Daughter of Elysium

by Joan Slonczewski

  Raincloud said, “The Sharers were not born in blood.”

  “That may be true. But who protects the Sharers today? Who fends off the hungry hordes?”

  Blackbear looked up, and his gaze swept the surroundings: the endless razor-sharp horizon, the stately fanwings sailing across the sky, an occasional flying squid rocketing out of the water. “It’s so beautiful,” he exclaimed. “If all people could only see such beauty, there would be an end to wars.”

  Draeg shook his head. “You can’t eat scenery. There will always be war on the poor.”

  “Now Draeg,” said Raincloud. “You can’t blame all your world’s troubles on everyone else. It’s your own government that’s corrupt and mismanaged.”

  Had anyone else spoken thus, Blackbear thought, they would have ended up in the dirt. But Draeg had a rare respect for Raincloud. He regarded her with dignity, then replied. “Do you suppose the sewer drinkers have much say in things? Whose cash keeps all the corrupt ones in power? Wouldn’t your Elysian Guardians support even the Urulite Imperator, if he served their interests?”

  No one answered. A brisk wind picked up, sighing over the raft. The trainsweep crept in between the children, listening.

  Chapter 3

  RAINCLOUD LAY BACK AND STRETCHED LIKE A CAT, watching Blackbear out of half-closed eyelids. She reached over, stroking the mushroom that she longed to devour. Sometimes he seemed so beautiful, almost blinding to look at.

  As she relaxed on the bed, something thumped faintly beneath the skin of her belly. She put her hand to it, but it was still too small to palpate. Then the thumping came again, rhythmically. The little one must be having hiccups.

  “Anyone home?” asked Blackbear.

  “She’s quickened.” Raincloud smiled and squeezed his hand. This was always the best part of pregnancy, when the sickness was gone and the little one started playing about. A good thing I’m not a Sharer, she thought. Sharers conceived only once or twice in a lifetime, and then only by consent of the Gathering.

  Blackbear watched her with a beatific smile. “We’re so lucky,” he murmured.

  Sadness swept over her again, to think of Falcon Soaring, and the call of the High Priestess, which she herself might have answered. But, she told herself, Falcon Soaring certainly did not want Raincloud’s child; she wanted one of her own. “I’ll talk to Mother tomorrow,” she told Blackbear. “I’ll tell her that our child’s quickened. And I’ll tell her about the clinic in Founders City.”

  THE INTERSTELLAR CALL WOULD NOT BE FREE OF CHARGE, like the Elysian holostage. It would cost more than a day’s pay. It required a special link through sub-folds into the Fold that connected the star systems outside space-time, and then her mother in Tumbling Rock would have to ride her horse to Caldera Station. Nevertheless, Raincloud had to see her mother in person to share the wonderful news. If only she could hug her, too.

  When the call came in, the family hovered excitedly around the holostage. And then, unbelievably, there was her mother Windrising.

  The sight of her mother’s face came as a shock at first; the wrinkles, which Raincloud somehow had not recalled, after months among satin complexions. Still, the face was the very image of Hawktalon, who resembled her grandmother the more the years passed. And her shoulders flexed, strong as ever, beneath her immaculate black braids; Raincloud’s father was a master at braiding.

  “Raincloud!” she cried. Her trousers swished and the fiery embroidery swirled around as she took a step forward. “You nightfallen goddess—What sort of show is this? I can see you all around, large as life, but you’re nothing but a ghost.”

  Windrising had a yearling granddaughter tucked under one arm. The little dark face stared wide-eyed at the holostage, a stuffed bird hanging by its beak from her fist. “Congratulations on Hawktalon’s birthday, too. I’ve added two dams to her herd.”

  “Couldn’t you send them here?” begged Hawktalon. “We could keep them out on a raft—”

  “That’s enough, dear,” interrupted Raincloud.

  “And how’s my little owlet?” inquired Windrising.

  Sunflower hid behind his father, suddenly shy.

