Sighing once more, he went back to what he’d been doing before the interruption: making the connections between the engines and the booth, the control panel and the booth. He called it the booth to himself, though it was actually a reclining chair. With a helmet. With automatic mechanisms to insert filaments through the helmet and through the skull of the person sitting there. The so-called guidance system.
Dever still found the concept unsettling: a human brain of a particular genetic type that was uniquely specialized to guide the ship anywhere at all. If not for the detailed plans that had been found rolled up inside something else, Dever would have considered the whole thing impossible. The funny thing was, he’d been through that set of specifications—for the fuel injection system, it was—a dozen times, and he’d never noticed anything called the Organic Guidance System before. The whole thing was just a little too pat, and he’d tried to tell Jark III so, but Jark was so excited, he’d heard none of it.
Not that Jark had accepted it right away himself. The plans said it had to be a Gaddir brain, so Jark had asked Werra about it. Twenty years ago, that had been. Right before Jark went away, and just before Werra died. The conversation had taken place down on the floor of the silo, and Dever had heard the whole thing. Old Werra, tottering around on his cane, exclaiming at this, that, the other thing, and Jark III asking, oh, so casually, if it were true that there were Gaddirs who could guide ships in space?
Werra had hemmed and hawed, finally saying something about the talent applying “historically” to Gaddir females who were reared away from other Gaddirs, and yes, a girl-child had been born with the talent, and well, yes, but.
Well, yes, but, was right, so far as Dever was concerned. So an electronic system would have required at least another decade to build and to test. What was the hurry? You put a human brain into this thing, the brain wouldn’t be removable. Not alive. Not thinking. And suppose something went wrong? How would you fix it? With an electronic system, at least one could carry spare parts!
He swallowed, fumbled in his pocket for a lozenge, and put the ultimate purpose of what he was doing out of his mind. As a purely technical exercise, it was going well. As it should. This was the one task connected with the shuttle with which he’d had an opportunity to gain experience in advance.
He sucked noisily on the lozenge, thinking about being sick when they raised this shuttle. He’d already decided on that. If they asked him to go, he was going to be too sick to go along. He was going to be too sick even to watch.
Across the Place of Power from the Dome, high behind the forbidding facade of Gaddi House, the one surviving Gaddir, he sometimes called Old Man Seoca in his absence though usually. Your Wisdom in his presence, lay in his bath thinking soothing thoughts. The Witch beneath the Dome was planning to murder him. According to the telltales and the spies, however, she did not plan to do so until she returned from her extraterrestrial voyage. At the present time, no action was needed, and it was pleasant to procrastinate, to temporize without feeling guilty about it.
“Your Wisdom,” murmured Nimwes, his favorite helper.
“Umm,” he acknowledged.
“Would Your Wisdom like a little more hot water?”
“A touch, perhaps,” he said. “And a few more drops of the cedar oil.”
Water flowed, resinous scent rose around his face. The world had so many simple enjoyments. Warmth and fragrances and tastes. Why did people constantly find it necessary to complicate things? Like those … he fumbled unsuccessfully for a word to describe the Domers that was sufficiently pejorative.
He muttered, “Those damned chatterers!”
“Your Wisdom?”
“Nothing. Nothing important, at any rate.”
“Does Your Wisdom have work to do tonight?”
“Yes.” Yes, he did. All kinds of work: A book-burning team had returned, and he wanted to go over the reports. There were several long-planned jobs to be implemented if his assistant, Fuelry, had everything arranged. The old man shifted uncomfortably. He was depending upon Fuelry entirely too much. Fuelry was a layman, as was Nimwes, and it wasn’t appropriate to involve them in this way, but since Werra was gone, Seoca had no choice.
Seoca had warned Werra to stay in Gaddi House, to stop mixing with the Domers, but longtime Gaddirs had their own failings A kind of lofty complacency was one of them. Werra had thought himself inviolable. Unfortunately, Gaddirs were not immune to poison. Which meant Seoca was now all alone, facing a task that he could not do alone. He had to rely on Fuelry. And Nimwes.
