A Plague of Angels

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “What’d you do to. Old Chief Purple?” demanded Thrasher from his place near the fire.

  If they were not yet beyond the border of Artemisia, the story might keep him alive for a time. He told it, stringing it out while the three spread their blankets and collected a pile of firewood for the night.

  When the story was done, Thrasher said, almost sympathetically, “Too bad. Nothin’ you did wrong, ganger. But you know how ’tis.”

  He did know how it was. You got paid for doing somebody, you did somebody. It didn’t matter whether the somebody was guilty of anything. Most times the victims of tallies weren’t guilty of anything. In his younger years, Abasio himself had taken part in retaliations without asking whether the victims had actually done anything wrong. Soniff said fight, everybody fought. That was how it was done.

  He complained, half-aloud, “Whyn’t the Old Chief send Purples? I’d have thought he’d send Purples.”

  Thrasher laughed, a sneery cough of amusement. “Purples! Who’d he send from the Purples? Purples are a joke!”

  Masher added, “On’y way the Purples stay alive is Old Chief pays off the other gangs not to fight ’em.”

  Abasio stirred indignantly. “Warlord says the Purples are getting deeper and stronger all the time.”

  The three Survivors laughed, slapping at one another in their amusement.

  When they had somewhat controlled themselves, Thrasher chortled, “You’re young And you’re a farm boy. You’re not old enough to remember. We remember. Was a time, gangers filled Fantis clear up to the edges.”

  Abasio sat straighter, raising his voice above the coyote chorus that had erupted beyond the fire. “I thought—I thought Fantis got emptied out when people went to the stars!”

  “Nah. Fantis was full long after that. Even when we were kids, Masher and me, it was full then.”

  Abasio forgot the discomfort in his arms and wrists, the rock that was making a hole in his rump. Was Fantis actually getting smaller?

  “Is drugs,” said Crusher in a sleepy voice. “Lotsa people dyin’ on drugs. That new stuff Whistler brought. I hear people dyin’ on that.”

  Abasio stared in Thrasher’s direction, seeing only a blanket-covered lump. “People dying … how?”

  “Hmm,” the lump yawned. “Just lay down an’ die Drugs and battles And sicknesses Doesn’ matter. I won’ be around to see the endin’.” The lump yawned again “Your endin’, that’s diff’rent. I’ll be around to see that.”

  Abasio slumped against the tree, full of questions he couldn’t ask. So the city was dying. He’d known that, somehow. All those derelict buildings. All those babies born dead, or dying. All that strut and crow from the gangs, like cocks on a dungheap. Was this the way the cities in the east had gone? And the ones in the west? Were the cities of manland only the tail end of citydom, doomed even when Abasio’s ma had been young? She’d said so more than once, but back then, Abasio had preferred not to believe.

  Did the people in the Edges know the cities were doomed? Was that why they’d gone out, away? And what about the farms? Surely the farms weren’t dying. If the farms died, nobody would have anything to eat! The Edges needed to eat too. So if the Edges survived, likely so would the farms …

  The coyote voices rose in a chorus of howls, then fell into silence. One of the horses whickered, half a question, half a complaint. A few moments later another horse—or was it the same one?—whickered from farther away.

  Abasio’s head sagged onto his knees, full of new ideas. Whistler and Sudden Stop selling death as though it were sweet corn. Gangers dying, not even with the sense to run away. Elk and bear being brought back. Forests being replanted. Rivers being cleaned. Women being Sisters to Trees.

  And places like Artemisia springing up, not a farm, not a city, not an Edge, but something in between. The woman at the border had said they were in balance, whatever that meant. Presumably it meant enough people, but not too many. How many was too many? Who decided such things?

  The horse whickered again, this time from a considerable distance. Abasio raised his head, listening intently. Horses didn’t ordinarily wander so far when they were hobbled. Had that been one of the ganger horses? Or someone else’s?

  Thrasher turned uneasily in his sleep.

