Raincloud stared in disbelief. Here she was, deep within the network of a floating cellular city—and there was a grassy hillside.
“Go on,” Iras encouraged her. “It’s virtual reality. Just keep track of the door.”
She stepped through the doorway. The force of the wind nearly took her breath away. She stepped haltingly down the hillside, then quickly looked back over her shoulder. The black silhouette of the doorway remained.
Her fingers happened to curve, and she felt something hard and smooth in her hand. It was a weapon, a rifle of some sort. The wooden stock, the trigger, and the narrow, projecting barrel were unmistakable.
Unnerved, she dropped it. She was in no mood to go off hunting deer, or whatever game was out here.
A low, guttural noise arose. At her left, something was approaching. It was an animal, a feline of some sort with dense beige fur, its back low-slung as it padded across the grass. It was twice the size of the wildcats in the Dark Hills.
Raincloud turned and headed for the door. She fell into the darkness, catching herself upon the level floor of the hallway. “What kind of trick is this?” She glared at Iras, annoyed to be trapped in such dishonor.
“I thought you liked wild animals. It’s a hunter’s world,” Iras explained. “They give you plenty of warning, at first. If you want more excitement, just tell the house, and the cat will leap upon you as soon as you step in. You can track anything you like, even a tyrannosaur.”
“Could I bring it home and have it stuffed?”
Iras laughed. “Of course not. It’s all virtual. House, deactivate this world.”
The “world” beyond the doorway went dark. There was only a dark cavern of nanoplast, crisscrossed by laser beams—and, presumably, all sorts of electronic signals aimed at her skull. She shuddered at the thought of it.
“Come on,” urged Iras, catching her elbow. “I know a world you’ll like better.”
They walked down the hall, past a doorway at her left onto the deck of a sloop at sea, past another at her right showing a crowded market, perhaps the fabulous Center Way of Valedon’s capitol. Iras pointed ahead to her left.
This doorway opened into a room furnished with silk drapes and long couches. A young man stepped forward, wearing only an embroidered drape about his waist. Several others appeared from among the curtains, some holding vessels of wine. Some were dark, others fair, and their features varied, but all were young, and their muscles full. “Please, spend an hour with us,” one said in a quiet, deferential voice. “We’ll serve your pleasure well.”
Raincloud stared a moment, then laughed. “A dozen at once? Iras, who do you take me for? Your Prime Guardian?”
The men vanished, all but the darkest one, who looked like a younger brother of Blackbear; the one she liked best. Her scalp prickled. “Does it read minds, too?” she whispered to Iras.
“It scans the direction of your gaze. Not a bad choice, I’d say, although my own taste runs elsewhere. Go ahead, enjoy yourself; I’ll find something else to do.”
Raincloud turned her head, repulsed, and yet drawn back, for a part of her thought, why not? “It may be virtual, but it’s hardly virtuous,” she muttered.
“Of course not; that’s the point. Well, if you prefer reality, try this.” Iras led her out to a corridor brightly lit from a window slanting outward. Several other Elysians walked past, conversing or gazing out the window.
Raincloud squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light. Then she looked out the window, outward and below.
She caught her breath. The window was situated on the outer surface of the sphere of Helicon, with a view of the ocean a quarter kilometer below. The ocean was clear blue, save for an occasional brown patch of raft. The sky and ocean both were so blue that they felt as artificial as “virtual” space.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay,” said Raincloud at last.
“I’m bored to death,” Iras confessed suddenly. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.”
“The more visitors I have, the sooner they’ll let me out.” She touched one of her braids. “You might teach me something, you know. That acrobatic stuff you were doing, remember? The time you got caught in public?”
“You mean, rei-gi?” Raincloud was surprised. It was hardly like Iras to risk her own limbs on physical activity.
AT THE NUCLEUS, VERID WAVED HER INTO HER OFFICE. “Thanks so much for seeing Iras. Most of her friends are in the business, and they’re not even allowed to visit.”
