The Collected Short Fiction of C J Cherryh

by C. J. Cherryh

  "It's a charade." The major paused with his hand on the rail of the boarding area, looking back at the port facility where the shuttle rested, with deepening regret. "Rational beings flock to this place. I find it incredible."

  "Enough," the minister said, silencing him, and stepped from the in-terworld soil of the port onto the floor of the Anethine ground transport, committing himself.

  The major glowered, shook his head, and followed. After him came the attendant clutter of aides and secretaries, with recorders and sensors surprisingly permitted beyond the outer ring of the oracular enclave. Cosean, the minister, prime in the third rank of the Shantran technarchy; Segrane, the major, from the military fifth; the aides and secretaries had no rank at all save as appurtenances to the minister and the major. An Shant risked as little as possible in the venture, augmented its delegation with expendables in expensive garb. The Confederate enemy had consulted the oracle; the military grew nervous on the matter: An Shant had determined to investigate any potential leak or exchange of information. Therefore they were here inconveniencing themselves with this farce.

  They were seated. The automated vehicle began to move.

  "Irresponsible," Segrane muttered, affecting nonchalance, his eyes shifting to this side and that while he faced ahead, relaxed. "Something could go wrong with these machines. And then where should we be stranded? I find their notion of security less than adequate."

  The barren plains of Aneth rolled past the windows, grassland and purple forest. The windows suddenly sealed, viewless, black. The major set his jaw and continued his surreptitious scan. The velocity of the car increased. There was perceptible descent, and aides and secretaries clutched in panic at cases. The minister sat still, outwardly calm. The angle of descent eased; the speed remained constant for a time in which the aides found occasion to investigate the console at the rear of the car and to call up informational lectures from the screen . . . time in which novelty eventually yielded to utter tedium, and aides and secretaries, enjoined to strictest silence, sat primly half-asleep, hypnotized by the smoothness of their passage and the soft hiss of air.

  Then abrupt deceleration: windows unshielded themselves on darkness, which broke into glowing colored bars and triangles whisking past in a distorted neon flow, broke again into view of a white, sterile concourse. The car braked smoothly; doors hissed open. Signs blinked, in Shantran and two related dialects of the colonial sequence which had populated An Shant.

  ENCLAVE SECOND RANK, the signs proclaimed in Shantran idiom. The boarding station at the port had been ENCLAVE THIRD RANK. It all seemed impeccably Shantran, as it could doubtless seem Confederate, or Tyrang, or Inush, or Syncrat.

  Slippered Servants arrived, alike in their white garments, silent as their guests chose to be silent. Doubtless they, like the signs, could change. They took the baggage and led the way. RESIDENCE AREA 110, the sign advised, giving directions. The entourage walked, following the Servants. It was not far from the concourse, down a corridor of right-triangle arches. Doors opened, sealed again; the baggage was deposited; the Servants took silent leave.

  Major Segrane looked about him at blank steel walls, at sterile white plastic benches, at the Minister Cosean An Homin, his personal charge. He remained amazed that they had not been searched, that they had not been forbidden the recording and scanning devices. "There is," he observed to Cosean, "no evidence of scanning. But that means nothing."

  "No. It does not." Cosean settled into a chair and opened his notebook. Segrane excused himself into the adjoining set of rooms, discovered that one of the aides had transferred his baggage there, that a nervous group of secretaries waited for instruction. He pettishly dismissed them to the rooms which lay further within the apartments assigned them, advising them to stay close about and to refrain from needless chatter; they departed in dutiful silence. He paced, realized that finally as a manner of communication to any spies, and settled into a chair, arms folded.

  The Confederacy had consulted the Oracle, credulity utterly out of character for a polity blood and bone akin to An Shant itself. Last of the holdouts against the Pact, save the Shantran Technarchy itself, the Confederacy had come submitting to the Pact and asking its questions, as any private or representative individual might join and come, who had the fare to Aneth and the requisite fee. Had the Confederacy consulted once and ceased, the Technarchy of An Shant would have found it amusing, a desperate move by the Confederacy to allay the fears of its citizenry, a sinking of Confederate morale before the rumors of war.