  Abasio held his breath. Let it be the ganger horses. Let it be the ganger horses wandering away, far away, so the men would have to spend hours hunting them in the morning. Hours during which … what?

  Foolish hope, he reminded himself. Only foolish hope.

  Not far to the southwest of Artemisia the pair of walkers who had come through the town moved along side by side, a bit more slowly than in daylight but still far more quickly than ordinary men could have marched in darkness. They had settled on this direction after using the daylight hours to search south, east, and west of the town. Eastern routes led to grasslands and forest. Northwestern routes led into high, cold mountains. Other southern routes led mostly through wilderness, but this was the straightest line to High Mesiko, the most logical destination for their quarry to be seeking. People went this way seeking work, so they had been told. There was much commerce going on in southwestern climes.

  “Food,” said one to the other after miles had gone by in silence. Usual communication between them was infrequent and monosyllabic. Food. Rest. Left. Right. Faster. Slower.

  The other expressed no agreement or dissent, merely slowing his pace to fall slightly behind the speaker, who led the way up a slight rise to where he had an unobstructed view of the country around them. Though it was a dark night, they were able to see quite clearly by star-shine.

  Each sat down to eat a bar of compressed fuel from the pack he carried. The fuel was tasteless. Taste was unnecessary. Sleep was also unnecessary. What was necessary was that energy be replenished and certain automatic procedures be carried out. These took place whenever the walkers stopped, whether for nourishment or to await instructions.

  An owl sounded from the nearest brush, single hoots uttered deliberately, with long pauses between. Then it swept above them on silent wings, visible against the stars. Neither of them looked up. In the surrounding desert coyotes yipped and howled, but they did not look at the coyotes, either. They had not been sent after coyotes. They had been sent after a young person with dark hair who had been an Orphan in an archetypal village. They had been sent with a retinue, a new Orphan, a Wet Nurse, other persons costumed variously in procession, including one person with the power of command. The purpose of this unusual show had not concerned the oddmen. They had asked no questions about it, though it was in all respects unique. Their instructions had been specific: Make room for the new Orphan by removing the old Orphan and returning her to the Place of Power.

  There had been no old Orphan to return. No one had seen her leave. She had been there, so everyone said, only the day before.

  As soon as the procession was out of sight of the village, the two had been commanded to leave the rest and search the mountains. An easy search, they had been told, for a young woman alone, without help, who would no doubt be blundering about among the trees, lighting fires and yelling for help. The oddmen had been given words to use: soft words, gentle phrases, and a special tone of voice.

  But there had been no girl. No fires in the night. No voice calling. Only the sleepy mutter of birds and small creatures, the scratch of claw and nibble of teeth. The walkers had gone east, and north, and south, and west of the valley. They had moved outward from it. Eventually, they had come to a woman who had seen the girl and directed her to the city. They had gone to the city. They had not found her. They had returned from the city. They sought her still, as did others of their kind. They would find her eventually. They were not at all impatient.

  A voice came from the night, a high, howling voice, clear as a bell:

  “Three men from Fantis took a young person with dark hair. They took the person from Artemisia town. Three men from Fantis are traveling back toward manland with the young
person, on horseback.”

  The oddmen rose. To anyone observing, the motion would have been a blur, so fast it was. Fire bloomed from their helms, and they spun, lighting the desert with wheel spokes of light, fierce white beams glaring into the darkness.

  Nothing. Two or three coyotes darting toward the safety of shadows. An owl surprised on the top of a cactus. They did not care about coyotes. They did not care about owls.

  “I heard,” said one emotionlessly, “a voice.”

  “It was not malfunction,” verified the other. “It may have been deception. Perhaps the person referred to is not the person we seek.”

  “We must go back,” replied the first. “Even if it is deception, we must go back to make sure.”

  “Back,” agreed the second.

  They turned and ran the way they had come. A watcher, and there were watchers, could have seen only blurred motion, a progress too fast to observe. One watcher followed nonetheless, trotting rapidly northward even after the movement of his quarry could no longer be seen or heard.

