The 97th Step

by Steve Perry

  He followed her down a narrow hallway to a larger room that stood empty, save for a holoproj inset into the wall. After a beat, another Sibling entered, enwrapped as Moon and Clip were. The figure moved to Moon, said something Ferret did not catch, then stood waiting as Moon turned to Ferret.

  "You have to surrender your weapons," she said.

  "Weapons? I don't have any weapons."

  "You have a plastic HO scan-transparent buckle blade and a stun-grade slap cap ring," she said.

  "Huh?" Ferret was at a loss for a moment. Jesu, he had forgotten all about the ring and belt knife. He had been carrying them for years, had never used either one, and tended to dismiss them, as neither were killing devices. How did she know?

  "Our detector is efficient," she said, again as if in answer to his unspoken question.

  Maybe they were telepaths? "Right about that. Sorry, I forgot all about them."

  He tendered the ring and unsnapped the blade from his belt buckle, handing it to her, too. She in turn passed the weapons to the silent figure standing behind her.

  They walked from the antechamber down a short stretch of the marble path to a second, larger building, a T-shaped structure of stone, with a lot of windows.

  "This is Admin," Moon said. "Von is waiting for us here. He is the Elder Brother of our order."

  The Admin building's air was conditioned, and Ferret enjoyed the cooler and drier air as Moon led him along a hallway lined with a dozen doors, most of them open. He could see people inside the rooms—offices, actually—and while some of them were dressed like Moon, others wore fewer garments. All the costumes had a similar look—the wearers' faces and heads were covered, as were their torsos—but those of lower rank had thin, silky masks that stopped at the neck, and some had bare arms or legs, their clothing being little more than dark bodysuits and slippers.

  So far, the layout seemed both modern and well constructed. There were computer and holoproj consoles, high-tech climate exchanger strips and liberal use of decorative wood and stone, often polished and carefully worked into intricate patterns. Whoever had designed the place hadn't stinted on material or workmanship, and Ferret had lived well enough to know an expensive structure when he saw one. This was not a poor order.

  They passed the entrance to a library, shelves stacked with tapes, disks, recording spheres and actual books. Ferret was even more impressed. Hard copy books were usually rare and valuable, and for them to be kept in that space-consuming fashion must mean they were special indeed.

  Another turning brought them to an office that seemed no different than any of the others at first glance. A second look revealed some finer touches, however. The wood of the walls inside this room was thick and full of buried knots, darker concentric patterns against the dark wood itself. The wood had been overlaid with something that gave it a dull gleam, more like satin than glass. Several paintings hung on the polished walls, one a magnificent woman, nude, caught in a pose that indicated both triumph and supplication, almost as if she had somehow found and now stood before God, having overcome great obstacles to do so. The painting so caught his attention that he hardly noticed the robed figure standing to one side.

  "Ah. Moon."

  Ferret tore his attention away from the painting. The man's voice was vibrant, deep, alive with power.

  This was the Elder Brother? It must be a title, for surely this was no old man. That bothered him a little.

  "Hello, Von." Again, there was that sound in Moon's voice, a current that Ferret could not quite recognize. Affection, to be sure. Maybe respect? Love, perhaps?

  "Whom have you brought to us?"

  "He calls himself Ferret," she said, as if he were not there and listening. "One of Dindabe's students.

  Fallen on hard times."

  Von shifted his attention from the priestess to Ferret. Ferret felt the man's gaze almost as if it were a touch. "Dindabe. He is well, I trust?"

  Ferret said, "Yes. You know him?"

  Ferret was sure that Von smiled under his covering. "We met some years ago. He would have joined us, but his intent was altogether too martial, I'm afraid."

  Ferret stared at the man. His fear surged. "I don't know what my own intent is," he said. "I'm not sure I belong here."

  "Moon seems to think you do," Von said. "And Moon is seldom wrong about these things."

  Ferret turned to look at Moon. He tried for sarcasm. "Oh, really?"

  "In truth," Von said, ignoring Ferret's attempt at irony. "Well. What shall we call him? Moon?"