“How long has it been, Nimwes?”
She interpreted his expression, one of sadness. Or perhaps loneliness. “Since Werra—passed on, Your Wisdom? Twenty years, I think, or a bit more. It was a year or two before you went out that last time. I remember, because Mama worried until you got back.”
“I haven’t seen your mama in years. How is she?”
“Well, generally. She fusses over these walkers!”
“As do we all,” he said grimly. “That trip you mention was the last one I made outside the wall.”
“It’s getting harder for any of us to go outside the wall. Sometimes the walkers stop us as we enter or leave Gaddi House. Sometimes they ask us questions.”
He sat up, water sploshing, anger surging. He had not thought himself capable of such anger any longer. “Walkers asking questions! At the doors of my Gaddi House? Of my people?”
“Yes, Your Wisdom. All the gardens along the front wall have died because the walkers parade there And the lawn is all black.” Her voice rose, distressed. “Including my rosebushes!”
He patted her hand. “Who sent them there?”
“Who other than the Witch,” she murmured.
“That unmitigated bitch,” he mumbled. “Bitch-witch. Amazing how tyrants sprout, like mushrooms, out of nothing.”
Though it wasn’t really out of nothing. The Ellels had been power-mad for at least four generations, digging through old cities and prying through ancient books, endlessly seeking anything that would give them an advantage. With every generation they had grown more inbred, more psychotic, and more clever. Ellel had twice the mind her father had had, and that was saying a good deal. Until she’d put on her black robes and her golden mask, she’d never looked particularly clever or malign, which had been one of the most dangerous things about her. Like a clay-colored snake, crawling quiet in the sun, venom oozing from every pore. It was she who had poisoned Werra, almost killed him, shortened his life!
He thrashed, getting himself in position to be lifted from the tub. Nimwes pressed the proper button and stood, head down, holding the soft drying robe. The lift raised him, turned him, put him upon his feet. He wrapped the robe about himself and sat in the chair, which promptly buzzed him onto the terrace. Whenever the weather was appropriately warm, the old man went to the terrace after his bath. Even at night, as now, he could feel the soft winds, watch the stars, smell the trees.
He sniffed. The forest immediately below the terrace was mostly spruce and pine. Farther down the canyon, the trees were piñon, stout little nut trees, mixed with cedar and sage. Through his telescope, he could watch the people who came to gather nuts. Watch them spreading their blankets beneath the trees and beating the branches to dislodge the seeds from the cones. Some were Sisters to Trees in their green ceremonial robes, gathering the nuts for planting rather than eating. Animal Masters sometimes came as well, and a few Guardians from time to time. And of course, there were the Artemisians. Seoca was always interested in seeing the Artemisians, assessing their numbers and their habits. They were, as he had often pointed out to Nimwes, a very hopeful sign.
“Does your family still gather nuts in the fall?” he asked her now, trying to regain his calm. He did not want to be angry. It was not wise to act when angry. Hot blood made bad decisions.
“Umm,” she agreed. “My oldest brother is usually away this time of year, but my younger brothers sneak out very early in the mornings somet
imes.”
“Sneak?”
“Well, this year was a good year for nuts, but it’s getting more and more difficult to get past the marketplace. The walkers are patrolling the road, now, and they don’t let us by.”
“Gives the damned Domers something to do, I suppose,” he snorted. “Except for conspiracy and murder, God knows they have nothing else to occupy them.”
“Except,” she whispered, “you know. The little journey they’re planning.”
He nodded with a wry grimace. “Which, please Creation, they may soon begin!” He fumed silently, wishing many things, gradually calming himself. “Is Fuelry here?”
“He is, Your Wisdom.”
“Tell him to come out here. It’s warm enough, and I like the smell of the night.”
Nimwes left silently, and Fuelry came as silently, standing just outside the door as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The terrace was set invisibly into the eastward side of Gaddi House, the side that formed a seamless part of the barrier around the Place of Power. From this vantage point, one might look into the outside world without being seen by anyone but jays, the occasional buzzard, or any flying monster with a taste for staring at the forbidden.
