The League of Peoples

by James Alan Gardner

  Her prison was more than just the ring of anchors nailing her in place. The obelisk in the middle was also a key component: a computer, designed to run off Xé’s own energies. The computer controlled a team of nanites to serve as jailers—keeping the anchor boxes in good repair, collecting solar energy from the world outside, and bringing it down for Xé to feed. (That was the source of light in Xé’s chamber: nanites releasing their sucked-up mouthfuls of sun.)

  But the computer did more than maintain the prison. My Peacock had taken mercy on his lover and given her something to Ride. Something safe. She could inhabit the computer, could use it to reach out to digital intelligences all over the planet…but it was programmed to resist her control. Xé could never override the functions that kept her trapped; she could only respond to outside requests, not initiate anything herself. Even after the Ooloms arrived, with link-seeds implanted into proctor brains, Xé couldn’t ask anyone to free her. The obelisk computer simply wouldn’t transmit such instructions.

  It had stopped her from telling anyone about her situation, till I asked a direct question. But it hadn’t stopped her from mourning her imprisonment. And it hadn’t stopped her from repentance. Even an immortal can change over the course of three thousand years. Especially three thousand years of inhabiting the machines that served “lesser beings”: first the Greenstriders, then later Ooloms, and finally Homo saps.

  Xé had learned true sympathy. Or so she told me.

  She bitterly regretted the death she had caused. Or so she said.

  She was no danger to anyone, and only wanted to help. Or so her story went.

  And she wanted out, out, out, out, out. Please, please, please, set her free, set her free.

  That part, at least, I had no trouble believing.

  “You know Xé can’t leave Demoth,” Festina said when I finished the story. “Even if we free her, she’s a mass murderer. The League will swat her like a gnat the moment she heads for space.”

  “The League is strong enough to do that? To an advanced lifeform like Xé?”

  “Faye, you have no idea how powerful the highest species in the League are. Compared to them, humans are as backward as bacteria. Xé might approach the level of a fiatworm, but she’s still far too primitive to defy the League.”

  “And the League won’t accept she’s had a change of heart?”

  “No one ever knows what the League will accept,” Festina replied. “But they take a very preemptive attitude toward dangerous non-sentient creatures.”

  “Maybe Xé’s sentient now. Maybe she cares.”

  “And maybe she doesn’t.” Festina sighed. “I had a partner once who studied Norse mythology. He liked all that atmosphere of gloomy ice and snow.” She made a face. “Anyway, he told me a legend about a rude-boy god named Loki. Loki pissed off the Father of the Gods once too often and was encased inside a tree till some passerby shed a tear for his plight. No one did. Eventually Loki gained enough control over the tree that he forced it to drop a leaf into someone’s eye. Instant tear. Loki got free and proceeded to precipitate the end of the world.”

  “A load of laughs, those Vikings,” I said.

  “The lesson is still valid,” Festina replied. “X£ may weep with contrition, but she’s done monstrous things. Freeing her is a real gamble. You realize that her germ factory must have created the plague twenty-seven years ago? Millions of Ooloms died because of her.”

  “I know. Xé told me herself. After Yasbad Iranu got caught for illegal archaeology digs, an old Oolom proctor decided to snoop around in the so-called mines to see what Iranu was looking for. The proctor never realized he was exploring Greenstrider bunkers; and he never knew he’d encountered Xé’s germ factory. That was Patient Zero for Pteromic Paralysis—a member of the Vigil doing his job.”

  Thank God he never knew.

  “I want to set Xé loose,” I said.

  “Do you?” Festina asked. “Do you? Or is this a compunction she planted in your brain?”

  “I’m saying what I want. I don’t know why I want it.”

  Festina grimaced. “Tricky things, those link-seeds.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “So let me guess,” she said. “You want me to make the final decision about Xé, because you can’t trust your own motives.”

  “Afraid so,” I told her. “Someone’s got to make the call, and it’d be crazy to leave it up to me.”

  Festina sighed. “I suppose you’ve got a reason why we don’t pass the buck to your government?”

