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  “…must be kidding,” a harsh voice shouted from the shack where the ship’s captain and his groundside crew drank and gamed. “It’s your world, mister almighty Chucked-Out Charlie Castell, and my people aren’t animals, and personally I couldn’t give less a damn about how you’ll move your supplies if they invented atomic damn-splitting.”

  It was the ship’s captain, a cashiered CoDo NCO, whose voice roared forth. He bellowed at Reverend Castell, berating him, mocking his plan of colonization and mimicking his perception of our principles in a drunken tirade that would’ve spawned a riot on any other world at any other time with any other audience.

  The two leaders came out of the shack. The captain’s fists came within inches of the reverend’s face, but our leader neither blinked nor winced. Raising his hands to chest level, Reverend Castell said something in a firm but modulated voice, and that’s when the other drunks roiled out of the shebeen, which actually rocked back and forth as shoulders pushed on the sides of the doorframe.

  The captain yelled, “You can jolly well wait until your animals grow out of embryo for all I care, but there’s not enough money in the known systems to make me ask my men to do another lick of work for your bunch. Christ on a flapjack, you’ve got the arrogance of Lucifer himself, I swear.”

  Laughter and hoots of derision erupted in the mob outside the drinking shack. Our people, the Chosen, stood watching Reverend Castell as intently as audiences watch tightrope walkers, anxiety plain on our faces. I know many thought as I did, that to lose him now would fate us all to meaningless failure.

  Several voices among our people said, “I told you he was crazy,” or “Now do you see?” or even “Damn him, making them angry like that,” but I held out faith in Castell, because he’d never failed us yet. Saying as much to my brother acolytes, I got them to circulate amidst the Chosen, spreading harmony and calm as best they could.

  The captain and the reverend stood nose to nose as the opposite crowds studied them, some eager for blood, others seeking only peace. An electricity charged the scene, holding everyone static.

  And then the violence in the air evaporated as Reverend Castell said something that made the infidels laugh and curse. He came to us while they gurgled back down the drain into their iniquitous sink of sins.

  “They’ll be gone in twelve hours,” Reverend Castell told us. As usual, I was standing near enough to him to be able to study his features, and I swear I saw the traces of a satisfied smile there, as if he’d accomplished something difficult with less trouble than anticipated. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled. “We’re too excited to sleep anyway, don’t you think, Kev?” he asked. Then, before I could respond in any way, he dashed toward our supplies and began climbing them.

  His shipslippers let his toes grip the ropes and canvas on the crates, and soon he stood high above us. So high, in fact, that when he spoke we found that very few of us could see him at all.

  His voice, a baritone coaxed and trained, modulated and resonant, fell upon us like manna. We fed upon the sound of that voice as much as on the messages it conveyed. It was a sermon like none before, rousing us to efforts none of us would have conceived.

  We bent and lifted. We carried until our legs quivered. All the while, Reverend Castell stayed atop the diminishing pile of goods we’d brought.

  Rocks twisted ankles, divots stole footing and the light failed gradually but certainly as we moved our precious supplies away from the lake. There were trees, sparse-set evergreens, but we stayed back from them, not knowing what might lurk in their shadows, under their deceptively familiar boughs.

  A relatively flat area, with harsh grasses that tore at exposed flesh with serrated stalks and sticky leaves that seemed to seal each wound, proved the best place to create our first redoubt.

  Directing the placing of crates and drums and barrels and sacks, we created a small fort-like square. Our supplies surrounded us, providing shelter as well as other necessities. Slit-trenches were dug by a few of our people who understood such matters, one of whom had been a CoDo Marine until he lost his hand in a nameless battle, another of whom had been a mountain survivalist until swept into a city by defoliant and other government plagues. Deadfall was gathered and fires lit, and soon savory broths and other delicious if meatless sustenance sent out whips of mouth-watering invitation.

  Reverend Castell carried the very last crate by himself. He took it to the center of the cleared area and let it drop with a grunt. Such crates weigh more than forty kilos here, I knew.