  "I thought 'Pen' might fit him." Her voice was quieter than usual, softer.

  "Ah. You aim high."

  "He has the potential."

  "Hold on, what are we talking about here?"

  "You think so?" Von continued, ignoring Ferret's question. The priest sounded surprised, and at the same time, most interested.

  "Yes. I think so."

  "Good. Pen it shall be."

  "Excuse me," Ferret said, "but would somebody explain?"

  Moon said, "When you join the Siblings of the Shroud, you leave your old identity behind. You take on a name that has meaning in the order. No one else can use the name as long as you are a member. We have not had a Brother Pen for some time."

  Ferret felt a curious lightness. He tested the word in his mind. Pen. Pen. It was as if he could shed his past with his name. He had done it before, as a boy of sixteen, when he left Mwili and became Ferret.

  There was something appealing about it, being able to start anew. In the church, there had been a parallel, being born again. He was too old and too cynical to be reborn, but he could start fresh here with this siblinghood, with a new name and a clean screen. Before he spoke, he was aware that he had made his decision, had actually made it when Dindabe had first suggested it to him.

  Pen. It was just a word. A simple sound.

  He looked at Von.

  "Welcome to the Siblings of the Shroud, Pen."

  Pen.

  And Ferret no longer.

  Twenty

  THE FIRST SURPRISE came when Pen stripped away his old clothes and dressed in the skimpy tunic, briefs, pullover mask and boots they gave him. The cloth was like air. He could hardly even feel it on his skin.

  "It's called kawa," Moon said, when he emerged from the dressing room. "An offshoot of orthoskin. It's one-way osmotic, but waterproof the other way; one-quarter as heavy as purest spider silk, twice as strong. Kawa has a rip-stop weave that will turn all but the sharpest knife; it sheds dirt, and it can be layered in such a way as to dissipate or hold virtually all your body heat—keeps you cool in summer, warm in winter. A shroud of kawa worn daily will last ten years with minimal care, more with special cleaning and draping. It feels almost alive, doesn't it?"

  Pen rubbed the smoothness of the cloth over his chest, fascinated by the feel of it. "I've never even heard of it. Where do you buy it?"

  "We don't. It was created by a team of our biotechs more than twenty years ago."

  "You could make a fortune marketing it."

  "No doubt. But kawa is used exclusively for the shrouds."

  Pen continued stroking the silky material.

  "What you are wearing is the First Layer. For Second Layer, you add a short-sleeved shirt and shorts; Third Layer is a long sleeved shirt and pants. After that, you start the Outer Layers. But that's not something you need concern yourself with for a time. It takes awhile to reach that level."

  "How long?"

  She smiled—he was sure of it—and said, "Depends on you. The average is three years. Some take longer, some less. Attitude and work blend together. We work on the micro/macrocosmic principle, the

  'As above, so below' dictum. Theoretically, you could master all we teach in a few months."

  "But practically?" he said.

  "Practically, the average is three years."

  "How long did it take you to get fully dressed?"

  "Two years to the First Outer Layer, two more years to Full Shroud."


  Four years. A long time, he thought. But only two years for her to do what averaged three. Interesting.

  Then again, what was she, exactly? And what would he be at the end, assuming he stuck around? He realized he didn't know anything about this order, save they could kick heads with unequaled efficiency when they so desired.

  Well. He was about to find out, wasn't he?

  The compound that comprised the quarters of the Siblings of the Shroud was extensive. Moon took him on a tour of the grounds. Within the confines of the high electric fence lay something just under seventy hectares. There were woods, meadows, carefully tended gardens; an auditorium and gymnasium combined was the largest building, more or less centered in the compound. From the gym, which included a full medical facility, one could take marble walkways to the other buildings. Northward lay the barracks, two buildings, one for students, the other for instructors. Private rooms.

  "We have forty students at various levels," Moon said.

  "How many instructors?"

  "Forty. Each palliate starts with a personal teacher. You will learn from others, of course, but you are paired with a primary Brother or Sister at the beginning, and you stay with them until you are done with your training."