  “Because they’ll drag their heels. They won’t dare upset the status quo till they’ve brought in experts, advisors and boffins galore. Which means knocking on the Admiralty’s door, doesn’t it, since the navy has the most experience with Sperm-tails.”

  “Whereupon,” Festina said, “dipshits will expropriate Xé and hold her as a lab rat forever.”

  I nodded. And waited. Trying not to feel coward-guilty for dumping the hard choice on someone else. It’s what proctors are supposed to do, I told myself. Present the facts, name the risks, then get out of the way.

  Festina stared at the floor as she thought over the situation; it only took a few seconds. “Okay,” she said. “If we don’t free Xé now, you’re right; your government will search this place, find her, and eventually call in the Admiralty. At which point, people we really don’t trust will have a captive superintelligent pocket universe that can design germ factories.” She shuddered. “I’d rather take our chances with Xé.”

  A sizzle of fiery hope flashed over me from the next room.

  Festina and I walked toward the concealed door. The Peacock, last seen going up my nose, didn’t come swooping out to stop us. No Tico, nago, wuto! and blocking our way. I took that as a good sign. If my Peacock could read mental processes, he’d overheard Xé’s confession to me…and he must have believed it, or he’d be screaming warnings in my face.

  No excitement. No fuss. When we got to the door, Festina gave me a look, making sure I wanted to keep going. I nodded, then pushed my hand against the wall.

  My fingers sank in. The pseudogranite was more viscous than the windows back in my office—thick as concrete slurry. I forced myself forward, using the strength of my legs: pressing hard, both arms burying into the surface. Festina stood back, watching; if need be, she could push or pull to keep me from getting stuck in the middle. Just before my head went in, I took a breath and closed my eyes. Then onward, through the thick muddy soup, reminding myself I wasn’t at all claustrophobic like daft old Ooloms.

  My arms came free on the other side. Then my face. For some reason, I expected to have muck coating me, smearied over my eyes, crusting up my hair; but I was clean, maybe cleaner than when I went in—my cheeks felt scrubbed, like having a pumice rinse. I kept driving forward, pushing, till my feet pulled away from the wall with a soft sucking sound.

  Ssss-pop.

  The sound echoed in the dimly lit corridor. Xé coiled in front of me, all green and gold and blue. Her lights shone flame-bright; I didn’t need a link-seed to feel her rapturous anticipation.

  Festina’s shoulder came through the wall, followed straight on by her head—she hadn’t reached out with her hands first, she’d slammed straight in as if she were body-checking the stone. I hurried to help her…nearly yanking her off her feet in my eagerness to drag her free.

  Maybe not my eagerness. Maybe Xé’s. The same way her frustration had spilled over to give me the weepies, I could feel myself swimming with creamy anticipation— nothing to do with my own hormones. ‘“Die wet tingles,” we called it when I was fifteen…and Xé had them so whipping-fierce they were leaking into me.

  So to speak.

  I moved forward. There was a good-sized rock in my hand—I’d picked it up from the rubble in the other room. The anchor machine sat straight in front of me, wisps of Xe’s body sticking to the horseshoe insets like hairs plastered onto a balloon by static electricity.

  Festina waved toward the
box. “You want to do the honors?”

  I knelt. Up with the rock, down with the rock—hard enough that the outside of the box ruptured and something cracked inside.

  Wisps of peacock light danced away from the box. Free. A wave of joy surged through me so burning hot, I almost wet myself. Cool down, Xé, I thought desperately. I know you’re happy, but you’re going to embarrass me.

  Acknowledgment with apologies. Not that the excitement abated much.

  Festina and I went around the room in opposite directions, smashing anchors. Pulling the pins that held the butterfly. Xé made sure we never came in contact with her body, leaning herself away as we broke each fetter. I don’t know what would have happened if we actually touched her; maybe we’d get sucked inside and spin through her innards in a never-ending swirl. Something to avoid.

  Smash. Smash. Smash. Till we came to the final anchor, holding the last threads of Xé’s being. She was mostly up on the ceiling now, like a streamer ribbon taped in this one spot to the floor but blown by a fan so it fluttered up and flapped. I lifted my rock for one more smash…but Festina wrapped her fingers around my hand.

