Daughter of Elysium

by Joan Slonczewski

  “Is it true that Urulan now targets Elysian cities?”

  Raincloud shook her head politely, as she had for the past two days. Iras had warned her that any word she spoke might be resynthesized by the less reputable networks. She adjusted her sleeve at the shoulder, glancing backward where her two trainsweeps neatly bundled up her train. These trainsweeps seemed content, not about to run off like the one that had followed her children. She kept expecting to see Hawktalon behind her, but of course the girl was on her way to Blackbear’s laboratory.

  Her heart had skipped a beat to watch the family part from her, all three of them. It had been easier before, somehow, when it was just Hawktalon going off with Daddy to see his patients while Raincloud completed her exams. She half felt nauseous, as if a new one were just stirring in the womb. It was about time to start one, she thought, although she hated to give up nursing Sunflower. Her sister now had five children, by two husbands.

  But here in Elysium, Raincloud’s education would bear fruit. In Founders City she had interpreted for Sharers—here, she would meet them on their own ocean. For years she had studied the Urulites—here she would translate their own broadcasts and, perhaps, help promote peace. Peace and freedom, the longings of her old teacher…

  Rhun. That was his name, the escaped simian slave who had taught a handful of students at Founders University. Rhun had given her all he knew of Urulan, and more; he introduced her to the Sharer classics, too. He died young, as those of gorilla ancestry often did. Yet despite everything, even the horrors of his own past, Rhun had dreamed that someday Urulan would join the Free Fold.

  Within the transit vesicle a nanoplastic seat arose, molding itself to meet Raincloud as she sat. The air inside breathed of floral perfumes, which Elysians wore liberally as if to attract the butterflies. Their trainsweeps emitted an occasional squeaking noise. Iras had told her this squeaking was just a byproduct of the circuitry. If so, it must be a common byproduct; the waiters, the windows, even the hall servo that took the trains at the door, could be heard squeaking softly if one listened. She imagined it was a language, “servo-squeak,” and idly tried to puzzle out its sense now and then.

  “News, please,” she requested.

  “Which network?”

  “The Anaeaon.” Anaeaon offered the most reliable news.

  A Valan jumpship freighter sprang up above the holostage, the one hit by Urulites enroute to L’li.

  “The Imperator of Urulan has issued a statement…”

  The Imperator’s face was never seen in public, but his voice crackled out from the holostage, presumably a broadcast recorded from Urulan. “Death to the Valan thieves and liars!” the voice exclaimed. “And let the Elysian money changers beware. We know all their plans to terraform our world and sell it off to the highest bidder…”

  Terraform? How could Elysians terraform Urulan—an inhabited world? This was overblown rhetoric, even for the old Imperator. His threats would only further strain the Free Fold; some would even call for Urulan’s destruction. She shook her head. If only people everywhere would learn, as Clickers taught, to leave destruction to the Dark One. Humaneness was for humans.

  But a war with Urulan might yet destroy the Fold. And if they ever attacked here…Elysian defenses were strong, but if one in a thousand missiles sneaked through, it would not take much to demolish its twelve cities, pearls floating upon the sea.

  Raincloud considered this fact calmly, the same way she would wonder which of the Hills would next erupt to claim its blind sacrifice. Someday, Elysium and L’li and the others would have to look up from their petty squabblings over shared fold-points on the trade routes, and make peace with Urulan.

  It was hard to imagine, though, what peace could be made with a nation that battered its own provinces to dust, and mated its own females to apes to produce slaves. A pity, for Urulan’s language and ballads were rich, and its landscape, never terraformed, bristled with fourteen-plated carnivores amid forests of giant ferns.

  “Now,” spoke the sibilant voice-over, “a response from the Prime.”

  The Prime Guardian, leader of the Guard of Twelve, appeared on the holostage. Across his talar he wore a golden sash, the sign of a Guardian. The sash seemed to glow, almost outshining his person.

  “Elysium stands for peace,” the Prime declared, his voice filling the vesicle with an unusual resonance. “We will pursue peace with every inhabited world in the Fold, and beyond.” Raincloud’s Sub-Subguardian worked with the Prime; she wondered what that would be like.

