Ultimate and Cactus watched the tiny scramblings in the dirt. Then, hooting, the posthumans fell on the scrambling lizards. Most of them were too small to catch — you would close your hand around them only to see them squirming out the other side — and even when Ultimate managed to cram one into her mouth it was too small a morsel to be satisfying.
But they didn’t need to eat the lizards. They were playing. Even now you could have fun. But in the silence of New Pangaea their whoops and hooting cries echoed from the bare rocks, and as far as could be seen they were the only large creatures moving, anywhere.
The sunset came quickly.
The air was scrubbed clean of dust by the rains. As soon as the sun touched the horizon, darkness striped across the flattened land, small ridges, dunes, and pebbles casting shadows tens of meters long. The light in the sky faded from blue to purple, quickly sinking to black at the zenith. It was like a sunset on the airless Moon.
Ultimate and Cactus huddled together, the baby between their bodies. Every night of her life Ultimate had spent in the Tree’s enfolding vegetable embrace. Now the shadows were like raptor fingers reaching out for them.
But as the temperature fell, so Ultimate’s adaptations to the desert came into operation.
Her skin was actually hot to the touch. During the day her body stored heat, in layers of fat and tissue. In the cooler air of night, her body was able to radiate a lot of the heat back to the environment. If she had not been able to perform this trick of refrigeration she would have had to lose the heat by sweating — and that would have used up water she couldn’t afford to waste. And Cactus and Ultimate were breathing, deeply and slowly. That way a maximum amount of oxygen was extracted from each lungful of air, and a minimum amount of water was lost. Meanwhile Ultimate’s body was manufacturing water from the carbohydrates in the food she had eaten. She would finish the night with more water in her body’s stores than when she had started.
But still, for all this remarkable physiological engineering, the two of them could do little but sit and endure the night, breathing slowly, lapsing into a kind of dull half dream as their bodies’ functioning slowed to a crawl.
While above them a bewildering sky unfolded.
Ultimate had a grandstand perspective view of the Galaxy. The huge spiral arms were corridors of brightness that spanned the sky, studded with pinpricks of sapphire-blue young stars and ruby-red nebulae. At the center of the disk was the Galactic core, a bulge of yellow-orange stars like the yolk of a fried egg: the light had taken twenty-five thousand years to travel here to Earth from that crowded core.
In human times the sun had been embedded in the body of the huge flat disk, so that the Galaxy had been seen edge-on, its glory diminished by the obstructing dust clouds that littered the disk. But now the sun, following its slow orbit around the core, had sailed out of the Galaxy’s plane. Compared to the random scattering of a few thousand lamps that had marked man’s sky, this was like glimpsing the lights of a hidden city.
Ultimate cowered.
A bony hook rose in the sky. It was the Moon, of course, an old Moon, tonight a narrow crescent. The same patient face that had peered down on Earth since long before the birth of man was all but unchanged across half a billion years. And yet this thin crescent Moon shone more brightly over the new supercontinent than it had over the more equable lands in the past. For the Moon shone by reflected sunlight — and the sun had grown brighter.
Had she known where to look Ultimate might have made out a dim smudge in the sky away from the Galaxy’s disk, easily visible on the clearest nights. That remote smudge was the great galaxy known as Andromeda, twice the size of its neighbor. It was still a million light-years distant from Earth’s Galaxy — but in human times it had been twice as far away as that, and even then it had been visible to the naked eye.
Andromeda and the Galaxy were heading for a collision, still another half-billion years distant. The two great star systems would pass through each other like mingling clouds, with direct collisions between stars rare. But there would be a vast gush of star formation, an explosion of energy that would flood the disks of both galaxies with hard radiation. It would be a remarkable, lethal light show.
But by then there would be little left alive on Earth itself to be troubled by the catastrophe. For the brightening of the sun was life’s final emergency.
Morning came with its usual stark suddenness. Scuttling lizards and insects disappeared into the nooks and crannies where they would ride out the day, waiting for the richer opportunities of evening.
The baby mewled. Her fur stuck up in clumps, and the pucker where the belly-root should sit looked inflamed. She kept up her complaints, her bulbous little head turning to and fro, until Ultimate had chewed some more liverwort and dribbled it into her mouth. Cactus, too, was grumbling, picking dirt and bits of dried shit from her fur.
This morning it didn’t seem such a good idea to be out here in the middle of nowhere, so far from home. But as she held her baby Ultimate knew she had to stay away from the Tree — stay away, or lose her baby. She clung to that one irreducible fact.
Ultimate and Cactus began to work their random way across the landscape, heading roughly away from the quarry. Just as they had yesterday, they ate where they could — though they found no water — and they avoided the rat-mouths and other hazards.
And, at some point past noon, when the sun had begun its climb down the sky, Ultimate suddenly found herself facing the sphere once again.
She had forgotten it existed. It did not occur to her to wonder how such an immense object might have gotten here from there, in the quarry.
Cactus showed no interest, once she had figured out that you couldn’t eat the sphere. She passed on, grumbling to herself, picking bits of crimson dust out of her fur.
Her baby asleep in her arms, Ultimate walked up to the sphere’s purple-black bulk. She sniffed it and, this time, tasted it. Again that unidentifiable electric tang subtly thrilled her. She lingered, somehow drawn. But the sphere offered her nothing.
But suddenly Cactus was howling, thrashing on the ground. Ultimate whirled, crouching. Cactus’s left leg was somehow pinned, and blood spurted from her foot — and Ultimate heard the crunch of bone, as if poor Cactus’s limb had been taken in some vast mouth.
But there was no mouth to be seen.
No teeth and claws held Cactus. But slashes appeared on her chest and torso, dripping with startlingly bright blood, as if out of nowhere. Still she fought. She swung her fists, kicked, tried to bite even as she screamed. She was landing blows — Ultimate could hear the meaty sound of flesh being struck, and there were peculiar bits of discoloration in the air over Cactus, purple and blue. And the blood itself was starting to outline her assailant in crimson splashes. Ultimate could make out a long cylindrical torso, stubby legs, a wide, snapping mouth.
But Cactus was losing her fight. Her legs and upper body became trapped under the shimmering mass. She turned to Ultimate, and reached out her hand.
Instincts warred in Ultimate. It might have been different if she could have imagined how Cactus was feeling, the mortal fear that flooded through her. But Ultimate could not; empathy had been lost in mankind’s great shedding, along with so much else.
She had hesitated too long.
That great blurred mass raised itself up and came crashing down on Cactus. A thicker, richer blood gushed from the helpless posthuman’s mouth.
Ultimate’s shock evaporated. With a squeal of terror she turned and ran, her squealing baby clutched to her chest, her feet and her free hand clattering over the dusty ground. She kept going until she came to an eroded ridge of crimson rock.