Raising the Stones

by Sheri S. Tepper

  The Damzels bowed in return. Bombi pushed the gate open, and the group straggled across the gravel toward the curtain of fire at the center of the walled circle. Once they had gone through, there would be a brief wait while the next desired destination was programmed, checked, and confirmed.

  “So Shan thinks there’s an influence of the Departed,” mused Dern. “Who would have thought it?”

  No one in the area made any comment at all. No comment was necessary. All of them were from Hobbs Land. All of them knew, just as Dern did, that despite all the casual indirection the settlers had managed, Shan Damzel had still come up with a fairly accurate assessment of the situation. There was, indeed, an influence of the Departed upon Hobbs Land. Or an influence of the influence which had been upon the Departed. So to speak.

  “And now, you people,” said Spiggy, suddenly very interested in what was going on. “What is this business, Maire Girat? I’ve looked you up in the Archives, you know. You were a kind of talisman for Voorstod at one time.” He took her by the arms and smiled at her, urging her to tell him everything.

  “At one time I was,” she admitted, responding to his warmth. “At one time I let myself not think about what Voorstod really was. I saw the loveliness of the mists and the aching beauty of the sea and the highlands, and ignored other things …”

  Sam moved away to speak to Dern, and Maire followed him with her eyes. “I dreamed of lovers and sang about them. I saw children laughing and sang of them. I didn’t see the Gharm. No one in Voorstod looks at the Gharm, so why should I have done.”

  “I’ve been told of the Voorstod Doctrine of Freedom,” said Spiggy, holding her eyes with his own. “Almighty God gave the Gharm to Voorstod, so says doctrine, for freedom’s sake.” He shook himself, as though to shake off some vile residue. “But what of the Gharm themselves?”

  “The doctrine of Voorstod says they are nothing. Less than nothing. Consumables. To be bred and used up.”

  “It seems to me,” said Spiggy softly, “that when a race of man becomes so anthropocentric it regards other living beings as lesser consumables, it could get to be a habit. It might become easy to include other living creatures with the Gharm. Animals. Children. Women. Entire planets. Perhaps they, too, become consumables, to be used up and thrown away.”

  Maire nodded at him. “So they will not teach the girl child anything important, but they will call her stupid when she is grown. So they will force a Gharm to live where there is no water and call him dirty. So they will demand their children seek their permission for any act but then turn upon them as lazy and unenterprising. Such are the imprecations of Voorstod. Such are the words that lie upon Voorstod souls to hide the guilt inside.” She stood rigid, turning her back. “Ire, Iron, and Voorstod: the words I left behind.” Tears were running down her cheeks.

  “And you will go back? To that?” asked Spiggy. He was the only one who would have asked. Despite his discovery of the God Horgy Endure, he was not yet accustomed to knowing things as others in Hobbs Land were coming to know them.

  The horn sounded again. The lights flashed above the gate, spelling out “Fenice upon Ahabar.”

  Maire wiped her eyes and stepped resolutely toward the gate, without hesitation. Sam’s face showed only interest and expectation. Saturday took a deep breath. The coming time would be hard. Things would not be clear and trustworthy. She would have to depend upon herself, her own memory of the way things should be. She would have to be strong, and careful. “I will,” she promised, promised herself, perhaps, or something larger than herself. “I will.”

  Spiggy opened the gate. Outside, across the area of sandy ground, partly fused with the powers that ran into and out of the Door, stood the Door itself, glimmering in pale fire. At the other side of it was Fenice, and the road to Jeramish.

  “Go with our blessings,” murmured Dern, patting Maire upon the arm.

  Saturday and Maire bowed him farewell and went. Sam had already gone.

  • Shanrandinore Damzel, despite the fact that his siblings saw things quite otherwise, insisted upon making a minority report to the Circle of Scrutators.

  “Do you really think it necessary?” Holorabdabag Reticingh asked. “You won’t do your career any good by poking spears into grinding devices.”

  “Spears into what, Uncle Holo?”