  “Raise seat level,” ordered an Elysian behind her, without the “please.” Elysian etiquette was legendary, but servos counted for nothing. Raincloud, though, had been taught that courtesy to inferiors was a sign of goddesshood. She thought it best to maintain the habit, even though the only “inferiors” in Helicon were these machines. Elysians thought they made everyone equal, even man and goddess; but only their machines would call Raincloud “citizen,” instead of “foreigner.” A childlike people with their endless protocol and their meters of silken butterflies…

  Not childlike, she corrected herself. Not at all, she thought again as the vesicle slowed to a halt, preparing to fuse with a longer vesicle that snaked along a deeper branch of the reticulum. As the two vesicles fused, her own seat became a platform which gently melted down into the lower floor, as the “snake” incorporated the smaller one.

  “Elysian Fields Boulevard, next, Citizen,” reminded the voice.

  “Yes, thanks.” Iras would meet her there, to take her to the Nucleus.

  The vesicle fused to the reticular wall, and the walls melted through. Ahead and behind her, the trainsweeps squeaked softly and moved together, prepared to unfold the trains of their citizens. Raincloud stood, and she followed the Elysian before her as he entered the transit node, his train unfolding and stretching out behind him between the trainsweeps. She felt the tug at her shoulders as her own train did the same. The silken trains took some time to unwind and flow ahead, particularly as most of their wearers were engaged in lively conversation. Elysian transit, she thought, was made inefficient on purpose, to give the passengers ample time for gossip on their way, as if four days a week of visiting could never be enough.

  The stark cream white light of the skyvault still disappointed her; if only they would bathe their mornings and evenings a proper red. The people, too, were of mostly white or amber complexion. A rich, dark-blooded planet—that was what Raincloud missed. But she brushed these thoughts aside with a faint condescension for these people who might live for years indoors without experiencing the natural product of her namesake.

  There stood Iras Letheshon upon the gleaming white pavement, speaking to a hand-sized square box, a portable holostage, probably a call from a client. Iras had long ruddy curls and an upturned nose, the kind of face that would have made freckles outdoors. Her butterflies were cornflower blue, with rows of orange-ringed spots like coins. Her train extended back a good five meters, with two pairs of trainsweeps; a quincentenarian, at least.

  “No, shonsib,” Iras was telling the hand-sized square box, “I assure you, it’s quite preposterous. Why, the Sharers won’t let us terraform even uninhabited planets, much less Urulan.” She raised a hand to wave at Raincloud. “My dear, you carried your train off like a native! Anyone would have thought you were raised in a shon.”

  Inwardly Raincloud shuddered at the thought, but she smiled. “Thank you,” said Raincloud. “I hope that I now satisfy the dress code of the Nucleus.”

  “To the letter. Just remember, don’t change pace too fast, lest your retinue can’t keep up and your train sag.”

  Not that it would get dirty if it touched the street, Raincloud thought. Every bit of floor space was kept spotless by little sucking servos that scurried like rats from the gutters. There were no vehicles to spill oil, and certainly no farm animals to deposit dung. Only Elysians passed, with occasional pet birds or monkeys, heading up their trains like silk ribbons floating leng
thwise down a river.

  “Verid can’t wait to see you,” Iras assured her. “She has an urgent assignment.”

  Urgent, indeed, she thought ironically. Iras and Verid were “mates”; the idea still intrigued her. Two men might be lovers, but how a goddess could expect worship from another goddess was hard to see. Raincloud herself thought of men as almost another species, exotic birds who carried hidden beauty in their plumage like peacocks. She adored watching men, especially demure, unworldly men, and wondering what secrets they might unfold. Nightstorm had teased her about taking a second husband, but that was not for her. Blackbear alone was worth more than two.

  Iras’s holo box called again. A L’liite face appeared, requesting something about a loan. “I’m sorry,” said Iras, “I told you, that’s the best rate I can quote on a fifty-year term. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow…” She smiled apologetically at Raincloud. “I’m up to my neck closing the deal on a fleet of solar satellites the Valans will build for L’li.”

  L’li’s population had swelled to an impoverished twenty billion since the Clickers left. The L’liites badly needed solar energy, microwaved down from the satellites; but how would they ever pay the bill, Raincloud wondered.