  “Nightstorm misses you to pieces, Raincloud. You were always her favorite sister.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “I’ve saved the best of our apples for you. Your nieces have kept the goats well, including the newborn kids. One got hoof rot, but we had it treated right off and the barn cleaned out. The geyser is running strong, and the pipes are in shape; your stock kept plenty warm all winter. You should see the mudfield since the last eruption: all orange around the center, turning reddish purple around the edges now.” The algae grew up fast after the geyser erupted, different species at different temperatures, changing as the mud cooled.

  “Mother, I’ve got news for you: My child’s quickened.”

  “So I guessed. Congratulations! May you have ten more.”

  “Thank you.” She imagined what that would be like, ten little ones climbing over Blackbear.

  “Lynxtail’s quickened, too, her fifth.” Lynxtail was Windrising’s second-born daughter.

  “That’s wonderful. But you know, mother…” For some reason, what had seemed straightforward in her mind before was now all confused. “Falcon Soaring wants her own child, too, doesn’t she? It can be done in Founders City; Blackbear knows the clinic.”

  Windrising waved an impatient hand. “What do men know? The clan looked into all that. She can’t be cured.”

  Raincloud was taken aback a moment. “She can’t be cured, exactly, but her—her own cells can make a child that’s hers and her consort’s. Blackbear knows; he’s a doctor, Mother.”

  “Of course he is. The best, too; I’ve heard nothing but complaints since he left.”

  Raincloud winced at this double-edged compliment. Blackbear had tried hard to arrange a good replacement for his patients.

  “Well, you can talk to the High Priestess. If you were home, you might have helped Falcon Soaring yourself. I know it’s hard, but you would earn the darkest honor.”

  Raincloud’s head rang for a moment, and she had to catch herself. The very thought of parting with her unborn was devastating. She felt ashamed, then angry at her mother for refusing to listen. But after all, what could she expect? Outside Elysium, most people distrusted gene engineering; and Clickers could be downright superstitious.

  “How is that strange planet, out there in the stars? I hope those immortal folk, they all treat you like a goddess,” her mother added.

  “Yes, Mother. Shora is a lovely planet.”

  “Don’t suppose you like it too much, now?” She was probably thinking of her “lost” daughter, Running Wolf, and feared for adventuresome Raincloud.

  “Don’t worry,” Raincloud assured her with a smile. “I’m not about to settle in this bauble they call Helicon.”

  Her mother laughed. “I should say not. Will you be home for the Day of the Child?”

  “Sorry, no,” she replied. They could not possibly afford the fare.

  “You’ll miss Straight Oak’s wedding, too. It’s always sad to give a son away, but the Graymountainclan is just a half day’s journey.”

  The house interposed, “Your five minutes are up. Extension will cost another hundred credits.”

  “Good-bye…” Windrising’s granddaughter waved the bird at them and opened her mouth for the first time. But just then, the image winked out.

  Raincloud bit her lip, staring vacantly through the empty column of light. It was frustrating to get things straight across twenty light-years. “I’ll write the High Priestess,” she decided. “And Nightstorm—I’ll send her the address of that clinic. She’ll talk to Falcon Soaring.”

  Blackbear nodded understandingly. “You’re doing the best you can for your cousin.”

  She drew a breath. “Now, as for our firstborn…”

  THEY HAD A LONG CONFERENCE AT THE HOLOSTAGE with the generen of the Helishon. The generen, Sorl Helishon
, was a round-faced man with smooth sandy hair that flowed nearly to his waist. Raincloud could read Blackbear’s disapproval in his face, to see a man with his hair undone and long enough for any goddess to drag him off. Taking a breath, she told herself to be broad-minded. “Will a ‘defective’ really be welcome at your shon?” she asked the man bluntly.

  Dimples appeared disarmingly in his smile, but his voice when he spoke carried the distinct note of authority. “The shonlings will love to meet a Bronze Skyan,” said the generen. “We have hosted several Bronze Skyan children. But yours would be the first Clicker from the Caldera Hills.”

  “Who will be her teacher?” Raincloud wanted to know.

  “Her teacher will be one of our own nanas,” Sorl explained. “Each nana has no more than ten children, and I myself keep watch over all. But Hawktalon will adore her nana. All our nanas have the highest educational training. The best education in the Fold—that’s what we offer at the Helishon.”