  Hopping upon it, he said, “Chosen ones, hear me. This spot shall be our settlement, and from this spot shall we construct a place worthy of true and universal harmony. Here shall we found a place free of secular intrusions, free of the compromises so many of the churches have adopted of late on old, decaying Earth.

  “As the silence at the heart of the note supports all aspects of the song, so shall this spot remain empty, a town square from whence shall radiate peace and chords of joy even as our settlement grows to fulfill all promises.”

  We hummed a chord and held it, and the single multiplex tone droned from and through us, raising our inner selves to new heights of strength and determination. No one shivered during that nine-minute chord, no stomachs growled and no babies squalled. It was peace, it was truth, it was harmony.

  The rest of that time, I guess I must call it evening, Castell passed among us, squatting to chat here, pausing to give assistance there, spreading calm and confidence everywhere. His confidence radiated like a warmth more sustaining than the heat of fire.

  After eating a tortilla rolled around celery with ten-bean sauce, I followed him on his rounds. My admiration for him may well have grown, if such was possible. He knew the right things to say to everyone, and knew all their names, all nine hundred of them. He even knew the names of the babies, not yet counted as Chosen, but certainly blessed by the harmonics of their parents.

  When we returned to the center of the small square, Castell’s crate was still there. I noticed that it was labeled with a Xeno-Biology warning symbol, a red triangle in a green square, with the legend HYBRID GRAINS.

  Gesturing for me and the eight other acolytes to be seated, he treated us to a story about his father, Garner “Bill” Castell, adventurer, founder of our church, and our spiritual patriarch. As he wove aural spells of incident, plot, and character, I let my memory stray back to my only glimpse of Garner “Bill” Castell, lying in state in that old Victorian style mansion on the hill.

  He had lain smiling faintly even in death as his son—left with the flock, left with the dream of a promised land, and left with just about enough church assets to assure new-found Haven’s settlement rights—cried and ranted in a far corner at the unapproachable man’s still unapproachable corpse.

  Though he spoke now with affection, I knew Charles Castell still harbored complicated feelings for his father. “Be glad you knew yours,” I whispered, sending out a prayer. And when the tale was told, all straining listeners smiled and nodded even as we acolytes laughed at the gentle humor of the ending.

  Reverend Castell sat in a lotus position atop the crate and let his head loll slowly back until his face gazed upward. His eyes were closed to our sullied, sin-ridden world. His inner resonance held him rapt.

  In three layers of unbleached cotton and rolled into a wool shawl, I soon fell asleep. We acolytes, in deference to the reverend’s disdain of personal comfort, ignited no fire for ourselves. At sixteen, I fancied myself able to live up to whatever impossible standards Charles Castell thought fit to demonstrate for us.

  I dreamed of milk, warm from the udder, and honey, hot from the hive.

  II

  We awoke to the ground trembling.

  A throbbing moved the air in jitters, and I rolled to a sitting position, ready to brace myself. After so long in space, our reflexes were those of travelers. My thoughts were of asteroids, or ruptured bulkheads.

  Once I realized we were on the ground, however, I
instantly thought of quakes, and glanced over to see Reverend Castell still sitting on the crate, as if he’d not moved as we all slept around him. He was shepherd to the flock, and an example to those who would attain true harmony, and I tried to be like him, despite my alarm.

  And then someone said, “They’re just leaving us here,” and I knew that the vibrations came from the shuttle departing. With that thought came louder sounds, and then a glimpse of the dirty white ship in silhouette as it roared quickly upward from the middle of the lake, dripping water, soaring into the dark and clouds.

  My chest tightened. Dizziness swept through me. We were alone. We were the only people on the entire planet, nine hundred of us.

  Despite my desire to avoid such daunting thoughts, my mind’s eye offered an imagined view from the departing ship: We’d look like less than a single spore of mold on the skin of an orange.

  Tears welled. I stood and performed some tai chi to warm myself and calm my surging emotions. I missed Earth now more poignantly than I had just after departure, when the confinement of the transport had somehow crowded out any nostalgia.