It had been a long time since old Seoca had been seen by anyone but Nimwes and Fuelry and a half-dozen other Gaddirs. In the dim glow from the windows, Tom Fuelry thought the old man appeared just as usual, just as he had for as long as Tom could remember, or Tom’s father before him, except that he now stayed in his chair most of the time. The chair kept him massaged and exercised. The geriatric drugs kept him capable and intelligent. Eventually, none of it might do any good, but though the old man must be, well, extremely aged, there was no sign of dissolution yet.
“Your Wisdom,” Tom Fuelry said formally, keeping any trace of affection out of his voice. Affection embarrassed His Wisdom. He seemed never to feel he had quite earned it.
“Sit down, Tom,” said the old man. “Pull a chair over close so we needn’t shout. I shouldn’t be surprised if those yattering Domers have someone out there trying to listen, even at this time of night.”
“It would be an unsuccessful try,” said Fuelry, as he brought a chair from the side of the terrace. “I’ve put a sound screen across this whole side of the building.”
“Clever.” The old man nodded. “But then, you always were. An instinctive technological genius is what your teachers called you. Or was it a preeminent gadgeteer?”
“Thank you, Your Wisdom.” He blushed, embarrassed by this praise.
“What brings you tonight?”
Fuelry arranged his thoughts. “A couple of things,” he said, raising a finger to mark the first of these. “Our information shows a drop in population in several local districts.”
“Which districts?”
“City districts in manland, mostly. Both around Echinot and up toward the lakeshore.”
The old man nodded slowly, heavily. “Yes, that would be probable What else?”
“There’s been some shuttle visiting and a lot of message traffic back and forth from the Dome. Signs of unusual excitement.”
“The shuttle must be very nearly complete. A bit sooner than I’d anticipated, but ambition breeds efficiency, does it not? Have they—or should I say, has she—made definite plans yet? Has she specified what they’re going to do?”
“You mean, if she finds the guidance system?”
The old man grimaced painfully. “Assuming they find what they’re looking for, yes.”
“Quince Ellel has always said they’re going to salvage materials from the space station. Recently there’s been some talk among the Anders about reopening the moon mines, or even going to the stars, but basically they say what she does: They’re going for salvage.”
“Have they said why?”
Fuelry shrugged. “Because it’s what they’ve been planning to do for several generations.”
“Just going to be going? No particular material that they expect to find up there?” He hummed to himself, tapping his teeth with a fingernail. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”
Fuelry shrugged again. “You know the Domers, Your Wisdom. They’re devious.”
“Not all of them. The Berklis are true to their heritage. They’re thinkers, not doers, they don’t take themselves too seriously, so their influence is limited. The Mittys are so completely dedicated to their own field, they’re not even aware of what else is going on. The Anders come from a sycophantish strain. They’re essentially unctuous and truckling, admirers of power without wanting to hold it in their own hands.” He nodded to himself slowly. “Unlike the Ellels, who do.”
“Odd that the entire Families are.…”
“Not really,” said the old man. “They’re inbred. Like certain kinds of dogs. Self-selected for certain characteristics. Mittys quit breeding with other Families because they considered them technical nitwits. Ellels quit breeding with other Families because they didn’t trust them. The Berkli sense of humor rubs everyone raw save other Berklis, and no one’s sensitive enough for an Ander save another Ander.
“So what do you think they’re up to?”
Tom Fuelry shook his head and said blandly, “I try not to think, Your Wisdom. I think too much, I get all rattled.”
The old man hid a smile. “Very well, Tom I’ll do the thinking. I think it is time for Plan B. Let our friends know they may be needed soon.”
Fuelry nodded. “Oh, yes, sir. They’re not only ready but eager. I’ll send word tonight.”
The old man nodded. “How are the other stocks building up? Contingency items?”
“About completed, sir. I think we’ve prepared for all the contingencies you’ve brought to my attention.”