  “The L’liites are stalling for concessions; I’ve run up huge fines for my Visiting Day. But the Valans will quietly compensate me. I love dealing with foreigners,” she added as if it were a compliment. Unusually ambitious for an Elysian, Iras took a creative attitude toward Visiting Days. A dangerous sport, in a community whose Right of Visiting replaced any notion of “right of privacy.”

  “Is it true,” Raincloud asked, “that the Sharers won’t let you terraform?” On Bronze Sky, the Sharer delegates never let Raincloud forget that she inhabited a murdered planet, its ecosphere erased for the sake of human habitation. For two centuries since, Elysium had declined to finance another one. It surprised her to learn that the ocean-dwellers held such influence over interworld affairs.

  “It’s true,” Iras admitted. “We can’t finance anything to do with terraforming, at least not directly. Indirectly…well, that’s not my department.” She shuddered. “It’s bad news to mess with Sharers. But really, don’t you think L’li will need a new world soon, to resettle their excess billions?”

  The traffic of silk paused at an intersection, as a group of shon children passed, probably from a tour of the Nucleus. The word shon derived from a native Sharer word for “water cradle,” a bassinet which floated in a pool of water to generate a rocking motion whenever the baby stirred. The children of the Helishon wore brightly colored pantaloons that ballooned at the wrists and ankles, with shiny slippers that tapered to a point and curled back. Trainless until age twenty-one, they skipped and cartwheeled across the street, for all the world like a troupe of clowns. No wonder Elysians maintained that impish sense of humor in later life; whenever Raincloud turned unexpectedly, she could catch that look of “something’s up” in the corners of Iras’s eyes.

  A man followed them, his train undulating across the street. His long, sandy hair flowed straight down his back; a sight enough to shock all of Tumbling Rock, to see so much manhood exposed.

  “That’s the generen, who runs the shon,” Iras explained. “A generen acquires much influence, as the ‘parent’ of future voters.”

  Raincloud nodded. “Wasn’t Verid once a generen?”

  “Yes she was,” said Iras, sounding pleased. “Generen of the Anaeashon, of course, in Anaeaon, three centuries ago. How I remember those days; hardly a night she spent without a call to one troubled child or another! Many of our leading logens were once her shonlings.”

  The way cleared. Ahead lay the sphere of the Nucleus, immersed entirely within a spherical “moat” of transit fluid. Its surface was pockmarked with vesicles pinching inward or outward to cross the moat.

  The trainsweeps gathered up their trains again, as Raincloud and Iras prepared to enter a vesicle. As the vesicle enclosed its passengers, a servo built like a sea star frisked Raincloud, its eight whiplike arms passing lightly over her body.

  “Sorry,” Iras apologized, “don’t mind the octopods. You’ll get security clearance soon.”

  The interior of the Nucleus was given to marble facings and imposing velvet drapes. Most people wore their trains inside, although the trainsweeps had to keep them half-folded-up, making their wearers look more ridiculous than ever. Following Iras’s lead, she kept hers on until they reached the suite of the Sub-Subguardian.

  With relief she at last unhitched her train and passed it to the servo arms at the reception desk. The office suite was paneled in walnut, quietly elegant. A man walked out as they entered, a striking figure in red black-striped butterflies. “Good morning, Lem,” said Iras, who of course could not introduce him. The man was well muscled and carried himself with the tautness of a rei-gi assistant. Raincloud stared at him frankly, thinking, had he been a goddess, she might have invited him to spar sometime.

  Lem nodded to Iras. “Tell her my mate will call soon.”

  “Please be seated,” the room told Raincloud. “The Legate of Imperial Urulan is running overtime.”

  An Urulite legation—here? Urulan had no official embassy anywhere in the Free Fold. Raincloud glanced sideways at Iras.

  “For ‘cultural affairs’” Iras whispered. “A small operation, it covers espionage, I think.”

  Raincloud nodded thoughtfully. Still, what business would this legate have here? The thought of the lost Valan ship chilled her. Never mind, she told herself: Walk in the shadow of the Dark One.