  Abasio was too uncomfortable to sleep. Hours wore by as he sat, sometimes with his head on his drawn-up knees to ease the pain in his head, sometimes struggling to his feet, inch by aching inch, to ease his back. After one such maneuver, he found he badly needed to pee. He didn’t want to end up sitting in it, so he worked his way around the trunk of the tree, shifting his bound wrist a bit at a time, until he was on the side away from the sleeping men and the smoking remnants of the fire. The trousers he wore were baggy, and by dint of much tugging against the rough trunk and shaking of his legs, he managed to get the fabric located so the pee would run down his leg onto the soil rather than soaking into his trousers.

  So he thought, forgetting the boots he wore. The trousers got a minimal share, but the soil shared half the remainder with the inside of his boot. He stood with his head down, cursing silently, interrupted in his discomfort by a voice asking:

  “Where is the woman?”

  Abasio held his breath, frozen. The voice had not come from any one of the Survivors. It did not sound like a human voice. A beam of intense white light from the Survivors’ camp went past the tree trunk, throwing distant foliage into stark relief, black and white. When the light went out, he could see nothing but flowing afterimages on the insides of his eyes.

  Something rough and hairy pressed against his lips. Coyote’s voice whispered in his ear, “Be still.”

  “Where is the woman from the village?” the strange voice asked again.

  “Wha’?” someone responded. Thrasher’s voice, sounding strangled.

  “Where is the woman?” the first voice asked again.

  Fur brushed Abasio’s jaw. “Sit down,” whispered Coyote from his left shoulder, a mere breath in the darkness. “Quickly, quietly, get your hands down in the grass where they can’t be seen.”

  Abasio’s knees sagged obediently, and he sank under the pressure of Coyote’s forefeet, ending by sitting in the very puddle he had wanted to avoid.

  “… don’t have any woman!” screamed Thrasher for the third or fourth time.

  An inch from Abasio’s ear, Coyote breathed. “Now stay silent.”

  Abasio held his breath while the Coyote went around the tree and sat down on Abasio’s hands. So it felt, at least, warm, furry, and heavy enough to renew the pain in his wrists as the weight dragged at the thongs.

  “The person you took from Artemisia,” said the cold voice. “We want her.”

  The light of the fire flared up, orange light washing around Abasio, flickering on either side of the place he sat in shadow. Something was being dragged. Something made a keening noise, a scalpel of sound, then gasping noises, as from a person half-strangled.

  “Wazza man!” screamed Masher. “Not a woman! A man! Tied to that tree, over there, that tree.”

  Coyote barked. The glaring white light washed over him and past him.

  Abasio shut his eyes, blinded once more.

  “That is an animal,” said the terrible voice. “Do not lie to us, ganger! Tell us where the woman is, the one from the village.”

  “No woman!” Thrasher cried. “Crusher. Help!”

  The giant bellowed like a bull. The keening noise shrieked briefly The giant howled. Something fell heavily.

  “It is not wise to attack us,” said the terrible voice. “It is not wise to he to us.”

  Silence. Coyote sat heavily. Abasio could feel his breathing.

  “They have ceased to reply,” said a terrible voice. “Why have they ceased to reply?”

  “They have malfunctioned,” said the same voice.

  “Lately they malfunction more often during questioning.”

  A brief silence.

  “Perhaps the woman is with the horses.”

  “We will look there.”

  Departing movement, too fast to be quite human.

  “Pull your hands as far apart as you can,” whispered Coyote from behind the tree. “I’ve got to chew you loose.”

  Abasio pulled, gaining a little slack as he felt the furry snout pressed between his thumbs. The thongs moistened and stretched slightly. Teeth chewed noisily, the tongue lapped wetly. After what seemed forever, Abasio’s wrists parted company.

  “Come on,” demanded Coyote, nosing Abasio’s thigh.

  “Where are the horses?” Abasio asked, trying to rub feeling into one leg with hands that were completely numb.

  “I sent some of my family to drive them as far away as possible,” Coyote answered. “I suppose they managed it, for I don’t smell horse near here.”