“Provided we’ve foreseen them all. Which is unlikely. We didn’t foresee those damned walkers. If we had, all this would be over, Well. Justice demands that we be sure of Quince Ellel’s intentions. She has a person working for her. One Qualary Finch. Get next to her.”
“Get next to her?” Fuelry shook his head, confused. “I’m sorry, sir.…”
“Cultivate her. Get acquainted with her. Make friends with her.”
“Oh, sir, I—”
“You don’t like women?”
“Of course, but—”
“Everything I’ve found out about her tells me you are precisely the kind of man Qualary Finch might hope for.” The old man was careful not to smile. What he said was true, but he didn’t want to explain it. “Tom? All right?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, still shaking his head. He doubted it was ethical. And he wasn’t all that sure it was possible.
Sybbis, concubine of Young Chief Purple, chewed the end of her pen reflectively, crossed out several words she had just printed with great effort, printed several others, then nodded to herself as she regarded the much-corrected page with baleful satisfaction. It would do. Settling herself, she took a clean sheet and copied the text laboriously but clearly, then folded the single page and put it in an envelope that she taped and addressed to her younger sister Posnia, at Bloodrun homeground.
The letter invited Posnia to visit her. Such visits weren’t exactly encouraged, but they were common enough among sisters, or even between mothers and daughters, if the gangs involved weren’t enemies or if the Chiefs hadn’t forbidden it. Young Purple hadn’t forbidden it, and the Bloodrun Chief was Sybbis’s own father. He’d always babied her. He’d let Posy come. It was absolutely essential he let Posy come.
She rose and stretched like a cat as she peered through the grating of her private room at the roof garden she shared with the other homewomen and their tots. The Warlord’s woman, Carmina, was nursing her new baby. Half a dozen of the younger women and mostly grown girls were playing patty ball. Two hags were mending bed sheets under the arbor. Sybbis felt no desire to join them. They didn’t like her because of Elrick-Ann, even though Sybbis had had nothing to do with Elrick-Ann. It wasn’t her fault the Greens had chopped on Elrick-Ann. She kne
w whose fault it was, but she wasn’t going to say anything about that, or the same thing might happen to her—unless she could make something else happen instead. The Oracle had been the first step toward that! This letter was the second. The Young Chief would read it before he’d let it go, but let him. The day she wasn’t smarter than the Young Chief would be the day she’d deserve being cut on!
Later, in his room below, the Young Chief ripped open Sybbis’s letter and read it carefully several times.
“Why’s she want her sister?” he grunted to Soniff, who was dozing in the window.
The Warlord shrugged. “I suppose she’s lonely, Young Chief.”
The Young Chief grunted, rubbing his smooth cheek with one pudgy hand, a habitual gesture with him, feeling for whiskers that had never come. If he’d grown whiskers, Old Chief would have let him run the gang himself instead of having Soniff do it. If he’d grown whiskers, Old Chief would still be at Purple House instead of living in the Edge and never coming here anymore. Kerf never got to see him. Soniff saw him, but not here. Old Chief met Soniff somewhere else to give him orders: What Kerf could do, what Kerf couldn’t do Kerf couldn’t go to the baths where the men might make fun. Kerf couldn’t go to the songhouses.
Not that Kerf wanted to! What was all the fuss about? Not that it was painful or anything, but it was boring. Elrick-Ann hadn’t expected him to do it hardly at all, but then, Elrick-Ann couldn’t make a baby. She’d told him that, just this past spring. He’d said he didn’t like it, and she’d said well fine, he didn’t have to do it with her because she couldn’t make babies anyhow. She was sterile.
If she hadn’t told him that, he wouldn’t have … he wouldn’t have needed Sybbis.
“I guess it’s okay.” He handed the letter to the man who’d brought it. “You can take it on over to the Bloodruns.”
Posnia, who was a year younger than Sybbis but looked much like her, came with her escort the following morning. The men delivered her at the front door, then camped out in the street, waiting to take her back. Two of the Purples escorted her upstairs, being careful not to touch her on the way. Touch some Chief’s daughter he was holdin’ for a good price, and you might find yourself eunuched before you knew it.
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