  A thicket of reporter servos stood in the corner, their lamp heads bending forward now and then. A half an hour passed with only the reporters bobbing patiently by the door, a real door with solid walnut panels and grooved trim. A good job of carpentry, Raincloud observed admiringly. This Sub-Subguardian had some taste.

  At last Verid’s door opened, a real wooden door, on its hinges. Out strode the Legate of Urulan, a bearded man in his forties. His shoulders were broad and thick, like those of her old Urulite teacher, the result of growing up in a stronger field of gravity. Barely taller than the Elysians, his heavy frame might have weighed twice as much; his shape gave him the look of an outsized dwarf. A tunic of fine chain mail over garments of deep blue silk covered his broad torso, and at his elbows and knees were jointed rings of silver. At his waist, from the right, hung his ceremonial sword; from the left, what appeared to be a particle blaster, although it must have been disarmed to be permitted anywhere near Helicon, let alone the interior of the Nucleus.

  Her memory quickened at the sight of him. To be sure, his blue eyes and aquiline nose had little in common with Rhun’s dark complexion and simian brow. And yet, his build and his gesture were the very image of her Urulite-born professor. She felt as if she had known the man a long time.

  The servos immediately bent their body-necks forward at the Urulite, blurting questions in Elysian and in Urulite. He faced them squarely but ignored their questions. “The fate of a Valan spy ship deliberately entering the space of Imperial Urulan is no concern of yours. Should the immortal Elysians choose to meddle in Imperial affairs, let them beware. We’ll find out just how immortal they are.”

  With this threat, the man took a sharp turn. Raincloud and Iras had risen respectfully, but the Urulite, distracted by the reporters, nearly walked into Raincloud on his way out. The man caught sight of her, and Raincloud automatically lifted her right arm to clasp his left shoulder, as she would have greeted her teacher. Her palm felt the cool mesh of metal beneath. “May the sun rise behind you,” she spoke quickly in Urulite.

  He clasped her shoulder so hard it startled her. “The sun rise for you! Can it be, a civilized soul in this barbaric land?”

  Iras intervened. “Your Excellency, this is Raincloud Windclan, our new translator. And…Lord Zheron…Imperial Legate for Cultural Affairs.” Iras faltered, her face pale with shock at the breach of protocol.

  Raincloud told Zheron, “I
have studied the classics of your people, especially the ballad of Azhragh and Mirhiah.”

  Zheron laughed heartily. “Imagine, the ballad of Azhragh! Lord Raincloud, you must dine with us at the legation. You will hear from me soon.” With that he departed at last, the reporter servos trailing behind.

  She blinked with surprise, then turned to reassure Iras. These Elysians were so sensitive.

  “Are you all right?” asked Iras in a hushed tone.

  “Yes, of course. I only…” She paused. Framed by the walnut doorway, she saw the Sub-Subguardian Verid Anaeashon.

  Verid was bowing to the reporter servos as they left, an unusual courtesy. Slight of stature, even for an Elysian, Verid had rounded shoulders and coarse black hair. Her eyebrows were thick and expressive. They lifted ever so slightly, now, as Verid turned to Iras.

  Iras sighed with relief. “It is my duty to present Raincloud Windclan, who meets our highest standards.”

  “Thank you, dear. Sorry we ran late.” Verid smiled affectionately at Iras, then bowed to Raincloud. Her thick eyebrows rose as she added, “This citizen meets our very highest standard.”

  “Thank you, Sub-Subguardian,” Raincloud said, her face warm from the unexpected praise.

  Her composure recovered, Iras laughed. “You must call her ‘The Owl,’” she mischievously told Raincloud. “We all do.”

  “Enough!” exclaimed Verid with a wave of the hand. “Back to your visiting. Don’t make too many loans today, or the logens will get after you.”

  Iras bowed and departed, the coin-spotted butterflies flashing down her back.

  Verid’s shoulders shook heavily with silent laughter. Then she beckoned Raincloud to enter the conference room. Her figure did indeed resemble an owl; the thought was distracting.

  “I hope I said nothing amiss?” Raincloud asked, as the door closed automatically behind them.

  “It’s not what you said,” Verid explained. “You put your hand on the man, in public—a stranger whose mate you’d never even met. Even our closest friends would never touch in public.”