  "And you are my teacher?"

  "I am."

  That pleased him as much as anything had for months. He felt honored that Moon, obviously a woman of skill and talent, had chosen him to be her student. "Why" was a good question, but he was afraid to ask.

  And he wondered why he was afraid.

  To the east of the gym was the power station. It broadcast energy for the complex, as well as for certain exterior operations run by the order. Nearby were the stores and mech shop buildings.

  South of the central gym lay the swimming pool, a large rectangular in-ground unit, complete with diving boards and platforms. East of the pool were the dining hall and Admin; north of them, the biotech labs, central courtyard and gardens, and a bit farther, the meditation dome. There were three gates in the fence, always guarded. Pen and Moon had entered by the main gate, set in the southwest corner of the fence; other, smaller entrances stood at the northeast and southeast corners.

  Quite the small town, Pen noted. Self-contained, laid out efficiently, and very private.

  As they walked along. Pen noticed recurring patterns of footsteps, painted or stained on the marble outwalks or floors of buildings. In the gym, there were no less than a dozen such patterns laid side by side on the rockfoam flooring. He counted the steps, and was not surprised to find that each pattern held the same number: ninety-seven.

  He saw people walking or trying to walk the forms. Some seemed to move flawlessly, as he had seen Moon move; others could only manage a portion of the dance before losing their balance, stumbling or falling, then returning to the start to begin again.

  Moon led him to his room. His bags were there ahead of him.

  "I'll give you a few minutes to shower and settle in," she said. "Then we'll begin."

  After she left, Pen looked around. It was a smallish room, but not too small. Aside from the bed, there was a closet and built-in set of drawers; a chair was parked next to a table with a comp terminal and holoproj screen on it. A lamp stood over the table, another next to the bed. There was a fair-sized window with an exchange strip under it. He dialed the opaque thincris to clarity, and found he was looking north, through a stand of thinly spaced trees at the fence, maybe fifty meters away. He darkened the window, and moved to a heavy plastic door on the wall at right angles to the window. He slid it aside and discovered a fresher with a mirror, sink, bidet and shower stall. A small window of frosted glass opened out to the same view as the main window.

  Well. He had lived in a lot worse places. The room wouldn't win any awards for opulence but it was clean and comfortable.

  Pen removed the mask. Odd how quickly he had gotten adjusted to it. The eye slit was generous, extended to the ears, and did not block central or peripheral vision in any way. He skinned the bodysuit off, noting that it felt clean and dry, and went to shower.

  By the time Moon returned, he had redressed, still feeling almost naked under the whisper-thin cloth. The sensation caused him some discomfort. And arousal. He had been with more than a few people sexually, mostly women, and nudity did not particularly bother him. Then again, he had no idea what Moon even looked like under her shroud, and any stirring of sexual interest on his part would be only too obvious.

  He did not want to be at that disadvantage.

  Naturally, the more he determined to avoid it, the faster his penis swelled and hardened. Great, just fucking great. Why did this happen? Moon was as visually stimulating as a pile of blankets! Down, boy!

  If Moon noticed, she did not speak of it, and when she was looking away, he shifted his cursed erection within the bodysuit as best he could. It did not peek one-eyed down his leg from the tight crotch of the sensual material as it had threatened, but it did make an unsightly lump running up toward his navel.

  Dammit.

  His hormones faded soon, though. Beneath the shade of a thick-boled tree between the barracks and meditation dome was a sheet of outdoor rockfoam. Upon the springy material were sets of footprints, with maybe a dozen students trying to walk them. Ferret—no, Pen—was about to get his first experience as a student of sumito.

  "Walk the pattern," Moon said.

  He felt a sudden surge of panic. "Just like that? No instruction?" He looked around, but none of the other teachers or students seemed to be paying any attention to him and Moon.

  " 'The pattern is the teacher,' " she said, and her voice had the sound of ritual in it. "The pattern is fixed, but you are not. How can I tell you how to move? I am not you."