  BLACKBEAR SEWED A JUMPSUIT FOR HAWKTALON LIKE those the Elysian shonlings wore, parti-colored sleeves and pantaloons gathered at the wrists and ankles, with a little goat stitched onto her sleeve for good luck. Hawktalon was so excited that she spent all day drawing pictures of what the shon would be like. At last, when the fateful day came, she awoke at six in the morning, dressed herself in half a minute, and came to breakfast with Fruitbat under her arm and her trusty rattleback stone in her pocket.

  At the holostage in the hall stood the shaft of light, like sunshine through a ceiling window. That was how it always looked to Hawktalon, except that whereas sunshine kept a discreet silence, the people on the holostage were full of blather. Her mother never said so, but she always got that look in her eye and her lip curved down, whenever a guardian or an ambassador appeared.

  “It’s the L’liite ambassador this morning, Mother,” Hawktalon informed her, dipping her spoon into her oatmeal. “Is he telling the truth today?” The distinction between truth and untruth was a source of fascination for her; like one of her father’s skeins of wool after Sunny had played with it, it required endless untangling. “Truth, or not?”

  Her father muttered, “That would be the day.” He never believed anything he saw in the shaft of light.

  Her mother said, as if lecturing, “There are different kinds of truth. It is true that many L’liites lack food to eat. It’s been that way for generations; that is why our Clicker ancestors emigrated.”

  “The one here looks well fed.” Hawktalon twisted her spoon. “If there are different kinds of truth, can something be true of one kind and untrue of another?”

  “Hawktalon,” her father put in, “you need to eat what’s in your spoon, or you’ll be late for the shon.”

  She swallowed the spoonful of oatmeal, then another. “I’ll learn all about truth at the shon” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Soon I’ll know even more than you.”

  The transit vesicle flowed smoothly up the reticulum. Hawktalon loved to watch the incoming walls of a neighbor vesicle merge together and open, like modeling clay, while new people and servos emerged into view. Sometimes a servo from each vesicle would exchange greetings of a sort, a high-pitched squeaking sound. The greeting sound was a different pitch from the sound a servo made when you told it, “You’re not really a person.”

  Not all servos squeaked, of course, but some squeaked quite a lot. Doggie had several different squeaks; one meant “Come play with me,” another meant “I need recharging.” Out on the raft of the naked goddesses, Doggie had kept squeaking, “I need,” but it was not recharging that she needed. She needed something from the Sharers, but Hawktalon could not figure out what. Poor thing; Doggie must be lonely out there, and Hawktalon missed her as badly as she missed her goats.

  Perhaps her nana at the shon could tell her about servo-squeak. The shon contained all the knowledge there ever was, Lorl had told her in Daddy’s laboratory.

  “Next stop,” her mother warned, rising from the chair, which grew up into a rail to lean on. Her father, holding Sunny, rose with them.

  Hawktalon got up, feeling the unfamiliar pantaloons hugging her ankles. The costume felt so different from her wide-bottomed trousers, she felt as if she inhabited a different body today. She was different, she decided; she was a magic person today, and she could cast powerful spells. Truth or untruth?

  The home of the shon, which Hawktalon had passed several times on shopping trips, was definitely a magic place, a building like no other. All other buildings were of one color; but the surface of the shon changed color continually, like the rings of algae around a geyser, only faster. First it was pink, then as you approached the pink hue deepened, turning orange, then faded imperceptibly to pale green, darkening as you arrived. Each time it was different, of course, so that you never could tell what color it would be when you entered. Today the wall turned bright yellow just as they approached and a door shaped open. A good omen, a good color to start her lucky day.

  A servo approached, unlike any other she had seen. The servo was padded all over, like a cloth doll, wearing a thick spreading skirt with bright geometric designs. She looked huggable, Hawktalon thought. Moreover, her faceplate had delightful cartoon features that actually moved as she spoke, like a real face. She said, “What fun to meet you, Hawktalon. I’m sorry the generen was called away just now. I’m your nana.”

