The League of Peoples

by James Alan Gardner

  Or at least that’s how she’d been when I was a teenager. Perhaps she’d become less fragile over the years, because she now turned to face me with a direct question. “Has the plague broken out again?” Mother asked.

  “A new strain,” I said. “It only attacks Freeps and may be resistant to olive oil.”

  “Really. Let’s hope they discover another cure soon.” She paused, then added, “Maybe that will make the world forget your father.”

  She waited to see how I’d react to that. Did she expect me to get upset? To defend his sacred memory? Once upon a time, I would have jumped at any chance to scream that I wished she’d died instead of him; but no more. That desperate old need to hurt her had burned out its rage long ago. “Lately,” I said, all calm and mild, “I’ve been learning queer things about Dads. Events surrounding his death. And something the world-soul let him do that should have been impossible. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Why should I know anything about anything?” She sounded more tired than angry. “And why should you show up on my doorstep, suddenly interested about your father after all these years? Have you joined a recovery program, Faye? Going down a checklist of psychological baggage…things you’re supposed to clean up before you get a membership pin?”

  “I’m a proctor now, Ma. With the Vigil. And believe it or not, I’m investigating something important.”

  “About the plague?”

  “That seems to be part of it.”

  We’d reached a bower on the edge of the grove: a wooden bench under a dozen small plant baskets hanging from the trees. The orchids inside them were plain forgettable white, but they gave off a head-swimming smell, like fruit on the cusp of decay. Mother waved for me to sit on the bench. “You go ahead,” I told her, but she didn’t.

  We stayed there, both standing, each waiting for the other to sit first.

  “You’re really with the Vigil?” she finally asked.

  I nodded.

  “Do they pay you?”

  “Some,” I said with a slight smile. “Nothing extravagant.”

  “Hmph.” She laid her hand on the back of the bench, but made no move to sit. “I don’t remember anything about your father.”

  “Come on,” I said. “A complete blank?”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t remember anything special.”

  “Nothing that took you by surprise?” I asked.

  “Well…” She turned her eyes away from me, back toward the house. I had the impression she was running through a dozen memories and censoring them all. “There’s this place,” she finally said.

  “Which place?”

  “Mummichog. The house, a good-sized tract of rain forest and cleared fields…I never knew he owned it until he died.”

  “Dads owned this estate here?”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?” Mother said. “But property was cheap after the plague. I’ve always thought he bought it as a present for me and was just waiting for my birthday to give me the news. Heaven knows, I would have been happy for a place to escape from Great St. Caspian winters.”

  “So he bought it after the plague? After he found the cure?”

  “That’s what the lawyer told me when she read the will. Does it matter?”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t believe it was empty coincidence my father bought property in Mummichog—one of Iranu’s favorite spots to visit. Dads knew something about this place. “Is there anything special here, ma?”

  “It’s warm and quiet. Like heaven after Sallysweet River.”

  That could have been another shot at me—testing, to see if I’d get pissy. After Dads died, Mother was stuck in Sallysweet River because of me: because I refused to leave, and because the law wouldn’t let her abandon me while I was underage. We spent a few years there, inventing ways to torment each other…me picking on a frail-nerved woman, her grinding away at a jagged-edge girl whose soul was bleeding. Perfect partners in desperation, both acting as if we could ease our own miseries by making the other feel worse.

  I got out by getting married. Mother got out the very same day, just up and left the church the instant I said, “I do.” In the years between Dads’s death and her escape, Mother never once mentioned she had this place in Mummichog waiting as a getaway. Her secret inheritance. Five months after she left, a text-only message reached me (IN ARGENTIA, LIVING WITH AN OOLOM PHARMER, WON’T BE BACK)…and that was that.

  If Mummichog was heaven, we’d both done our best to make Sallysweet River hell. A mother-daughter project, showing rare fine solidarity.

