“They’re selling goddesses,” clicked Raincloud mischievously.
Startled, Blackbear asked, “How’s that?”
“Well, in Urulite, our word ‘goddess’ would translate as ‘domestic property,’ which is what the Elysians have put on sale.” A trilingual pun.
“Well,” said Blackbear, “we’re far from Urulan and its barbarians, thank the Dark One.” Twice as distant as Bronze Sky, Urulan had closed itself to foreigners for two centuries, and allowed few of its own to venture out. Fortunately Raincloud would see no live Urulites in Elysium.
“Urulites aren’t all bad,” she reminded him. Raincloud had studied Urulite with an émigré professor, an escaped slave.
“The good ones leave or die.” Like Shora, Urulan had never been terraformed, but its people were as uncivilized as its plated fourteen-legged carnivores. In an age when most worlds traded freely across the Fold, Urulan’s goddesses were herded like sheep, and their male warriors fought each other with crude nuclear bombs. They even bred gorilla hybrids as slaves—like Raincloud’s old teacher.
Sunflower was tugging insistently at his father’s collar. “Doggie,” clicked the child.
“What’s that, Sunflower?”
“Sunflo’ see Doggie. Sunflo’ fly down. Fly down, see Doggie.”
Blackbear looked down. At the end of the Elysian’s bundled train, one of her six-legged trainsweeps wiggled back and forth slightly. “Sunflower, that’s not a dog, and you can’t fly down now.”
“Sunflo’ fly do-own!”
Raincloud shrugged. “Let him down, why not.”
“Me too!” Hawktalon slid to the ground.
There was no place to run, after all. Blackbear let Sunflower down and watched him toddle off on tiptoe after his sister, both swinging their animal dolls behind them. They inspected the trainsweep, taking in its every move.
Seeing them, apart, in this world of strangeness, Blackbear fought back a wave of anxiety. It was an old fear he had, about losing his child. It must have started years before, at age seven, when he had lost his youngest brother in the swollen river. He barely remembered what his brother looked like, now; whenever he recalled the incident, or dreamed it, it was Sunflower he saw in his arms.
No children. Those Elysians with their unburdened shoulders and smooth complexions, yet they might be eighty, or eight hundred…
Of course, there were Elysian children, Blackbear reminded himself. Raised in the artificial wombs of the shon, seeded from the best imported genetic stock, just enough children were born to offset mortality by accident and rare disease. Just enough to fill the jobs the city needed. But not enough for each one to carry one.
“Transit node, Octant Six,” said the voice. “Prepare to disembark.”
The vesicle had fused to several more vesicles by now, including one that descended from above and had to lower its occupants onto the platform. It had formed itself into a great length of sausage. After some minutes, its rate of flow lessened. Out of the translucent fluid ahead there appeared a white wall, into which the vesicle merged and opened. The Windclan family gathered up their bags and stepped out.
They entered a vast pulsating cavern. Here, vesicles fused to the cavern, while elsewhere new vesicles pinched off, flowing down other branches of the reticulum. The ceiling played a lightshow of butterflies, their long golden wings sporting black spots; another heliconian variant, he guessed. Below thronged the Elysians, their hair neither braided nor bound up in turbans, their trains extending back several meters to their trainsweeps. Countless servos mingled about, tall loud-spoken ones vending drinks and sweets, broad flat ones offering transport, disconcerting little insectlike ones quietly vacuuming the spotless floor. Even overhead, little bell-tinkling hovercraft glided by. And still, not a child to be seen…
It was not just that in the Caldera Hills, the fertile slopes and endless forests needed many hands for harvest, and children were the growth industry of a world with a dozen empty continents to populate, facing floods, fires and landslides along the way. Beyond that—
What was an adult without children? How could one even begin a conversation, without presenting one’s offspring or younger sib? Among Clickers, even children presented their dolls. Could these Elysians feel? Could they care about others? Was eternal youth worth the price?
Blackbear thought of his father with prostate trouble, and his last patient, the elderly woman from the next town whom he had treated for kidney failure just before he left home. Why was aging linked to fertility? Blackbear hoped soon to learn. The Fertility Project could change everything. Everyone might then have ageless children of their own. It was too late for Hawktalon and Sunflower, he thought with a pang, but then he and his goddess expected another six or seven children.