  “Before you do that,” she said, “get Xé to stop the germ factory. Deactivate it, dismantle it. If she’s in touch with all nano on the planet, she should have no problem doing whatever it takes.”

  I didn’t even have time to phrase a command before Xé acknowledged the deed was done. The germ factory, far to the north, was shut down forever, nanites dispersed.

  Just like that. All Xé ever needed was for someone to make the request.

  “It’s done,” I said. And brought the rock down hard

  Xé’s bliss was so strong I nearly fainted—a bursting-blazing headrush that drenched me with sweat. Colored lights filled the room like a blizzard of blue and green as Xé danced, pranced, soared, everywhere all at once…till my foggy brain realized the dance was not one peacock but two. My Peacock had slithered out to join her, to celebrate—so many emotions shooting off sparkles I was too giddy to appreciate a thousandth of them.

  Two peacocks. Old lovers. Old enemies. Dancing.

  Then suddenly, it stopped. The blur of lights snapped into focus, straight in front of Festina and me: two Sperm-tubes open side by side, flowing out of the room, down the corridor, and off God knows where.

  “This would be our ride out of the tunnel,” Festina said. “To where?”

  “Don’t know,” I answered. “But we’d better go— there’s still work to be done.”

  “You mean tracking down Maya?”

  I nodded. Feeling breathless. Realizing Xé had planted more facts in my mind than just her own history.

  “What’s wrong?” Festina asked. “Something to do with Maya? Something that…oh shit.”

  She bit her lip. She knew.

  “Maya and Iranu,” Festina whispered. “They’ve both been exploring Greenstrider bunkers.” She took a deep breath. “They both met the germ factory, right?”

  I nodded again. “Iranu met it six months ago. The factory analyzed him, then created the Freep disease. The disease killed Iranu and nearly did the same to Oh-God.”

  Festina steeled herself. “When did Maya meet the factory?”

  “Four months ago,” I said.

  “And the factory created a disease that’s absolutely lethal to humans?”

  “Yes. Xé says this version of the plague affects the brain.”

  “Shit.” Festina’s face had grown pale. “So Maya’s been spreading the infection for ages. In Sallysweet River. And in Bonaventure.”

  “You’re forgetting Mummichog.”

  “Damn,” Festina said. “Maya stayed with Voostor and your mother for days. Your mother must have caught the disease. The whole house has to be filled with it.”

  “All over the place,” I agreed. “Xé says we’re both infected. And the olive oil cure won’t work this time. It’s a brand-new disease. Old medicines mean bugger-all.”

  There. There it was.

  After twenty-seven years, the other shoe had dropped: a disease to kill humans without touching Ooloms. Scary having that inside me…and yet.

  And yet.

  I had a queer sense of completion. Botjolo Faye—waiting all this time for a death of her own. Finally belonging.

  Relief. Sick dread, and scalpelly relief.

  In front of us the peacocks still twinkled, ready to carry us somewhere they thought we should go. I reached out, took Festina’s hand, squeezed it. Our palms were both damp with fear sweat. “Sorry,” I said, “this wasn’t meant for you. But it’ll still be all right. There’s time.”

  Whatever I meant by that.

  I tugged her hand gently, pulling her toward the open peacock tubes. She squeezed back, a strong brave grip; then she let me go and we dived forward, side by side.

  18

  FUNERAL INVITATION

  From the torch-dim bunker in Mummichog, through the twisty bends of a peacock’s gut, and out again into blackness: skidding to a stop facedown, with the lye-soap smell of yellow-grass close under my nose. I lifted my head to see the Henry Smallwood Guest Home, backlit by the million stars in a Sallysweet River night.

  Something thumped the ground beside me. Then Festina’s voice. A growl. “Bloody hell. Back into the fucking cold.”

  We stood up. The peacocks rippled in front of us, glimmering softly in the darkness. I couldn’t tell which was Xé, which was my own guardian.

