by John Varley
And that was another thing she found attractive about the Supras. They didn’t have an ounce of xenophobia. A tribal people, their culture was laced with ritual, custom, and tradition—but they had flexibility. With visiting Supras the offer of sex would have been in complete earnest, and the act would not have been simulated. They had formalized this ritual solely for the purpose of dealing with human visitors. Real sex with the Supra would have been grotesque for both of them. As it was, the male simply gave her the lightest possible touch with his tiny penis, never seen, and everybody was happy. It made Cirocco feel good. In a way, it made her feel loved.
***
She had almost forgotten it was a dream until they landed lightly on the black sandy beach and she saw her sleeping body. Nearby was Hornpipe, resting on folded legs, making a carving during his own dream-time. He looked up and nodded at them both.
Cirocco kissed Gaby good-by and watched her fly away. Then she yawned, stretched, and looked down at herself. Time to wake up, she thought, wryly.
Once more she was impressed with how easily the fantastic could become commonplace. She knelt beside her sleeping body, remembering how it had been the last time, and rolled over onto it.
She gasped when she hit warm, muscular flesh instead of the sand she had expected. For a moment she lay sprawled across the sleeping body, then she leaped into the air as if she had landed on an ant-hill. She stood, horrified, as the other Cirocco stirred, raised a hand to her face…then turned slightly on her side and went back to sleep.
She turned her head and saw Hornpipe looking at her. What is he seeing? She wondered if she would ever ask him that.
“I’m not ready for this,” she said aloud. But she sighed, knelt on the sand, and hesitantly touched the body. Again, it was other. It was a big, strong-looking, brown-skinned, and not very pretty woman.
She took the other Cirocco’s hand. The other stirred slightly, muttering something. Then she opened her eyes and sat up quickly.
There was a moment of vertigo, and then there was just Cirocco. She looked around quickly, saw no one else.
“Just you and me, kid,” she said to herself, and went to join Hornpipe.
Twenty-five
Historians, when Bellinzona eventually produced some, were never quite sure when the change happened. The city had been born in chaos, had grown in confusion, been conquered in disarray. There was a brief time when there were almost as many inmates in the work camps as free citizens walking the streets.
Conal, with his informal polls of the citizens, detected no dramatic jump in morale, or in the approval rating of Cirocco Jones, not even after the aerial attack. He suspected it was the result of a combination of things.
But for whatever reason, at some point between the sixth and the ninth kilorev after Cirocco’s invasion, Bellinzona stopped being a brawling collection of fractious individuals and became a community—within the human-defined limits of that term. It was nothing so dramatic as all men suddenly deciding they were brothers. Deep and persistent differences still existed, nowhere more strongly than in the Council. But at the end of the ninth kilorev Bellinzona was a city with an identity, and a purpose.
Football had a surprising amount to do with it.
Serpent’s obsession, combined with strong help from Robin’s organizational abilities and the willing work of the parks commissioner, soon had two leagues formed, ten teams to a league, and that was just for the adults. There were intermediate and junior teams, too. A second stadium had to be built to accommodate the number of games, which were strongly contested and heavily attended. It was something to cheer for. Local heroes were born, intra-city rivalries established. It was something to talk about in the taprooms after a long hard shift. For some, it was something to fight about. Titanide police were instructed not to interfere as long as only fists were used. When word spread about this unprecedented instance of the law looking the other way, some mad brawls developed, some people were hurt…and the Mayor did nothing. Even this seemed to improve the community spirit. Cooler heads began to move in and stop the fights as the emerging citizens learned how better to tolerate each other.
Which is not to say no more noses got broken.
Whistlestop’s departure played a part. One day he simply drifted away and did not come back. People seemed to breathe easier. He was too visible a symbol of oppression. He was just an old bag of wind, completely harmless, but the people didn’t like him up there and were glad to see him go.
Titanides became less numerous, and less visible. The occupying force was in fact halved on the day of Cirocco’s return from the fountain, and halved again a kilorev later. Human police took up the slack, and Titanides intervened in only the worst violence. They were monumentally uninterested in civil crime.
Both the quality and quantity of food deliveries improved as more acreage was put under cultivation, and as the ones who grew it learned better methods. Smiler meat began to appear in markets, at gradually reducing prices. Independent farmers were created under land-grant schemes, and proved, to no one’s surprise, more efficient than forced laborers.
Inflation remained a problem, but—in the immortal words of one of Nova’s economic reports—“The rate of increase of the rate of increase is slowing.”
Most people thought the biggest reason for the lift in morale was the most obvious one: the cowardly and unprovoked attack by what was later learned to be the Sixth Fighter/Bomber Wing of the Gaean Air Force, based in Iapetus. The Sixth was composed of one Luftmorder and nine buzz bombs, which came screaming in from the east on the first bright day following many decarevs of rain, catching people out of doors enjoying the unaccustomed warmth.
The “cowardly and unprovoked” line was used by Trini in a speech twenty revs later, as the pieces were still being picked up. She had been even more intemperate than that; in an illogical but heart-felt rage, she had called the attack a day that would live in infamy.
Aside from the word “day,” the phrase was amazingly accurate.