  Twice . . . brought forth a more ominous possibility. Three times . . .

  Three times at such expense, in such rapid succession . . . indicated some manner of success; and that suggested something more sinister here than superstition, the exchange of data more substantial than hundred-year predictions. The Confederacy adopted a more aggressive stance, broke relations on its own initiative, embargoed ores the Technarchy vitally needed. War was in preparation; the Confederacy was absolutely right in that. Shortages mandated it. The preparations were far advanced.

  And there was no doubt that information changed hands in Aneth . . . tiny questions from lovelorn and wealthy suitors, larger matters from greedy corporations, perhaps even reckless bits of gossip passed in sleeping quarters by consulting ministers to their companions. Doubtless the whole Enclave was a surveillance net, and information was the merchandise on which Aneth and its amphictyony flourished.

  In that light, it was absolutely essential to know the weight and shape of that merchandise which had been made available to the Confederate representative. One went through the forms, however humiliating; one probed; one listened.

  And signing the meaningless Amphictyonic Pact was the first such embarrassment. A direct attack on Aneth—that would loose havoc among the gullible; but there was no need at all to contemplate such a move, even if Aneth were passing valuable information. The gullible would continue to contribute to the process and the clever would find a way to use it.

  They sought information . . . eavesdropping with the sensors they had brought in their luggage—had yet found nothing. There had to be a limit to Aneth's patience. Taking recorders into the Oracle itself they would hardly bear . . . but information was apparently free for the gathering here in second rank enclave. It was to be wondered—where the limit lay

  The silence persisted, absolute. The major sat . . . walked, finally, out into the corridor of their suite, found the minister Cosean retired to his sleeping quarters. He strolled restlessly out the door and down the hall into the concourse, testing the Enclave's reactions.

  A Servant began to dog his steps. When he stopped, the Servant stopped, pretended to look elsewhere, and walked on when he walked. Segrane stopped, waited, and when the Servant looked back again, Segrane summoned him with an impatient gesture. The Servant came, soft-footed; bowed, smiled . . . human-looking. All the Servants were reputed to be of the human stock of neighboring Corielle.

  "You speak Shantran?" Segrane challenged him.

  "Yes, sir." The answering voice was perfectly modulated, soft and without irritance.

  "And all five hundred thousand other dialects known to man?"

  The Servant smiled slightly. "No, sir, this is the Shantran staff. There are five hundred thousand possible combinations of personnel."

  "So there's already a Shantran staff. You must have researched us far in advance of our application."

  "We're pleased by your notice, sir."

  "We."

  "The staff, sir."

  "Did you research us?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "On whose advice?"

  Again a slight smile. "On the Oracle's, sir."

  The answer caught him by surprise. He scowled, suspecting humor at his expense. "And has the Oracle decided when it will see the minister?"

  "The petitioner goes alone to First Rank at 2214 and returns by 0600."

  "Impossible."

  "Sir?"

  "The minister i
s my personal responsibility. I can't permit him to go alone for such a length of time. What could possibly take so long about a question?"

  "The conditions of audience are uniform and inflexible. There are other petitioners, sequestered in other areas of Second Rank; scheduling is therefore complex. The audience time is a very brief portion of that schedule. To ensure privacy, there must be time built into the program."

  Segrane began walking, the Servant keeping pace with him. He stared grimly at the floor, reckoning with increasing distress how little control they had of things.

  "Who are these other petitioners?" he asked. "The Confederacy, perhaps?"

  "I couldn't say, sir. The Enclave is partitioned in such a way that we ourselves are not in contact with visitors in other sections."

  "Or politics? I'm sure you're well versed in that."

  "We advise our visitors not to discuss external affairs with the staff. Aneth has no politics."

  "None?"

  "None, sir."