  “Can those—can they track me?” Abasio wondered.

  “Possibly. My packmates will try to forestall any tracking—if you’ll get moving.” He punctuated this demand with a nip at Abasio’s thigh.

  Abasio yelped and moved forward, promptly tripping over a root and falling on his face.

  “Hold on to my tail and pick up your feet!” Coyote snarled in frustration. “Move, cityman!”

  Abasio struggled to his feet, and they moved slowly into the darkness, the fireglow dwindling behind them.

  “How’d you find me?” Abasio whispered.

  “Finding you was the easy part. My packmates saw you and howled your location. It was Olly’s idea to get the two sets of hunters hunting each other. More or less.”

  “The gangers—are they dead?”

  “I imagine so. If not, so close as to make no difference.”

  “Those walkers were surprised when the gangers died. Did you notice that?”

  “I wouldn’t have said surprised,” Coyote growled “I don’t think those creatures feel surprise. But I think they didn’t intend what happened.”

  “Right,” muttered Abasio. “As though they weren’t quite in control of the situation.”

  Behind them, coyotes yipped and howled.

  “My packmates,” Coyote explained. “Some of them following the walkers. Some of them crossing our trail. Brushing it out. Peeing on it. Shitting on it. Dragging dead skunks and dead fish over it. Making new trails. When I sent my packmates after the horses, I sent Olly’s undershirt with them. It’s out there on the desert. Those walkers will find it. It’s obviously woman clothes. It smells of woman. It’ll make them think she’s out there, somewhere, and that’ll distract them, maybe.”

  “You think they can smell—like that? Like you can?”

  “Who knows what they can do? They may even be able to hear us now.”

  Abasio took the hint and moved more quietly, without speaking. Only after a long silence did he whisper, “Where are we going?”

  “As far away as we can get. Then I’ll leave you someplace safe and go find your sweetheart.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Maybe not. Still, she didn’t think twice about sending me after you. And she was quick at figuring out a plan too. Clever, she is. Like me.”

  “Cleverer than I am,” said Abasio bitterly. “Both of you. I would never have thought of leaving something
that smelled of her.”

  “Speaking of smells,” said Coyote, skidding to a halt on all four feet and twitching his tail out of Abasio’s hand. “I smell a cavern.”

  “How can you smell a cavern?”

  “I smell moisture and bat droppings. Also, there are swallows cheeping, high on the walls. I can hear them.”

  Abasio listened. There were rustling cheeping noises, high and to his right. “You want me to wait here?”

  “Here is as good as we’re likely to find. You’ll be under cover. There’s water. Olly said she was heading west, but I’ll need to pick up her trail, and I can do that faster alone. If I don’t return in a day, work your way south and west, and I’ll find you.” The last words came softly as he moved off into the dark.

  Abasio sat down obediently, grateful for the stop, which gave him a chance to take off his boot and the squishy sock inside it. Though he could hear the drip of water off to his right, he’d wait until light to find it. Then he’d drink and wash out his sock and bathe his wrists where the thongs had cut. Meantime he sucked at the skin of his wrists, softening the crusty edges of the abrasions.

  Slow time went by, darkness fading slowly until he could detect a wash of fluid gray seeping along the edges of the eastern world, a flowing liquid line of desert and mesa. The sky lightened, imperceptible degree by imperceptible degree. Soon he could distinguish the glimmer of water lying in the hollow, the dark arch of the cavern above him. He remembered his thirst and started to get up, only to stop, frozen in place.

  It was sound that stopped him, sound coming from the north, a humming, soft as a bee caught in a jug, a frustrated whine that increased in volume, rapidly becoming painful. Abasio put his hands over his ears and crouched to put his muffled ears between upraised knees. The sound screamed overhead, an excruciating lance of noise that went through him on its way south, leaving him panting.

  Something plopped onto the sand, a feathery fluttery helplessness, blood on its beak. It struggled briefly and was still. Other swallows fell, littering the soil around. Abasio with agitated movement and agonized complaint that lasted only briefly.