  Reticingh shook his head. “An old saying. I’m not sure what it means, literally, though the sense is that one ought not to waste energy on imaginary enemies.”

  Shan bridled. “Who claims that I merely imagine?”

  Reticingh flushed. Such a claim would be blasphemous, and Shan knew it. No Baidee would accuse another of merely imagining, or of being insane, or of not understanding. “Each mind sees reality in its own way,” said the catechism.

  “No one makes any such claim,” said Reticingh. “Calm down, Shan. It’s just that no one sees any reason for concern but you. Dr. Feriganeh doesn’t. Merthal doesn’t. Bombi and Volsa don’t. We can’t tell you you’re wrong, any more than we can tell you they’re right. We can say that the weight of opinion …”

  “I believe I am more sensitive than any of them,” Shan interrupted. “I believe I was sensitized by my time among the Porsa. I believe Zilia Makepeace sensed the same thing I did.”

  “Now she says not, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s revised her report to the Advisory. I got a message from Chairman Rasiel Plum, saying the Makepeace woman had thought it over and decided she was imagining it all. She ascribes it to experiences she had as a child in the Celphian Rings. She was badly treated, and it made her suspicious of everyone.”

  Shan scowled hideously. “If she says that, then I believe the danger to be even greater than I had thought previously.”

  Reticingh threw up his hands. “What danger, Shan?”

  “Something is controlling the minds of those upon Hobbs Land. All of them. Without exception. Including Zilia Makepeace.”

  Reticingh sat down carefully, slowly formulating what he would do and say next. There was a convention for times like these. Not, thank the Overmind, one he had often had to use.

  “Very well, Shan, let us examine the evidence in the conventional manner.”

  Shan settled himself into a chair opposite and relaxed. If Reticingh was content to examine the evidence, so was he.

  “One sign of mental interference of the type you suspect would be total agreement on everything by the people on Hobbs Land. Absolute single-mindedness. Was this the case?”

  Shan was about to give a qualified yes when he remembered the last conversation he had had with people from the settlement. He recalled Sam Girat’s mother, who had said she and her son disagreed about many things. “No,” he said honestly, flushing. “As a matter of fact, when we were leaving, the mother of one of the Topmen told us she and her son were often in disagreement. I think the people do disagree, quite a lot.” He thought a moment more, still being honest with himself, as Baidee were expected to be. “I heard children fighting among themselves when we visited Settlement One. And people arguing. Though there was what I regard as an unlikely degree of cooperation, I cannot honestly say there was total agreement.”

  “Was it considered inappropriate or unacceptable to argue or disagree?”

  Shan shook his head, a little angrily. He was as familiar with these questions as Reticingh was, and he knew where they were heading.

  Reticingh thought a moment. “Another sign of mental interference might be ardent fanaticism of some kind. Extreme dedication to some system of thought or to some deity. Mind-numbing ritual, for example. Lengthy periods of rote prayer. Did you notice anything of the kind?”

  “They built these temple structures,” said Shan. “They built them in all of the settlements, I think.”

  “What reason did they give for doing so?”

  Shan recalled Sam Girat’s reasoning and quoted it fully.

  “Do you find this unbelievable?” asked Reticing
h. “On Phansure, virtually every village has a monument to those who died in the great Phansurian brother-war during colonial times. Here on Thyker, we have cenotaphs for those killed by the Blight. Do the settlement people spend inordinate time with this temple construction? Do they spend a lot of time in the temples?”

  Shan shook his head again. “Not that I could see.”

  “Are there great crowds of worshippers being harangued? People spending hours in prayer? Anything like that?”

  “Not that I could see. But they sing, Uncle Holo.”

  Reticingh paused again. “Though vocal music is not an overwhelming interest here on Thyker, at least not among most Baidee, you have to admit that a great many people sing. Your brother sings! We cannot ascribe mind-control to all who sing. On Phansure and Ahabar, they have large orchestras and pay much attention to music, and even though the conductors seem to have absolute control over the musicians during a performance, we don’t consider that the musicians have had their heads fooled with.” He paused to let that sink in. “They choose to take part in an orchestra, and that implies submitting to the director.” He let Shan chew on that for a moment before continuing.