  Segrane stopped, flicked a glance over the Servant, paused at the badge, continued back to the clear expressionless eyes. "You're very well trained . . . Jen. Is that your name, Jen?"

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "I shall compliment your service."

  "All that you say to me is noted by my superiors. It's unnecessary to trouble yourself, sir. All staff-visitor exchanges are monitored to ensure satisfaction."

  "Are you human, Jen?"

  Jen flashed a broad smile. "Yes, sir. But without species politics."

  "Where were you born?"

  "All Servants are born within the enclaves."

  "Your ancestors had outside origins." Segrane locked his hands behind him and began to move in the direction of his quarters, Jen walking beside him. "And the Oracle itself. . . maybe your ancestors built it too, the whole thing."

  "No, sir. Hardly."

  "You believe that tale about the Builders, eh?"

  "It's true, sir. About the sixth millennium before founding of your calendar, the Builders occupied Aneth and built the vault and the Oracle."

  "What did they look like, these Builders? Where did they come from?"

  "The Oracle is their sole known artifact. We have no clue to either, sir."

  "How convenient. Has no one thought to ask the Oracle?"

  "You are a skeptic, sir. I detect it."

  "Does the Oracle reject skeptics?"

  "No, sir."

  Segrane laughed, and stopped and faced the man . . . bland-faced and young, this Servant, like all other Servants in his white uniform, close-cropped hair, earnest, unoffending face. "You are sincere, aren't you? What's the story? Some Bellan archaeologists stumbled into this place two hundred years ago, and a Corielli team moved in on the find . . . sequestered themselves—with whose backing? Who paid for all this?"

  "Initially a grant, sir, from fourteen worlds earliest involved in the research. The Enclave was established when the vault was opened and the Oracle was first activated. The value of the installation was immediately clear and the area had to be protected against exploitation for private purposes. Thus, the Enclave. Visitors' fees are now sufficient for its support."

  "Corielle didn't build the rest of this."

  "Ah, the Enclave, yes, sir; but the Oracle . . . no."

  "The Oracle: person or machine?"

  "Both, sir. That is, Oracle refers to both or either."

  "The name of this person."

  "First Rank is a sealed enclave, sir. We don't know."

  "Female, the rumor is."

  "All First Rank is female."

  Segrane was surprised into reaction. That fact the researchers had not uncovered. And what do they do for amusement? he wondered. The politics of the arrangement occurred to him instantly: no matings, no marriage, no intrigues of consorts.

  "How do they," he asked, "find replacements?"

  Jen shrugged. "Their dead arrive here. We send in the nextborn female infant of Second Rank. It's utterly random that way. We have no influence on it. The integrity of the Oracle is absolute."

  "How many Oracles have lived and died since the Enclave began?"

  "The bodies which come out are not distinguished by signs of rank, sir. We don't know."

  "But there must have been more than one Oracle in two hundred years."

  "One supposes, sir, that such is the case."

  "And she makes her predictions . . . how?"

  "She enters rapport with the machine."

  "Precognition. Telegnosis. Prophecy."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Nonsense."

  "We make no claims, sir. Only those who visit here and leave know whether they have profited. And visitors do come back."

  "She spills what she knows from one client to the next."

  "We advise all our visitors to reveal nothing in conversation in any enclave. Ask your single question, and depart; that's all that's required. I've given you information. I have asked for none."

  "But you've researched us."

  "Generally available knowledge, sir, for your comfort. We do maintain a library."

  "And some do come here and talk freely."

  "Yes, sir, but we do discourage it."

  "Telepath. She probes minds."

  "Telepaths are among our clients. Mindshielding is a refined art among them. Such skills are even practiced among nonsensitives—perhaps you have them, sir. I'm sure telepathic contact has been tried on the part of such visitors; they would know the result of their efforts. But if you should have any anxiety about the meeting with the Oracle, you have only to request to return to the port. It's not compulsory to continue."

  "Fee nonrefundable."

  "Indeed, sir. But few choose to withdraw."

  "Perhaps the Technarchy will."