  Pen looked at the line of footsteps on the rockfoam surface. "Yeah. Right." Well, the first four or five moves didn't look too hard. After that, the angles got tricky. He tried to picture in his mind how to go at it, and realized he couldn't. Until you got there, you wouldn't know what your balance would be, which muscles would be taking the load. The last few weeks with Dindabe had given him some of his old strength and centering back, but he was nowhere near top shape. Then again, he had seen Moon dance this dance, as well as a few others since he'd arrived. The trick was to keep moving—some of the steps had to be done with the help of fast inertia, because a slow move wouldn't allow enough stretch.

  Pen took a deep breath, and put his feet on the first two steps. He bent his knees slightly, shifted his weight, and moved. Third step, okay, twist a little, pivot on the back foot, fourth step, lean right and shift, fifth step. Six and seven took a kind of hop, and then he was moving fast enough to hit eight, off a half centimeter, but not bad, it felt good, he had the flow of it, now—nine, ten, use your arms and hands for balance! crouch and bounce, eleven, twelve is short, got to slow down and pull up, but thirteen, watch it, watch it! oh, Jesu, no way—!

  He tangled his right instep behind his left ankle and his dance became a fall. He managed to twist and get one arm out, and finished the tumble in a half-assed roll. He hit hard on his right shoulder. The rockfoam was forgiving, however. He came up, and shook his head.

  Moon stood impassively, her arms crossed, none of her visible except the swath of her eyes. What did she think? Was she disappointed in him? He wanted to impress her, wanted her to think well of him, and he had fallen an eighth of the way through. Pretty bad.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try it again."

  "No. That's enough for today."

  He tried to think of some excuse. "I'm a little off, from—from the trip and all. I'm sure I can do better, Moon." It sounded lame, it sounded whiney, and he regretted saying it as it left his mouth. That's the way to impress her, fool! Fuck up and then make excuses!

  "Tomorrow. It's almost time for supper. You don't want to be late."

  "I don't want to be late? Don't you eat?"

  "I am dining more privately tonight."

  Instant suspicion flared in him. Privatel
y. With Von, he didn't doubt. There was something going on there.

  "I'll see you in the morning," she said. "Get some rest after supper. Tomorrow will be a long day."

  There were about sixty-five people in the dining hall when Pen arrived. About half of them were in full shroud, the others in various degrees of dress. A couple wore the same kind of outfit he wore. Robot dins stood behind a line of dispense trays. The smells of the cooked food wafted to Pen, and he found he was very hungry.

  He moved down the line, taking portions from the dins. Vegetables, soypro cutlets, fruits, cheese, iced tea. They set a nice table here.

  There were a number of vacant spots at the tables. Pen chose one next to a muscular man dressed in mask and short shirt and pants—Second Layer, he recalled—with darkly tanned bare arms and legs, indicating that the man had been here long enough to get some sun.

  As he sat, the other man spoke. "Ah, you'd be the new palliate. I'm Spiral. Welcome to the order."

  "They call me Pen."

  "Good name. You must be something special."

  "Not so's you could tell," Pen said. "Why do you say that?"

  "You'll get it in history. They don't give out Pens easy. Last one wound up running a planet somewhere.

  Big achievers, the Pens. The original was there with Diamond when the order was established. Diamond gets the official credit for a whole shitload of things, but the story is that Pen was the one who actually came up with the Ninety-seven Steps."

  Pen took a bite of the orange vegetable. Delicious. "Yeah, well, I didn't inherit his talent. I fell all over myself trying to walk the pattern today."

  Spiral laughed around a mouthful of cutlet. "Hey, everybody falls, brother. Right up to Full Shrouds, they fall. That's one of the Final Layer tests, to walk the pattern consistently without falling. How far'd you get?"

  "Not very. Twelve steps."

  Spiral choked on something. He coughed, spat a lump of soypro out, and coughed some more.

  "You okay?"

  Spiral caught his breath and nodded. He sipped at his tea, then looked at Pen. "Twelve steps, you said?"