“It’s Gaea, giving me help, damn her miserable hide,” Cirocco told the Council at the next meeting. “She’s handing me a Pearl Harbor on a silver platter—and a victory to boot. She must be desperate to have it out with me. She knows I’ll have to come soon now, with patriotism building like it is.”
The Sixth Fighter/Bomber Wing inflicted heavy damage on the city with bombs and missiles. Had the attack continued, or had they been joined by the Eighth, which Cirocco knew to be in Metis, the city might have turned into an inferno.
But the Bellinzona Air Force arrived in the nick of time.
The fact that there was a Bellinzona Air Force was news to the Bellinzonans, and those who dared emerge from cover had watched in awe as the Dragonflys, Mantises, Skeeters, and Gnats engaged the marauding aeromorphs in deadly combat. What they didn’t know was that the Sixth was overmatched at the start. It certainly didn’t look that way. The buzz bombs were huge and fast and loud, they trailed great clouds of black smoke, and spouted fire when they attacked. The Bellinzona planes seemed to be made of wire and cellophane. But they would turn and twist with a ghastly ease, and though their armament didn’t make a lot of noise getting out, it certainly had the desired result when it hit the target. Three Mantises harried the big, galumphing Luftmorder from the air, followed it as it shrieked in agony before bursting in flame on a hillside. From the frightened Bellinzonans there arose a ragged cheer.
It would have been a rout but for the lack of experience of some of the Bellinzonan pilots. One managed to run afoul of an especially cunning buzz bomb, lost a wing, and crashed into the sea. His body was recovered, and a spontaneous cortege carried it down Oppenheimer Boulevard. A monument was later erected to this first hero of the Gaean War.
So the victory in the Battle of Bellinzona was certainly an important part of the change that came over the city. But the crucial element of the change began upon Cirocco’s return from the Fountain.
She became a public figure.<
br />
Within a hectorev, the byways of Bellinzona were festooned with posters showing her face. They were heroic posters, modeled after those big banners of Lenin and Suslov carried through Moscow on Mayday. Looking at them, you just knew Cirocco Jones stood for brotherhood, solidarity, three square meals a day, and the welfare of the proletariat.
The community bulletin boards had developed into news centers, into big walls covered with messages and stories and football scores. A fledgling newspaper industry had developed; just four or five intermittent and scarce parchment sheets. The industry was quietly taken over. Editors were reasoned with, and one was jailed. Stories began to appear about Gaea, about New Pandemonium, about rumors of preparation for war in the east. That the stories were true did not change the fact that the Bellinzona media were State-run. A lot of people in government didn’t like it. About the same number thought it was a fine idea. Libertarians and fascists existed in about equal numbers everywhere, Cirocco had found.
Stuart and Trini hated it, though not from any moral foundation of civil liberties. They watched helplessly as Cirocco consolidated a stranglehold on Bellinzonan public opinion. And they knew that, as long as she could keep delivering security and stifling opposing opinion, she could remain Mayor until she died. Which, in her case, might very well be a thousand years hence.
On the other hand, there was the chance she would not live another kilorev.
She had started making public appearances. There were meetings, rallies, parades. She waded into groups of people, shaking hands, kissing babies, being seen with community leaders. She cut ceremonial ribbons on new development projects.
She gave speeches. They were good speeches. They were good for the same reason the posters were stirring: Cirocco found the people who knew how to paint posters and how to write speeches, and set them to work.
It was all very slick. Even Trini and Stuart had to admit it. When they were in her presence, they could feel it: a force that seemed to emanate from the woman, a power that made you feel good to be around her, and to think good thoughts about her when she was gone. She could be whatever the situation demanded. In a crowd she had the common touch. On a podium she was rousing, uplifting…or alarming, when speaking about the threat of Gaea.
Trini began calling her Charisma Jones, at least when the Mayor wasn’t around. Luckily, it was now possible to know when she was around. There were no more of those mysterious appearances. Cirocco seemed ubiquitous.
And that was the big hazard to her, Trini knew. All the good feeling aside, there were still those who hated her. There were two assassination attempts in three kilorevs. There would certainly have been many more in the early days of her administration had she been more accessible. Now, out in the crowds, she made a nice target. Had guns been available, she would not have stood a chance. As it was, those who came at her with knives had died in seconds. Cirocco was too good to need much in the way of bodyguards.
So far. One day a very good archer would stand far away and make a try.
In the meantime, it was good to live in Bellinzona.
When Cirocco began raising an army, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
Twenty-six
“I don’t like all that army stuff,” Robin said.
“Why not? It’s equal opportunity. Men’s regiments and women’s regiments. The pay’s good, the food’s terrific—”
“I never know when you’re kidding anymore.”
“Robin, when it comes to the army, I’m kidding just about all the time. It’s the only way I can cope with it.”
Robin looked at Cirocco Jones, who sat astride Hornpipe, as she was sitting on Valiha. Nearby, the infant Tambura cantered in the gawky and amiable way of all young Titanides, enjoying the educational outing with her foremother, Hornpipe, and the two humans.