  “A third sign of mental enslavement would be a continued attempt on the part of the controlled ones to convert others. Did anyone attempt to convert you to any point of view?”

  Shan laughed shortly, without amusement. “No, Uncle. No and no. We’re not going to find what concerns me through applying the conventional questions! No, and no, and no. They did nothing, said nothing, indicated nothing. They look normal, act normal, except that they’re far more contented than people should be …”

  “Contented?” Reticingh interrupted. “What do you mean by that?”

  “They give the impression of being … satisfied. No. Not satisfied. Pleased with life.”

  “Well, from what you tell me, it’s a healthful life, without much stress. And, unlike most populations, the people on Hobbs Land are self-selected to be those who want to live that kind of life. I suppose by now most anyone who wasn’t well-suited to it has given up and departed.” He stared at Shan innocently. “They are allowed to depart if they wish?”

  “They are,” said Shan unrepentantly. “Still, I believe something …”

  “You believe something bad, evil, threatening is happening. You don’t know why, you don’t know how, you don’t know what, but something’s wrong, is that it?”

  “I want to tell the Scrutators how I feel. Just for the record.”

  Reticingh threw up his hands again. “You have that right, Shanrandinore Damzel. If you had not the right on your own account, I would obtain it for you, as the dear son of my old friends. Still, think about it carefully. You have told me nothing convincing. Others may question your judgement.”

  “For the record,” said Shan stubbornly. “I insist.”

  “Very well then,” agreed Reticingh. “For the record. I will make the arrangements for a hearing and inform you when I have done so.”

  Dismissed, Shan Damzel went out through the hall and onto the high walkway along the parapet, which led to the top of the grand staircase. He had come up that staircase, slow flight by slow flight, eschewing the gravities which would have lifted him without effort. Climbing to the ramparts of the Chowdari Temple of the Overmind had the weight and force of ritual, a significance beyond the mere physical effort. It was a symbol of trial, of overcoming inimical forces. The grand staircase wound around the temple, a long flight beginning at the southeast corner of the temple and climbing to the northeast corner, then turning across to the northwest, to the southwest, then up to a point directly above the starting point, where he stood now. From his present vantage point he could look down into the drill grounds where thousands of young Baidee, tunicked and turbaned, identical as grains of sand, engaged in weapons practice.

  Odd. It hadn’t occurred to Shan before, and would not have now except for Reticingh’s comment about the orchestra, but was not the subordination of one’s own judgement in accepting military orders “fooling with one’s head”? When Shan had been among them, the troops had been harangued for hours at a time by their officers. They had been converted to a proper frame of mind to make them move and march and maneuver as proper soldiers. They had come to an absolute uniformity of opinion upon some matters, many matters.

  Shan turned away from the parapet and wiped his forehead. It wasn’t the same thing. One could choose not to take part in military service. The alternatives were unpleasant, but one could choose.

  He turned back, focusing his attention on the wheeling thousands. Some of these very men might be under Churry’s command in the brigades. Some, perhaps, were members of The Arm of the Prophetess, about which Shan had heard whispers. If there was no response from the Circle of Scrutators, and it seemed unlikely there would be none, then there was one body of dedicated Baidee who would see the threat to their traditional freedoms. One group who would realize such a threat could not go unopposed, to spread, perhaps to spread widely.

  He wiped his forehead and swallowed bile at the back of his throat. There would be one group he could count on. And at least one dedicated Baidee to lead them.