  Her father pulled her back close. His arm was tense, and that made Hawktalon tense, too. Her heart beat faster as she looked up at him, then back at the plump huggable servo. Suddenly she thought, maybe she did not really want to go to the shon today. She wanted to go home with Daddy.

  Nana said, “Are you Hawktalon? You’re named after a bird, aren’t you? Are you joining us today?”

  Hawktalon dutifully extended her doll. “This is—” She added, “Fruitbat,” in Click-click.

  Nana bent at the waist, her skirt brushing the floor, as she looked at the doll. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Fruitbat,” she told the doll, pronouncing perfectly. “I’d like to know why Fruitbat wants to come to our shon.”

  “To learn things,” said Hawktalon carefully.

  “To learn things. And what would you most like to learn?”

  That put her off guard. She recalled the one Elysian sentence about learning that she had memorized at Science Park. “‘Where learning is shared, the waterfall breaks through the cataract.’”

  “She knows the classics,” exclaimed Nana happily.

  Raincloud demanded, “Where is the generen?”

  “There comes the generen now,” said Nana, her cartoon faceplate nodding toward an Elysian down the hall whose talar swished as he approached. It was the long-haired one from the holostage. His silk-smooth hair fascinated Hawktalon, who had never seen anything like it before she left Tumbling Rock. She wondered what it felt like to the touch.

  Nana added, “The generen and subgenerens monitor us around the clock. If I ever fail you, please report my defect to…”

  Hawktalon moved closer, filled with sudden curiosity. She whispered quickly, “Can you tell me why servos squeak sometimes?”

  “That’s a very good question,” said Nana. “Perhaps you’ll find out for yourself, when you learn to build a servo of your own.”

  “Build a servo? My own?”

  “It’s one of our morning activities.”

  “Can I build a trainsweep?”

  “Certainly, dear, although you won’t need one for a few decades yet.”

  THE SHONLINGS WERE PRACTICING THEIR READING. They took turns calling out Elysian words from letters that danced magically in the air above a broad stage and turned into smiling faces when the word was correct. They were all boys, their unbound hair hanging flat; another couple of years and it would be up in turbans, in Tumbling Rock. They looked like normal children, except that they horsed around rather ineffectually. When one took a swipe at another, the one struck usually fell down and got scraped, instead of flipping the first one over. They reminded her of her young
cousin who had been confined to bed for some months with scarlet fever and forgot how to use his arms and legs.

  A boy tugged her sleeve. His hair was yellow with a slight wave, his face paler than a newborn’s, and his eyes were startlingly blue. “I’m Maris. I’m an artist. What are you?” When Hawktalon did not answer, he added, “Don’t you know what’s in your own genes?” Maris pointed at the embroidered goat on her sleeve. “What’s that?”

  Hawktalon returned his curious blue-eyed stare. “It’s a goat, of course,” she said, thinking, they did not know all that much in this shon.

  “But how was it done?” the dumb boy wanted to know. “I mean, what sort of machine part could pull the thread all the way through and back out at a different spot?”

  Another boy peered closer for a look, then another. “It’s true,” one murmured. “It’s all done with one thread, not like regular sewing.”

  “My father did it,” said Hawktalon, feeling proud.

  “Yes, but how?” insisted Maris.

  She blinked, puzzled. “Well, he pushes the needle in one side, then pulls it out the other.”

  “Oh, I see. It would take a skinny servo to creep through like that! Could you show me how to do it?”

  Hawktalon shook her head. “Sewing is for boys.”

  “Only boys?” said Maris. “Why couldn’t I do it?” said another one.

  “Why only boys?” echoed the others.

  Some of the boys were girls. Hawktalon blinked at them, as if her eyes had gone out of focus. Girls, some of them, whose fathers had not braided their hair. Like Lorl, she remembered; it had taken her a week to realize Lorl was a goddess.

  Maris was a girl. She tilted her head, her hair flowing over her bright green sleeve. “Why only a boy? Unless he has to hold the needle with his pee-pee.”

  The other girls and boys screamed and giggled, repeating, “He holds it with his pee-pee!”

  Hawktalon’s face burned, and her fists clenched. If only one of them would rush at her, she would toss her clear across the room.