  Like many others, I stood gazing upward into Haven’s dim sky long after the ship was invisible. Not even the clouds resolved into familiar shapes, for us, and no birds flew over to bid us welcome.

  Reverend Castell let his head loll forward, took a deep breath, and smiled as his eyes fluttered open. “So,” he said. “At last.” Rising from the crate, he jumped down and laughed, then rubbed his hands together. I thought the gesture more eagerness than a grab at friction’s warmth. “We must awaken, and begin the tasks necessary to our survival,” he said, his booming voice glittering with a hint of glee.

  He strode from person to person in a widening circuit of our tiny meadow, his hands straying to touch children’s heads and the many crates and supplies he passed. His manner was all encouragement and delight.

  I ran to follow him, as was my place. My own hands now and then ruffled children’s hair. I longed to emulate Reverend Castell in the deeper things, too. Giving blessings with total assurance must be a marvel, something rarer than humanity on Haven.

  And then we came upon the rift in our wall of supplies.

  It lay farthest from the lake, closest to the forest. The people there kept their gazes downward, and none spoke when Castell, his features frozen in an unreadable mask, asked, “How many?”

  In a whisper I sent the other acolytes to count the Chosen. As they dashed off, I considered adding babies to the count, but the unworthiness of it blushed me and I was glad for once that my tongue had outpaced my thinking.

  Reverend Castell stood motionless. He stared at the gap. Not even his eyes moved. His hands made fists and held them. Breezes shifted his robes, but inside those robes his body was still and solid as a statue.

  Our count revealed that no more than twenty-three had decamped. The supplies, numbered and inventoried before departure from Earth and several times since, told their own tale. “They’ve taken only five crates worth Reverend,” I reported, having checked the numbers myself. “Two of foodstuffs, one of embryos, one of farming implements and another of medical supplies.”

  With each enumeration Castell’s eyes widened a bit more, until, by the end of my list, his stare was maniacal. “Why?” he roared.

  I jumped so hard I dropped the inventory scroll, which fluttered in a sudden gust of wind until I trod upon it, to keep it near. I dared not stoop to retrieve it.

  “Why?” Reverend Castell demanded again in a quieter voice, his eyes narrowed to slits. Under his breath he began saying names, and I, being nearest, heard some of them. He was calling the roll of those who had absconded. My flesh rippled in awe at the man’s perception, his memory.

  Women and children started crying now, and the men pretended not to as some muttered fast prayers. Others began a soft harmonic humming, but Castell swept his right arm upward, cutting off their cries. He whirled, anger contorting his face, reddening it. “There is discord here,” he said. His tones carried curses, and damnation, thunder and fury, all wrapped in a desperate grip of will. His arms flew up and he shrieked as if stricken, then he fell to his knees.

  We acolytes rushed to help him, but a glare from him halted us as he said, “What must we do?” When his voice faltered in a sob, the Chosen held their breath, listening for his next command. We wanted guidance.

  Water lapped on the shore and a chill wind sprang upon us again, from the water.

  Standing again, Castell scanned each and every face visible to him, as if seeking a scapegoat. Many responded with whimpers.

  When it was my turn, I held his gaze proudly, but my knees shook and sweat trickled down my spine. I was forced to look away, even though I was sure of my harmony with the reverend and his goals.

  “Sacrifice,” he yelled then, in a tone of revelation. His voice lashed out and struck us numb. “We have offered a few of our Chosen, that the remainder be the stronger.” He pointed at the spot where the missing supplies had once been, as if accusing, then flattened his hand to swat away imagined pests. “We must not despise them, nor hold a grudge. Instead, we must wish them well and forget them. They are no longer of us but were once a part, like hair that’s been cut, like fingernail clippings.”

  That last phrase came out of him in a lower register that imparted ripples to the flesh at the nape of my neck, but before I could dwell on the meaning of both words and tones of voice, he began smiling again. He clapped his hands thrice, a signal for attention. Into the silence he sang a lament, then gestured for us to join in its repetition.