From Raincloud’s back, Hawktalon exclaimed, “Oh, look who’s here!”
The trainsweep had left its master and followed behind them. Astonished, Blackbear stared at its polished silver surface, which reflected splotches of gold from the ceiling butterflies.
Raincloud glared at her daughter. “It’s the one you were pestering.”
“Oh Goddess,” exclaimed Blackbear, his stomach in knots. “What if someone thinks we stole it?”
“We didn’t, Dad.” Hawktalon was indignant. “Go away, bad Doggie,” she told the trainsweep, but her cheerful tone belied her words.
Raincloud said, “We’ll leave it at ‘lost and found,’ somewhere. Servo?” she called. “Where’s that damned servo voice when we need it?”
He winced, wishing she would watch her language in front of the little boy.
Just then, Sunflower half slid off his shoulder and leaned toward a vendor, a servo shaped like a lamppost attached to a tray of scooped sweets. “Ice cream. Sunflo’ hungry.”
“No,” said Blackbear. “No ice cream, that’s that.” Wherever was that Elysian to meet them, he wondered.
The child tensed ominously. His eyebrows wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth pulled down. Then he let out a wail that caused heads to turn.
Blackbear hurriedly brought him down and rocked him in his arms, but it was no use. Sunflower screamed and flailed his limbs in all directions.
“Sh-sh.” Hawktalon covered her ears.
Raincloud was searching around. “Try to spot an ‘information vendor.’ They look like—”
A ringing bell sounded overhead. It was an airborne hovercraft. The hovercraft landed right in front of Blackbear. It spouted an Elysian phrase which he did not catch. Two servos emerged, emergency lights blinking around their heads.
“Please lay patient on the floor, head raised.” A stocky machine, about as tall as Hawktalon, spoke in the soothing tones of a flight attendant. “Some hyperventilation, we see.”
The other servo, shaped more like a lamppost, extended two long tentacles snaking around the child in Blackbear’s arms.
“No,” he shouted, adding in Click-click, “get off, by the Goddess!” He bent at the knees, his left foot slid back, then he twisted the grasping servo over in a somersault. Rei-gi aimed for gentle disengagement.
“Do not damage City property,” the lamppost intoned as it rearranged itself. “A fine may be charged.”
The stocky servo observed, “The child is foreign, a defective. We are not equipped to treat defectives. We must call reinforcements. Meanwhile, please lay patient on the floor.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Raincloud. “We’ll put you on the floor.” Raincloud had earned a black-belt, as did all goddesses, several levels higher than that permitted men. “Defective, indeed,” she muttered, her eyes dark as those of the six-armed Goddess of the Hills.
“Hai!” Hawktalon swung her hands up in a practice move.
“Pardon me…” An Elysian man stood nearby. “Doctor Windclan, I presume?”
The childless man wore a talar of tawny brown, almost like the sky of Bronze Sky. His train had a border of what looked like autumn leaves, unlike the gaudy butterflies of the other Elysians. Tall
for an Elysian, he still had to look up to Blackbear’s face. His complexion was smooth as a baby’s, yet his impeccable grooming and composure marked his maturity.
“Yes?” said Blackbear hopefully.
With a slight bow, the man added, “I am Alin Anaeashon, mate of Tulle Meryllishon. Meeting you is my highest duty; my mate has told me so much about you.”
Of course, Blackbear recalled. The Director’s “mate” would have to meet him first, an Elysian custom. The same would be true for Raincloud’s supervisor, and for any other Elysian they had to meet.
Raincloud nudged him, whispering a phrase in his ear. Blackbear nodded stiffly; it was hard to bow, with the child on his neck. He returned the formal phrase. “My mate Raincloud will hear glowing reports of you.” He hoped his accent was not too bad. The word “mate” still bothered him; it could mean either goddess or consort.
“Such an honor,” said Alin. “And your…little friend; has he received proper care?”
The child was still sobbing on and off.
Blackbear said, “Let me present Sunflower, my…”
“…shonling,” prompted Raincloud.
“And here’s Fruitbat,” clicked Hawktalon, extending her stuffed animal.