  I glanced at her for a second, the way she looked so much like me in a mirror. She met my stare…maybe seeing the similarity too, I don’t know. Or maybe seeing the old teenage Faye, who’d hurt her and hurt her and hurt her.

  Best to stick to business.

  “Is there anything special about the land, Ma?” I asked. “Something that might interest an archaeologist?”

  “You’re an archaeologist now, Faye?”

  “I told you, I’m a proctor.” Was she trying to catch me in a lie? Christ, I must have been a piss-awful liar in the old days, if I could be caught as easy as that. “I’m a proctor investigating the movements of an archaeologist, and he visited Mummichog now and then. A Freep named Kowkow Iranu.”

  “A Freep?” She frowned. “We’ve had Freep trespassers over the years, back in the rain forest part of our property. Voostor sees their tracks now and then; he’s heard they own land on either side of ours and take shortcuts through our jungle.”

  Probably the Iranus, buying land close to ours. But I suspected that Dads beat them to the most important part of the site.

  “Are there any old mines in that area?” I asked. “Like the mines near Sallysweet River?”

  “You’ll have to ask Voostor,” she answered. “I haven’t spent much time back there. Too many insects. Poisonous creepy-crawlies.” She gave a theatrical shudder. “Shall we head back to the house?”

  “Your choice.”

  We walked back through the grove. From time to time, I stopped to look at more wee orchids, growing out from the trunks of trees or dangling on long threads from somewhere up in the canopy. Each time I paused, Mother did too…watching me out of the corner of her eye, trying not to be caught doing it.

  Sizing me up. Wondering who I was. Or perhaps just wondering when I’d go away.

  At the edge of the grove I suddenly turned to her. “You drove me crazy,” I said, “and I drove you crazy, but that was long ago. It’s witless, both of us acting like ice.”

  She bit her lip. “You’re sure you aren’t on a recovery program, Faye?”

  “When you join the Vigil, you stop being able to ignore the obvious. Like the way I acted the slut just to drive you frantic. That was flat-out childish. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re sorry. That’s all right then. Or is this where I say I’m sorry too, and we have a big hug?”

  “Watch it, Ma—if we start trying to hurt each other again, we might see how much we have in common. We’ll end up bonding in spite of ourselves.”

  “Do you think so?” She glanced toward the house as if she was considering whether to run away inside. Flee, or stay and be brave a little while longer. Finally, she gave me a sideways glance that skipped past my eyes without meeting them. “You are looking good, Faye. For someone your size. I always said you could be a pretty girl if you’d just cut down the debauchery.”

  “You never said that in your life.”

  “True. But you’re looking good. You’re…”

  Suddenly, she spun away and started across the lawn. Without turning around, she murmured, “He glowed.”

  “What?” I hurried along behind her. “Who glowed?”

  “Your father. At night. In bed. After he discovered the cure.” She was moving fast, not looking in my direction. “Now and then,” she said, “he glowed with faint colored lights.”

  She ran up the back steps and into the house, re
fusing to say another word.

  15

  SIREN-LIZARDS

  Oh-God was still alive, but only thanks to machines—while Mother and I were in the grove, his diaphragm had futzed out, slack as a sack of potatoes. But the heart-lung was ready and Oh-God barely lost a breath. He was packaged up now, inside a clear plastic shell that would protect him till the emergency team arrived from Pistolet. Once our smuggler friend was in their hands, he could be kept alive mechanically for as long as it took to find a cure.

  If a cure existed. And if Pteromic B didn’t flare so wildfire rampant that our medical system crashed in flames.

  Demoth would be all right as long as the disease stayed Freeps-only. The world-soul told me we had 3,219 Freeps currently on planet—more than I expected, but our hospitals could manage the load. Barely. On the other hand, if Pteromic B hopped home to Ooloms, or even to Homo saps…hey, kids, the Circus is coming back to town.