  We created a layered hum and, at the end of nine minutes, as timed by a subcutaneous digital timekeeper under the skin of Castell’s left wrist, the digits of which glowed blue when scratched. We all felt better, as if losing the twenty-three had lessened our burden.

  Reverend Castell then strode to a crate, bent, and tore off its top planks with his bare hands. A cheer arose, and we fell to opening our supplies and sorting them.

  Children helped carry what they could, or fetched tools, while adults worked at whatever tasks best suited them. In use is ownership, and we sought to mesh our wills with the limitations of our tools. Some began setting up the incubators, to begin accelerated growth of embryos, so that we might have beasts of burden to labor and breed and freshwater fishes to feed us in later years.

  Those people, specially trained and aware that their expensive equipment was the only one of its kind to be had, did their jobs with the reverent concentration of monks. Others, of a more common ilk, joined in the chorus of work any way they could, remaining at the beck and call of more focused workers.

  “Work well,” Reverend Castell enjoined. “If no more should manage to follow us, then we shall have to suffice and what we are shall be the future of this world, and of the greater Harmony.”

  His references to the outside possibility of other Harmonies scraping up the funds and begging or bribing the permission to emigrate from Earth to Haven fell like spattered acid. And in truth I’d heard him, during the months of travel, vent much bitterness about the many indecisive souls we believers had left behind. It galled him, for one thing, that they could remain behind yet still call themselves Harmonies.

  Some of us found likely places to begin plowing and harrowing fields to receive hybrid seeds. Exactly which Earth species would thrive, we did not know, so many small plots were rendered arable. Some set up an irrigation system, deploying the skeletal water wheels. Some of us dug holes in the ground, which was hard and rocky only centimeters beneath the tangled roots of grass.

  My body warmed and my muscles, after fourteen months of nothing more strenuous than isometrics, cramped and throbbed deliciously. Also, I panted constantly but savored the pains of hard work, knowing that each jolt of discomfort was a harmonic burden balancing the accomplishments of our faith. I viewed my visible puffs of exertion as misty prayers that would disperse the many winds to eventually travel everywhere on Haven.

 
At one point that day I helped to demolish the shack by the wharf. We found a few bottles of spirits, and saved them for the doctors. We also found tri-pictures of people doing things with each other which upset one of our coworkers.

  Reverend Castell came over and looked through the tri-pix, then smiled and said, “These, too, may prove valuable as we seek to populate this world.” He gave them to the doctor, who somberly closed them into a medicine case. The upset man stood with face red and muscles bulging in his cheeks, but said nothing against Castell’s decision.

  We all got back to work, I drawing shovel duty.

  From green wood that smelled of pine but proved harder and less knotty, from mud mixed with sticky straw, and from oilcloths brought with us as wrappings around some of the supplies, we fashioned sunken cabins. Only about a quarter of each structure stood above ground, and the walls were lined with supply crate planks, stones, and unneeded supplies.

  We used the many flat stones to fashion an oven and even shelves and beds along the perimeters of each living space, and left a central hole in the roofing, to vent smoke. Some used big flat stones for roofing. Others used the pine-like boughs from the nearby trees to weave a kind of thatching.

  Entrances were small, and often required crawling; they were easy to defend against any predators we might still encounter. Drainage was accomplished with lined, sunken furrows set under the stone or wood floors.

  “These structures are based on those still to be found on the islands off Scotland’s northern coast,” Reverend Castell told us, “and they are in harmony with their surroundings and so can last as long as the stones themselves. Those in Skara Brae are over eight thousand years old and still quite comfortable.”

  His words inspired us, and gave us a sense of heritage, of being in tune with longer songs. He wandered from project to task to chore, advising and often pitching in and lending a hand.

  His strength thrilled me, and I hoped to be as big and powerful as he, for I’d not yet begun filling out. Sixteen and scrawny doesn’t last long in healthy lads, but at the time it seems forever.