Sunflower buried his face in his father’s shoulder, but held out Wolfcub by its tail.
“The defective was hyperventilating,” insisted the servo. “The foreigners obstructed our care. Reinforcements will arrive.”
Sure enough, a second hovercraft was settling beside the first.
“Your training is defective,” Alin calmly told the servo. “First, foreigners require consent for treatment. Second, the patient is clearly a shonling.”
The servos immediately drew back. “He is not registered with any shon,” said one. The lamppost-type added, “Please report our defect to Service Sector Two-seven-twenty.”
Immediately the servos reentered their hovercraft and took off. Sunflower was calmer now, just sniffing at intervals. “Bird,” he clicked, eyeing the departing hovercraft. “Bird fly away.”
“Well.” Alin smiled slightly. “Sorry, the medics were only trying to help. If you register your child with the Helishon, you’ll have no more trouble.” The Helishon was the main nursery-womb of Helicon.
“We plan to register,” said Blackbear, recalling this requirement with some suspicion. “But we’ve only just arrived.”
“I say…” Alin was looking past Blackbear to something behind him in the street.
Blackbear turned. There was the runaway trainsweep still, behind him now, as if carrying an invisible train. His heart sank again. “It followed us out of the vesicle,” he explained, much embarrassed.
Alin gave a peal of laughter, like a delighted child; for the first time, the Elysian seemed to come alive as a real person. “I expected you in native dress, but—a trainsweep without a train? Tulle will love it!” His look of gravity returned. “Never mind; its network must have crossed connections and oriented to you by mistake. Just look up its owner and give his mate a call.”
Raincloud asked, “Couldn’t we just turn it off?”
Alin shook his head. “It might take a while to retrain. Let’s get you to your house, shall we?” He motioned them to follow. Blackbear thought of his longhouse on the mountainside, with the goats scampering down to pasture below. “We’ll just take the next vesicle, this branch, and tell the servo your address. You’ll need rest; we’ll get acquainted tomorrow, on the way to the lab. No problem, tomorrow’s another Visiting Day for me.” The Elysians had a three-day work week, restricted by law. An inefficient way to do business; but then, the immortals could take their time.
Hawktalon clapped her hands. “Oh Daddy, can I go to the lab, too?”
Raincloud answered, “Not tomorrow. You must come with me, to meet important people.” Raincloud wanted to show off her firstborn goddess at Foreign Affairs.
“Next week,” Blackbear promised. As the long golden train behind Alin passed before him, he suddenly saw that what looked like dead leaves in the border pattern were in fact butterflies after all, anaeans, their crinkled brown wings evolved to resemble litter on the forest floor. Clever camouflage; these butterflies were more than they seemed.
THEIR ELYSIAN HOST LED THEM DOWN A “STREET” THAT felt more like a tunnel, Blackbear thought. The facades at either side were all shaped like the profile of an hourglass, their foundations curving down into the street while their upper stories arched into the luminous sky-ceiling. The shop windows were wide open, without even mesh screens to keep out insects. Not that he had seen any insects, save for an enormous garden of butterflies; the sight drew his gaze backward as they passed.
“Here’s your house,” said Alin at last.
Blackbear saw what appeared to be the faint trace of a doorway in the wall before him, at the end of a gently sloping ramp. He gave Alin an uncertain look, trying to muster up the courage to ask the location of the handle. But before he did so, the center of the door pinched in and molded outward, until a doorway had formed, jambs and all. His toes curled within his shoes.
“You’ll get used to nanoplast,” Alin assured him. “It always startles foreigners at first. Think of it as a sort of modeling clay inhabited by billions of molecular servos. That’s what they told me when I was a shonling.”
Blackbear smiled despite himself. This Elysian had not forgotten his own childhood, after all his centuries.
“Thanks for your help,” said Raincloud. “When should we expect our luggage?” Traveling on Bronze Sky, their luggage had always seemed to end up behind.
Alin paused as if surprised. “Is anything missing?”
Blackbear blinked, then looked inside.
