The corridor abruptly ended in a broad high-ceilinged hall. A serving mech waited for them there, its chassis a simple unmarked ovoid. It stood motionless until they had all entered the hall, then it spoke in clear unaccented lingua pangalac.
“Your rooms are prepared,” it said.
“What does it say?” asked Dolmaero.
“Apparently we’re expected,” Ruiz replied in Pharaohan. “We’re to have rooms.”
“Or cells,” muttered Dolmaero pessimistically.
“Perhaps.”
“Come,” said the mech, and inclined its chassis.
It led them to the first of a dozen doors. “Yours,” it said to Ruiz.
The door swung open silently. Ruiz debated the wisdom of acceptance. He glanced about. No security devices were visible, but he had no doubt that they existed — their captors seemed fond of hidden weaponry. He sighed. What choice did he have? He started to lead Nisa inside, but a manipulator extended from the mech and barred her from entering.
“Each must be alone for now,” it said.
Ruiz teetered on the edge of attacking the mech, but controlled the impulse. He smiled encouragingly at Nisa, lifted her hand, and kissed it gently. “It says we must have separate accommodations, Nisa. I think we should obey, for now. Be alert, and remember: There’s always a way out, if we can be clever enough.” Ruiz turned to Molnekh. “You’ll have to release Flomel, I suppose. We’ll rely on our hosts to control him.”
He turned again to Nisa, filled his eyes with her.
Then he went inside and the door locked behind him.
His cell was a small apartment, equipped with all the necessities and most of the luxuries a pangalac person might require. The walls shone with soft white light, the floor was of warm, slightly resilient softstone. A suspensor lounge occupied one corner. Across from it was a plush levichair, floating before a dark holotank. An autochef’s stainless-steel louvers filled a recess in the far wall, just above a dining ledge.
Ruiz jumped when a door to his left slid open. Inside, a warm light beckoned, and he heard a splash of water in the shower enclosure.
He shrugged and went in to get cleaned up.
Later, wrapped in the soft robe the valet slot had delivered when he was finished, he sat in the levichair, studying the holotank. He was strangely reluctant to activate it. After all, he might learn something unwelcome from his captors, who obviously expected him to make use of the tank.
“Ah, well,” he said finally. Then, “Activate.”
The tank bloomed with random color for an instant, then organized swiftly into the scaled-down image of an uncannily handsome man.
He had a narrow fine-boned face and luminous green eyes. He smiled in a professionally friendly manner and spoke in a smooth baritone. “Welcome, seeker,” he said. “Shall we introduce ourselves? My name is Hemerthe Ro’diamde. And yours?”
Ruiz saw little point in claiming an alias — the others would quickly prove him a liar. “Ruiz Aw.”
“An interesting name. You’re of Old Earth stock?”
“I’ve been told as much. Who can say for sure?”
Hemerthe smiled again. “True. We thought to seed the stars, but there have always been many fine vigorous weeds among us.”
Ruiz was having difficulty following the thought. “I suppose,” he said. “Will you tell me who you are, and where we are?”
Hemerthe widened his eyes in dramatized surprise. “You don’t know? Why then did you board the Life-Seeker?”
Ruiz assumed he referred to the barge. “It was somewhat of an emergency — no other transport was available, and we were fleeing for our lives.”
“Ah.” Hemerthe’s face smoothed out as he digested the information. “You did not, then, intend to seek refuge with us?”
Ruiz’s curiosity was piqued. “Refuge?” They needed refuge, if the cost was not too high.
“This is the purpose of the Life-Seekers, to bring to us those who hope to be worthy of refuge.”
That sounded less promising, as though there might be tests of “worthiness.” “I see,” said Ruiz, though he did not.
“Good. To return to your questions, I am the autonomous revenant of one of our prime founders, who departed his embodied life almost sixteen hundred years ago. And this is Deepheart, where immortal love defeats eternal death.”
This speech was delivered with well-projected fervor; it had the ring of an oft-repeated motto. Ruiz searched his memory for anything related to a cult called Deepheart. Nothing definite emerged, but the name tickled at something in the depths. Sooner or later he would remember.
“Perhaps,” Ruiz said, “you might be more specific?”
“Perhaps,” answered Hemerthe tolerantly. “But first the Joined must discuss the meaning of your presence, and our response.”
“Might I ask what sort of responses you might consider?”
Hemerthe smiled. “They vary widely. We might throw you to the margars who swim the lagoon’s depths, or sell you to the slave pound uplevel. That’s the usual fate of those found unworthy — which discourages the frivolous from crowding the Life-Seekers.”
“Oh.”
“Or, you might be offered refuge.” Hemerthe was abruptly serious. “You have a certain hard beauty — if your mind matches your flesh, you may find a place among us.”
Ruiz wondered if his smile had gone somewhat sour. “There are no other options?”
Hemerthe shook his head. “Rarely.”
“Oh.”
Hemerthe was suddenly brisk. “You may wish to assist us in making the others of your party comfortable. Their language is not immediately identifiable; can you help?”
“They’re natives of Pharaoh; they speak the major dialect,” said Ruiz, and gave the coordinates of the system.
“Thank you. We’ll acquire an adaptor module in a few minutes; our datastream is well connected.”
“Good,” said Ruiz, in a hollow voice.
“Yes, a good start,” said Hemerthe. “Now, sleep, recuperate, luxuriate. Prove to us that you can enjoy these simple pleasures.”
Ruiz nodded.
Just before he turned to a cloud of glowing confetti and faded away, Hemerthe winked at Ruiz and said, “I was just teasing you, about the margars.”
Nisa also took advantage of the shower and the robe, but she had no idea what function the holotank served, so she ignored it until it chimed and filled with misty color.
The woman whose image condensed in the tank smiled reassuringly at Nisa. “Don’t be afraid,” she said in a soft clear voice.
“I’m not,” said Nisa. To her surprise, she discovered that she was telling the truth. Was she becoming inured to wonders?
“Fine.” It seemed to Nisa that the woman was as striking as Corean, in a different way. Her body, clothed in a clinging silky gown, was fuller, its contours more lushly female. She appeared to be somewhat older than Corean, and her smooth oval face had a time-polished beauty, a quality of confident experience — the sort of beauty, Nisa thought, that a face as perfect as Corean’s would never gain. Nisa wondered how old the woman actually was.
“My name is Repenthe,” said the woman. “What is yours?”
“Nisa.”
“A pretty name. It suits you.” The woman smiled, with what seemed genuine warmth. “You’ll have questions. We’ve already talked to Ruiz Aw, who must be your leader. We understand that you boarded the Life-Seeker by mistake; we’ll consider your status carefully. Meanwhile, I’m here to help you. Call on me anytime, by speaking the word activate.”
Nisa thought. “Can you tell me who you are, and why you send out the barges? That’s what you do, isn’t it?”