  Meanwhile, Oh-God was the most advanced case on Demoth. Other members of the Freep trade team tested positive for the microbe, but hadn’t showed symptoms yet. They’d all been bunged into hospital, of course, but Oh-God was going to be the star attraction for medical researchers. Total slackdown. He’d have the best specialists in the world looking after him, searching for a way to fight the disease before the full outbreak struck. He’d be poked and prodded and proctoscoped, but at least they’d keep him alive.

  As for Tic, Festina and me…did we have to call the feddies? Tell them what Oh-God said about Iranu and Mummichog? Report that the dipshits had attacked again, firing illegal bazookas and what-all? Damned right we did. Yes, we might have felt a twingey temptation to hot dog, to jaunt around solo like dashing VR adventurers; but the stakes were too high to indulge our vanity.

  “I’ll call it in,” Tic said. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of Voostor’s medic room. His pouchy old face went distant: in communion with Mom-Xé.

  “What’s he doing?” Voostor asked.

  “Talking to the world-soul,” I replied. “Which will then talk to a slew of other people. Sorry, but you’re going to have hordes of company coming.”

  Mother sighed. “Does this mean I have to clean?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Voostor said. “We’re always ready for guests. And if this guest is really my fearsome stepdaughter Faye…” He gave a smile intended to show he didn’t believe half of what my mother must have told him. “The least we can do is offer you breakfast. All of you. Come on.”

  Festina frowned. “Someone should stay with Oh-God.”

  “I’ve dealt with the plague before,” Mother said. “And I know how to work these machines. You get something to eat…before other people arrive and things get hectic.”

  Smooth way for Ma to avoid breakfast with her darling daughter. But I told myself it wasn’t spite or anger—just embarrassment over her confession. (“He glowed.”) She wanted some time to herself after sharing that little intimacy…not because she was mad at me but just feeling a titch shy.

  Voostor took me by the arm (Oolom-style, hands delicately wrapped round my elbow to keep himself from bouncing too high) and led us through the parlor again, then under an archway of raspfeather fronds onto a covered patio with a view of the ocean. The sun was five fingers above the horizon now, shining onto a bamboo table with three places already set: one with Oolom fruit soup, two with Homo sap cheese fritters.

  “You have company,” Tic observed.

  “One of our favorite guests,” Voostor said. “A biologist who visits often to study the rain forest.” He went to a grass-and-lath door leading off the far side of the patio and knocked lightly on the red-bamboo frame. “Breakfast time. How are you feeling this morning, Maya?”

  Festina was closest to the door. Without a hair’s hesitation, she drove her heel into one of the wood door slats, a full-strength side-kick that snapped the slat in two. The force of the kick didn’t stop there; the door flew backward, slamming against the wall of the next room with an impact that shivered the grass-thatch roof. Shouting a kiai, Festina leapt through the doorway, fists in a tight guard position.

  Tic went straight through after her. Ditto me, as soon as I’d snatched up a heavy clay porridge bowl for throwing.

  All three of us came to a halt in the middle of a small bedroom. Spring mattress on the floor, sheets rumpled. Wide-open window, looking out on the orchid grove.

  “Shit!” Festina growled. “Missed her.”

  “She must have seen Mother and me walking out back,” I said. “Took to her heels as soon as we were out of sight.”

  “Would she recognize you?” Tic asked.

  “My picture was on every broadcast when Chappalar died,” I told him. “She must have thought we were coming for her.”

  “What’s going on?” Mother demanded, storming in through the patio doorway. “What’s all this noise?”

  “Your visitor,” Tic said. “Maya Cuttack, correct?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “You really don’t listen to the news,” I muttered. My mother stood on the far side of the patio, her face flushed: clearly thinking I’d gone bad-girl again, smashing the house to tinder. I told her, “Maya Cuttack is the most wanted woman on Demoth.”

  “She’s a dear friend,” Mother replied, fierce as frost. “What’s she wanted for?”

  “Questioning,” Tic said. “Possibly murder.”

  Festina was at the window. “She climbed out this way; I can see her tracks in the dew. Heading inland.”