The solid oak dining table, its legs fully assembled, stood in the near room, upon the woolen rug woven by Blackbear’s brothers for his wedding. The curtains, which he had sewn to fit the windows back home and expected to have to redo completely, now hung upon windows shaped perfectly to fit. Raincloud’s clan portrait, with her three sisters, twelve brothers, and assorted nieces and nephews, and himself beside her, hung right there on the wall. He had packed it away in three layers of wrapping.
Blackbear felt shock and indignation. Who had dared to go through their things?
Hawktalon skipped through the doorway. “Look—it’s our house already!”
“Not bad,” Raincloud admiringly told the Elysian. “Your people are most considerate.”
“Oh, the house took care of everything.”
Blackbear’s anger subsided. As usual, his goddess was less particular about interiors than he was. He should be grateful, he realized, for packing and unpacking was the one thing that could drive him and Raincloud to snap at each other. Still, as he went inside to look around, he wondered at the lack of privacy. In Tumbling Rock, no stranger would enter a house unasked.
“The Dark One will need a shrine, though.” Raincloud had located the figure of the Dark Goddess, standing most inappropriately at the rear of the sitting room. The black glazed figure, about half height, had the traditional six arms of the Goddess: her lower two hands held a baby to the breast; her middle two grasped a fanged snake at its head and tail, its midsection caught in the Dark One’s mouth; and her upper two hands lifted overhead in a gesture of the dance, their fingertips aflame.
Alin said, “Just tell your house to push out another room. You’ve probably not yet filled your quota.”
“Twelve hundred cubic meters is your quota,” said a voice. “Your rooms at present total seventy percent of quota.”
Blackbear gave a start, and looked around.
“I am your dependable housing unit,” said the voice, “manufactured by the Valan House of Chrysolite. If I ever fail you in any way, citizen, please report my defect to…”
Blackbear’s mouth fell open, and a chill reached his toes. He thought, We’ll be living with a ghost in the house.
From the doorway, Alin observed, “The holostage should connect right here. Let’s have
the news,” he called to the house.
A gossamer shell of light appeared in the sitting room, above the holostage. It formed a man, full-size, wearing a talar with cut stones arrayed across his chest. It was the prime minister of Valedon, Shora’s sister world, standing right there in the Windclans’ home. “The Ministry categorically denies this allegation,” the man’s voice boomed, too loud for comfort; Hawktalon clapped her ears. “It is inconceivable that any Valan vessel would violate the recognized space boundary of Urulan, or of any sovereign world. Surely the Free Fold will accept our word, the word of a peace-loving democratic society, over that of a state mired in feudal barbarism—”
“Silence, please,” ordered Raincloud.
The voice ceased, but the speaker remained.
“Valedon used to be feudal enough, a few centuries back,” muttered Raincloud.
A house full of ghosts, thought Blackbear.
THE HOUSE OBLIGINGLY TUNNELED AN EXTRA ROOM FOR the shrine of the Dark One. It also reshaped Hawktalon’s bedroom at her impudent request, giving it a domed ceiling like that of the Temple back home. Then it produced their dinner out of a “window” in the kitchen, roasted goat flesh with potatoes, steaming hot, as if by magic. Before Blackbear even looked for a broom, several servos like large cockroaches came out and sucked all of Sunflower’s crumbs off the floor.
It fascinated him, yet annoyed him, too. “Those servos will try to do your braids next,” he grumbled to Raincloud as he undid his turban and shook out his hair, then slid exhausted into their ready-made bed.
“Nonsense. I’d toss them out, first.” Her arms stretched back amongst the braids, and her breasts rose, as beautifully dark as the rich soil of the Hills. Then she reached up and pulled him over on top of her. Suddenly she was as hungry and desirous as the Dark One devouring the snake. They weren’t quite so exhausted after all, Blackbear decided.
Chapter 2
THE NEXT MORNING, THE WINDCLANS WERE UP EARLY for morning prayers to the Dark One. The Goddess Mu, her name too sacred to be uttered, existed in forms infinite in number, smaller than the smallest particle, and ever present. The six-armed form was her favored aspect among humans. Hawktalon lighted the beeswax candles before the polished image, under the watchful eye of her mother. The fragrance of the candles helped Blackbear feel more settled. Perhaps the hand of the Dark One would protect them, even here, so many light-years out from the Hills.
Daughter of Elysium Page 2