  Or should I say, former guardian.

  Uchulu, said my father’s voice inside my head. Goodbye.

  Uchulu, said another mental voice—Tic’s voice. Xé always liked Tic; so why shouldn’t she decide to sound like him? Uchulu i jai. Good-bye and thank you.

  Then the two of them began to rise, slowly at first, staying horizontal to the ground till they were above the treetops, then suddenly swooping straight up toward the sea of stars.

  “Will the League let Xé leave?” I whispered.

  “The League isn’t noted for forgiveness,” Festina replied. “But who knows?”

  We watched till the peacocks were out of sight. It didn’t take long. Then Festina shook herself; the gesture turned to a theatrical shiver. “Very touching, I’m sure. Now can we get inside where it’s warm?”

  The same Oolom hostess stood on duty behind the registration counter. I gave her a vague smile, glad there weren’t humans in the room; it’d only been an hour since we contacted the plague from my mother, but Festina and I might be contagious already. As for the hostess, she’d be safe from us—this disease was sole property of Homo saps.

  “Welcome back, Proctor Smallwood,” the hostess said. “And Admiral…” She gave a small bow…very gracious of her, considering how we were grimed with grass stains, dirt, and jungle dung. “What can I do for you tonight?”

  “A room, please,” I told her. “Just one.”

  Festina raised her eyebrows. I ignored her, rather than explain in front of the hostess. We needed a place to hole up for an hour, somewhere we wouldn’t infect other humans; but I doubted we’d stay the whole night. I’d make my report as soon as we locked ourselves away from healthy people. The medical authorities would come screaming in and cart us off to an isolation ward, then burn everything we’d touched in the guest home. Why force them to sterilize two rooms, when Festina and I could make do with one?

  “One room,” said the hostess. “Certainly. And will this be billed to the Vigil?”

  “Let’s have the Admiralty pay,” Festina replied. “I love making them foot my bills.”

  I lay down on the bed before starting my report. Might as well make myself comfortable. “This may take a while,” I told Festina. Then I closed my eyes and linked in.

  Protection Central, please. Emergency.

  The acknowledgment came back straightaway…and even in that short interaction, I could feel the difference. No personality on the other end of the link—just an empty machine. Xé was gone; the world-soul had lost its soul.

  Poo
r Tic. Poor lonely old bugger. He’d never hear nanites giggle again.

  First: a message to Argentia health authorities warning that Mummichog was a ticking bomb. The world-soul told me a med team had already picked up Oh-God and were beetling back to Pistolet…but they hadn’t got home yet. There was time to warn them of Pteromic C, the Homo sap variant. Anyway, they’d followed high-infection protocols right from the start, because of Oh-God; yes, it was good to tell them they might be carrying a human disease, but it wouldn’t make much difference in what they did. They were already walking on eggs.

  As for Maya…Tic had reported her escape and police were searching for her through a million hectares of rain forest. The world-soul estimated only a five percent chance they’d find her; but if they did, they now knew to treat her as a plague-carrier.

  I could imagine how that would overjoy the cops. A bomb-wielding murder suspect carrying a deadly microbe, flying over unpopulated jungle. They’d be tempted to splash her skimmer across a few acres of bush, and fret about forest fires later. Through the world-soul, I told the police we had to take Maya alive; we needed to ask her where she’d been, where she might have spread the disease.

  In my heart, though, I knew it was too late. Maya and Chappalar had gone out together several times—to Bonaventure restaurants, nightspots, what-all. The plague was on the march, and who knew how many travelers had carried it from Great St. Caspian around the globe?

  I felt like calling room service to order cinnamon.

  A knock at the door. Festina sat up in surprise. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No.”

  Festina drew her stunner. I hopped off the bed and backed into a corner, as far as I could get out of the pistol’s daze-radius. “Who is it?” I called.

  “Proctor Smallwood?” asked an unfamiliar voice. Male.

  “She can’t have visitors,” Festina answered. “Go away.”

  “I’d just like a moment of her time,” the unknown man said. “Please. The hostess assured me it would be all right.”