“It’s disconcerting,” Raincloud told her, watching figures light up in the table. “There’s not even a trial.”
“What was there to try? The monitors add up everything. She had plenty of warnings.” But Verid looked away, and lines of strain appeared above her eyes.
“Does anyone ever appeal?”
“Why refuse a two-week vacation?”
Raincloud thought of a lot of good reasons, although some of them, like family, would not apply. “In that case, why not go on ‘vacation’ forever? Do people ever refuse to work at all?”
“Our shons teach children to enjoy work—too well, perhaps. Too much competition would destabilize our economy.” Verid sat up abruptly. “We have news from Urulan.”
Raincloud looked up. “From Zheron?”
“No, unfortunately. But intelligence confirms the death of the Imperator—and the name of his successor.”
“Already? The First Queen had no sons.” There was bound to be some intrigue over the succession.
Verid nodded. “His successor, it seems, is Prince Rhaghlan, the son of an obscure concubine.”
“But—but there was a second queen, and a third…” Raincloud searched her memory. There must have been several royal princes ahead of Rhaghlan.
“Exactly. At least three higher contenders must have been eliminated.”
Imprisoned; more likely, murdered. Raincloud shuddered.
Verid only shrugged. Her head tilted to one side, and she looked thoughtfully down her nose. “There’s always a bloodbath at the Urulite succession; anyone with a ghost of a claim is a target. What’s unusual is when the ghost wins.”
Raincloud smiled, for the name “Rhaghlan” derived from the Urulite word for “ghost.” It was the sort of name Urulites would give a child to help him cheat death. “You think Zheron’s behind the succession.”
“Yes. But why? Why would Zheron help an obscure prince gain the throne? We must learn more about this new Imperator.” Verid watched Raincloud’s face. “You disapprove. You agree with Flors that this development proves the Urulites are unprepared to work with us.”
“Isolation does them no good. Yet rewarding their backwardness does no good, either.” Within her womb something thumped and pushed outward, the baby stretching its legs. Raincloud’s hand lightly touched the curve of her belly, her child, Blackbear’s child. Men were normally such gentle creatures. What a shame to see them waste their manhood in a pool of blood.
Verid leaned forward and clasped her hands. “I have other news. Flors has reassigned the L’liite affair outside my department.”
Raincloud tensed. “Have I done badly?”
“Not at all. It’s the appearance of conflict of interest, you know, given Iras’s position.”
“Oh I see. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. I’d like you to work on the Sharer World Gathering. Not exactly what you came for, I’m afraid.”
Raincloud smiled. “I’d love to work with Sharers. But don’t I have a conflict of interest there, too? Blackbear’s fertility research is coming up at the World Gathering.”
Verid waved her hand. “The Guard has washed their hands of that, for now. This season, our top priority is pollution claims and counterclaims. Those fruit flies, remember; the negotiations will be extremely delicate. And those Sharers manage to twist every verb into a riddle, to confuse us, I suspect.”
“Surely you have translators more experienced than I.”
Verid arched her eyebrows and leaned closer. “I myself speak Sharer well enough. You’ll help with the nuances. Besides, you will earn us extra respect from the Sharers. Their Gathering is always chaired by a pregnant mother.”
From Urulites to L’liites, to Sharers—she had certainly got into more than she bargained for, Raincloud reflected. She wondered how the L’liite crisis would resolve; for there was no way even Bank Helicon could “forgive” a debt that size.
But to work with the enigmatic Sharers, on their own ocean, was a priceless opportunity, one even Rhun would have envied.
HER FIRST ASSIGNMENT WAS TO HELP VERID MEET A delegation from Kshiri-el, to sort out some issues before the Gathering. As they met in the Nucleus, the three Sharers were not unclothed, but wore plain, white shifts that barely covered their knees. Their bald purple heads made an arresting sight. They sat cross-legged on the floor; they would never accept any higher seat, for serious talk required “closeness to the ocean.” Raincloud felt inclined to do the same, but she had been instructed otherwise. The dance of diplomacy had its fine points.