  • On the moon Enforcement, Overmajor Altabon Faros tried to think of anything in the universe except his wife, Silene. Often he woke in the night to the sound of her screaming words at him, only to realize words could not come from her lips again. Unless. … unless he could get her away from Voorstod. Elsewhere, she might have a new tongue cloned. Elsewhere she might be well again, herself again. Otherwise, there were certain secret sweet names she had called him which were forever silent. There were certain sweet plans they had made which were forever dead. If she herself were dead, he would have grieved and forgotten, but she lived and might go on living if he could quit thinking about her enough to go on doing what he was supposed to be doing. Only by doing it successfully could he save her life. So Faros spent evenings and early mornings concentrating on what he knew about what he had to do. Everything he knew about Enforcement. Everything he knew about Authority.

  He knew the moon Authority was a small one because nothing larger had originally been needed. There had been room for twenty-one Phansuris and Ahabarians and Thykerites and Moon and Belt people together with their secretaries and aides and servants. Over the centuries, however, Authority had become corpulent, adding an advisory here, creating a panel there, appointing a temporary study commission that survived over the centuries to create other (temporary) commissions of its own. Now Authority filled every cubic inch of the moon’s hollowed-out interior and domed surface, and its constant complaint was that there was no room for all its people. Authority had become an entity larger than its purpose and too unwieldy for its duties. It was swollen, gross, quivering with indulgent fat.

  And the people were the same. Faros had met them. He knew they were effete and decadent and mostly old, living in environments of unquestioned, though artificial, beauty. Though they went away, from time to time, they always returned, to be soothed by privilege and to divert themselves with endless machinations.

  Despite the numbers packed into Authority, the moon itself was no larger than it had ever been, no larger and no better defended, which was to say, not defended at all. No one on Authority had ever considered defending the moon, certainly not against Enforcement. Those on Authority did not often think of Enforcement and had never used it. Even when Thyker had been invaded and the twenty-one Members had considered mobilization, Thyker had dealt with the matter itself before one vote could be taken, before one soldier could be awakened and programmed and sent out to wreak destruction.

  Authority was incapable of imagining its own demise, a demise that was already hovering over it, implacable fate held in the trembling hands of Altabon Faros and the hard, unfeeling ones of Halibar Ornil.

  Ornil. Stocky and thick-skinned Ornil, whose forehead was low and whose eyes were narrow. Who walked with a lurching stride, like a wrestler, and whose hands hung away f
rom his body, as though they were not quite part of him. Whose uniform was always slightly untidy, even moments after he put it on, and whose connection with the aristocratic Overmajor Faros had never been understood. Only Faros knew that Ornil was there to keep watch on him, and he to keep watch on Ornil. The prophets trusted no one. Trust had no part in the Cause.

  Occasionally, when it would seem natural for them to do so, the two Voorstoders spent some time together. They did not drink stimulants or take any recreational drug. They did not patronize the brothel maintained at Authority’s expense—Faros from lack of appetite, Ornil from prudence. But they might take a meal together while Ornil muttered his assessment of what he assumed was closest to them both. The successful culmination of their mission.

  “Thyker first,” Ornil had postulated on the most recent occasion. “We’ll send the Enforcement army against Thyker first.”

  Faros knew it would not be Thyker first. To say so would make him suspect, however, as though he questioned the will of the Awateh, to which he was not privy. So, he said, as he always did, ‘That’s up to the Awateh,” being careful to give nothing away, stroking his long, tapering fingers as though they ached and wishing Ornil could talk about something else.

  Ornil ruminated, chewing over his ideas as he did his food, messily, noisily. After a time, he said, “Except Thyker does have all those biological weapons. If not Thyker, I’ll bet we go against Phansure first.”

  Faros sipped at the lukewarm drink before him. “If the Cause conquers Phansure, then it can force the Phansuris to build as many more soldiers as it might need for any purpose. So it would seem Phansure could be an early target.”

  “Not first?” Ornil glared at him from beneath his brows. “Why not first?”

  “Perhaps the Awateh has considered Authority as the first target.” The only one that made any sense. Which was not to say the Awateh would necessarily do it. Much of what the Awateh did had no sense to it. Only cruelty and pain.

  “Authority?” Ornil thought about this, laboriously, as he thought about most things. Then he smiled. “Of course. Authority.”