  “What is there in that direction?” Tic asked Voostor.

  “Nothing. Our fields. The rain forest.”

  “I’ll bet there are mines,” I said. “Ma told me there’ve been Freeps poking around back there.”

  “There is a sort of alien mine in the jungle,” Voostor admitted.

  “Which explains why Maya’s a frequent visitor,” Festina said. “Her and Iranu.”

  “Do you think she has more androids here?” I asked.

  “Maybe androids, maybe worse,” Tic answered. “Why are we standing around when she’s getting away?”

  “You want to go after her ourselves?”

  “We have to,” Tic said. “The nearest police are at least half an hour off. If she’s headed for the mine, she could activate robots, destroy evidence—”

  “Maya?” my mother interrupted. “Impossible!”

  “Time’s wasting,” Tic replied, bouncing up to the windowsill. “Voostor, show me the mine. Faye, you call Protection Central, then follow on foot.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he bent his knees and vaulted into the sky, spreading his gliders to catch whatever thermals might be rising in the tropical dawn. Voostor gave my mother a weak glance, helpless apology, then jumped out the window himself. As he flapped into the sky, that “Sorry, my dear,” look on his face switched fast to a grin, caught up in Tic’s excitement.

  “Well,” Mother said, “what a charming guest you’ve been, Faye. Perhaps you’d enjoy setting fire to the house before you start hunting down my friend like a dog.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Ma.” I speed-linked to Protection Central: Maya’s here. Send cops. Back in a beat came the ETA—Pistolet police would take at least thirty-seven minutes to reach Mummichog.

  By that time I knew it would all be over, one way or another.

  I squinched up my thoughts, fierce concentration. Peacock, can you reach out to help the police get here faster?

  No response.

  “Come on,” Festina shouted. “We have to go!”

  “One more second.” Peacock, I thought again, Xé, Father, whoever you are, can you get us to the mine before Maya?

  A swirl of light appeared outside the window. Festina leapt into it without asking questions.

  “What is that?” my mother cried.

  “Dads,” I said. “Or whatever you were sleeping with the last few months of his life.” I leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek; I thought she might flinch, but
she didn’t. Maybe too shocked to react. “When this is all over,” I told her, “I’ll call and explain.”

  Then I sprinted forward, bounced off Maya’s mattress, and sailed out through the window like a diver from a springboard. The Peacock caught me in its mouth long before I touched the ground.

  The Peacock dumped me on a game trail deep in the rain forest. As usual, the tube disappeared instantly, back…back…well, I’d shot the chute often enough by now that I wasn’t quite so queer-head dizzy as I’d been the first time I’d gone through. I had the presence of mind to look around fast, hoping I might catch sight of where the Peacock went. For just a second, I thought it was coming toward me: straight at my face, tangly-jambly lights plunging right at my eyes; but then the Peacock was gone, vanished, and I felt no different than I ever had.

  I got to my feet. Dusted myself off. Thought about that phrase, “no different than I ever had” and wondered just how long the Peacock had been guarding my botjolo butt.

  In the bad old days, sometimes I’d been Christly lucky to miss getting killed. And considering my habitually un-sober state, would I have noticed a few more flickery lights?

  Hmm.

  Festina stood a few steps away, staring up at the trees with a gloomy expression.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “This place looks too much like my home.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “My home was a damned dangerous place.” She glanced at me. “Do you know anything about jungles?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind—you’ll be all right if you remember one simple principle.”

  “Which is?”

  “Everything here wants you dead.”

  It sounded like a joke.

  “I mean it,” Festina insisted. “Everything wants you dead. Even the things that won’t directly kill you still want you dead. You’re a waste of good nutrients; they want you recycled back into the ecosystem.”

  She reached to her belt holster and drew her stun-pistol…the first time I’d seen her do that in days. She hadn’t bothered with her gun in the face of androids, reporters, or dipshits, but now she wanted a weapon handy.