The Wizard, the Captain, the Mayor…the Demon. Cirocco Jones was all of them, and she was also an old friend. But sometimes lately she scared Robin. Seeing her at the big rallies in the stadium, watching the throngs cheer her every word…it reminded her too much of the historical footage of demagogues of the past, the silver-tongued rascals who led their people into disaster. She was a stranger, standing up there, arms raised, drinking the vast approval of the crowds.
Yet, on those rare occasions when she could be alone with her, she was just Cirocco. Of course, that had always been slightly overwhelming in itself, but in a quite different way.
Cirocco seemed to sense Robin’s mood. She turned to her, and shook her head.
“Remember what I told you, way back at the Junction,” Cirocco said. “Way back when we planned all this. I told you you wouldn’t like all of it. But I told you to remember it isn’t all what it seems.”
“Putting that editor in jail…that made me sick. He was a good man.”
“I know he is. I admire him. When this is over I’ll use whatever influence I have left—if I’m still alive—to see that he is properly honored. Make him the head of the school of journalism, maybe…and he’ll hate me the rest of his life. With good reason.”
Robin sighed.
“Hell. As soon as she’s sure you’re gone, Trini will just stick him back in jail. Or Stuart.”
They were heading almost due west, into the heart of the Dione darkness. The Titanides had already brought them through the “impenetrable” jungle and up over the “unscalable” mountains about as easily as a pair of tanks moving over paved road. They had swum the Ophion, and were now nearing the Dione central vertical cable. It was like an Earth night with a full moon in the sky. Behind them, Iapetus curved up the inside of the wheel, and in front was Metis. Both regions reflected enough light into Dione for the Titanides to see by. Tambura scampered to the left and right of the main trail, but always returned at a gentle admonition from Valiha, and never got into trouble. Titanide children never did.
Cirocco had not mentioned the purpose of the trip. Robin had thought the central cable was just a landmark on the way to their final destination, but when they reached it, the Titanides stopped.
“We’ll be happy to accompany you, Captain,” Valiha said. “This place holds no horrors for us.”
She was referring to the instinctive fear Titanides held for the central cables, and for the beings which lived at the bottom. Twenty years ago, trapped under a rockfall beneath the central Tethys cable, Robin and Chris had faced the nightmare task of herding Valiha down the five-kilometer spiral stairway that ended in the lair of Tethys himself—a cranky, obsessed, terrifying, and, luckily for them, myopic Lesser God. Valiha’s I.Q. had decreased with every step down, until at the bottom she was no brighter than a horse and twice as skittish. The encounter had ended in two broken forelegs for Valiha, and an endless nightmare for Robin.
It was not a fear the Titanides could do anything about. It had been programmed into them by Gaea.
But Dione was dead, and that apparently made a difference.
“Thanks for the offer, my friends, but I would prefer it if you awaited us here. Our business will not take us long. You might use the opportunity to teach this useless one something of the good grace and dignity your race is known for, and which she so sorely lacks.”
“Hey!” Tambura protested, and leaped at Cirocco, who dodged to the side, grabbed her, and wrestled in mock ferocity until the young Titanide was laughing too hard to continue the game. Cirocco mussed her hair, and took Robin’s arm. They started into the forest of cable strands.
***
At twenty-five centimeters per step, there were twenty thousand steps leading down to Dione. Even in one-quarter gee, it was one hell of a lot of steps.
Cirocco had brought a powerful battery light. Robin was grateful for it. There was natural light from creatures called glowbes which clung to the high, arched ceiling, but it was dim and orange, and there were long stretches where the animals didn’t nest. They marched in silence for a long time.
Robin realized she would probably never get a better chance to talk to Ciro
cco about something that had been causing her a lot of agony. The new, improved, glorious Mayor had little time these days to spend talking with her friends.
“I don’t suppose it’s possible you don’t know about me and Conal.”
“You’re right. It’s not possible.”
“He wants to move in with me again.”
“Why did you throw him out?”
“I didn’t—” But she had. She might as well admit it, she decided. It had been almost a kilorev now, and she wasn’t getting much sleep. Not used to sleeping alone anymore, she told herself, and knew it was more than that.
“Nova was part of it, I guess,” she said. “Every time I looked at her I saw the accusation, and I felt guilty. I wanted to get close to her again.”
“Worked pretty good, didn’t it?”
“That cold-ass, sanctimonious, snot-nosed little—” She bit it off before the rage could build.
“She’s all I have,” Robin said helplessly.
“That’s not true. And it’s not fair to her.”
“But I—”
“Listen for a minute,” Cirocco cut in. “I’ve given this some thought. I’ve been thinking about it since the feast, since we made the Pledge and started planning to take over Bellinzona. I—”
“You knew then?”
“I hate to see friends in such a mess. I’ve stayed out, because people don’t really want advice about things like that. But I have some. If you want it.”
Robin didn’t want it. She had learned that the observations and plans made by the Mayor were usually the right thing to do—and quite often not what you would like to do at all.
“I want it,” she said.
Robin counted three hundred steps before Cirocco spoke again. Great Mother, she thought. It must be really awful if she’s taking this much time to choose her words. Who does she think I am?
“Nova hasn’t learned the difference between evil and sin.”
