for a Rexy — but the opening they’d already made was big enough for the diplomats to squeeze out if they really pushed, and even if it wasn’t, Ubatu’s bioengineered muscles could widen the hole eventually. Then the two would head into Drill-Press, both too disgruntled for cautious behavior and guaranteed to get into trouble.

Grudgingly, we began hacking at the hull. For once, Festina didn’t shoulder the hardest work; instead she sat sentry, watching for Rexies while Tut and I handled the manual labor. (I could have told her there were no Rexies within three kilometers… but then she’d ask questions about my newfound gift of perception. I preferred