  "Advise us as soon as possible if that is your decision, sir. You'll receive every cooperation."

  Segrane scowled and turned, stalked off with such rapidity that the Servant took the cue and failed to follow. It was surely the Servant's confidence that the Technarchy would not withdraw; the Oracle had expended much in preparing for this encounter, expense far more than the fee.

  He earnestly wished it were possible to surprise them all.

  A new face: Mishell, Mishell, was it?

  But known, awaited.

  Maranthe smiled, unaware whether her face smiled, hut her mind did. The design which was Mishell took shape under her hands.

  The Eye saw. The mind made intricate helices, chains of life, diamonds in the web, colors of intent, scents of longing, and taste, and height and depth and sound. This was Mishell. This was the one who would come.

  Maranthe smiled.

  And grew tired, and yielded herself again to the Shadows.

  "Drink, Maranthe."

  "Eat, Maranthe."

  "Sleep, Maranthe."

  The old woman lay still.

  Mishell sat among the Servants, consumed with her desire. White-robed, immaculate, the Servants sat ringed about the sleeping Oracle. They were fourteen, they of the Intimates. The total of the Servants of the Inner Enclave was ninety-nine. The Oracle herself was the hundredth.

  Old, most of the Intimate . . . pure of intent, without ambition, without even the remembrance of passion. They served with downcast eyes and soundless steps, speaking seldom among themselves, and that in whispers. They lost their strength, serving, and passed to the Elder Circle, to mutter into their nameless fate, to be bartered at last for infants.

  Cycle after cycle passed before Maranthe's unseeing smile. The Intimates were honored to tend her . . . old and silent and without farther desires.

  Save the newest, the youngest, save Mishell.

  She sat now with her hands clenched on her white-robed knees, knotting the cloth with her fists, and with her eyes fixed boldly on Maranthe. Her limbs trembled with her desire.

  Maranthe smiled this night.

  Never before. The face of the Oracle asleep was always image-cold, bereft of the dreaming
smile of the Vision . . . until now.

  It was the hour. Cosean adjusted his formal robes and stepped out of their suite into the outer hall, bowed courtesy to Major Segrane and to the attendant aides and secretaries.

  "I have failed to reason with you," Segrane said.

  "That discretion doesn't rest in my hands, major."

  "Ah, then you are apprehensive."

  "I suspect all the things you've named to me. I'll keep them in mind."

  "Is there nothing more I can do, sir?"

  "I see nothing. I follow orders of my own superiors. I have no discretion in the matter." Cosean smoothed his robes again, bowed to the major, and surveyed the nervous aides and secretaries. None spoke. There was nothing for Cosean to say on his own behalf and they were for theirs, forbidden speech. The charade had to be played out. Seg-rane's devices had failed to detect anything at this range. And in the absence of clear hazard—the next step was clear.

  Cosean turned to the waiting Servants. They gestured him toward the concourse. He walked; his entourage accompanied him in silence as far as the ramp to the shuttlecar. Segrane looked grim and mistrustful as it was his office to be; the secretaries and aides were subdued, having failed to be of use.

  Cosean nodded them a last courtesy, then descended and stepped aboard the waiting car. It was sufficient for one man. For some species it would have been cramped; for others impossible. Doubtless there were heavier transports, Cosean thought, as there were surely areas set aside for different metabolisms and bodily designs, for other than humans had begun to consult Aneth with increasing frequency. Cosean settled in, concentrated on such thoughts, on his surroundings in detail. . . the simplest form of mindshielding, mild distraction. The doors sealed; the station retreated in a blur of colored lights. The windows shielded themselves and he traveled blind. He had anticipated as much.

  Baggageless and without occupation for his hands: the regulations insisted upon it. . . and there had been scan at the entry to the car, plain to be seen. One questioner per fee, unescorted. He would have yielded to Segrane's urgings to withdraw had he been able to find any clear reason to doubt his mental or physical safety; he could not. Personal humiliation was not a consideration in the Technarchy's instructions.