One of the delegates was Leresha the Coward. Raincloud immediately recognized the wordweaver, her skin knotted and stitched with unreadable signs. She thought of the trainsweep uneasily. Of course, Leresha would not mention the “fugitive.”
“Share the day, Raincloud,” said Leresha. “Draeg has shared with us that a child swims in you. I regret that she and I failed to share greeting, last time.”
“The fault was mine,” Raincloud replied.
“Is she a strong little creature? Does she hiccup regularly, even at late hours of the night? Does she flex her limbs and kick you in the liver?”
“Yes, yes,” said Raincloud hurriedly, eyeing the Sub-Subguardian. But Verid only listened courteously.
“A beautiful child,” said the Sharer at Leresha’s right, Ooruwen the Complainer. “Beautiful and willful. She is welcome at our Gathering.”
“May you swim within her and her descendants forever,” added Leresha.
“Thank you,” breathed Raincloud.
Verid cleared her throat. “Ask after their daughters, too,” she instructed Raincloud, “in particular the eldest, who just went on her first shockwraith hunt.”
There followed a recital regarding Leresha’s daughters, and Ooruwen’s daughters, and their sisters’ and cousins’ daughters, all of whom had survived the season of seaswallowers and prospered now, their fishing nets full. Verid nodded throughout, until at last she told Raincloud, “Please ask the Coward and the Complainer how the Guard may assist their Gathering.”
Raincloud repressed a smile, for the request sounded ludicrous in Elysian. “How may the Guard share help with you?”
Leresha said, “The World Gathering must address all the needs of our ocean Shora. If any creature of Shora cries out in need, speak now.”
“The citizens of Papilion cry out,” said Verid. “They need relief from a plague of insects.”
Raincloud translated, thinking, this was a promising start, to ask the Sharers’ help to get rid of the insects, rather than accusing them first. Sharer lifeshapers could manipulate the genes of all the creatures of their ocean. By contrast, Elysians knew little beyond the human system which the Heliconian Doctors had come to study. Today, Elysian skill at human genetics exceeded that of the natives; but for other species, Elysians depended heavily on their Sharer hosts.
“Insects?” said Leresha. “The sisters of Papilion have spoken of insects, but I would not call it a plague.”
“The insects are beautiful,” added Ooruwen. “Little flies with sea green eyes and raftblossom orange bodies. They share no harmful diseases. They don’t even lay their eggs in the food they settle on.”
Raincloud kept her face straight as she translated. She imagined the trays of antiseptic Elysian food, swarming with green-eyed flies.
“The insects are not physically harmful,” Verid agreed. “Nevertheless, they are not desired.”
“Insects, too, are Shora’s creatures,” Leresha replied.
“It’s a privilege to host them,” said Ooruwen. “Creatures of such beauty. They are welcome to share my food.”
“In that case,” said Verid, “why is this ‘privilege’ shared only by the city-sphere of Papilion?”
“The flies were lifeshaped,” Leresha admitted frankly. “A gift from the sisters of a neighboring raft.”
Verid sat up straight. She said in careful Sharer, “It takes two to share a gift. The gift is not desired; therefore, it is no gift.”
Raincloud admired her effective use of Sharer logic.
Leresha nodded agreement. “You are right; this ‘gift’ is not a good thing. I have shared with our sisters that the ‘gift’ was not good.”
Verid thought a moment. Then she asked, in Elysian once more, “Have any other ‘gifts’ been shared with Papilion?”
Before Raincloud could finish interpreting, Ooruwen said quickly, “The gift of music underwater has been shared with our sisters for three years.”
Raincloud was puzzled, but Verid’s eyes widened as she understood. “All those ships from the tourist trade,” she murmured to Raincloud. Noise underwater caused Sharers a major problem, drowning out the long-distance sonic communications of their giant starworms, “Tell her Papilion’s been working on noise abatement. We expect a solution soon.”
“Soon,” for an Elysian, might mean another ten years, Raincloud realized.
“Good,” said Ooruwen. “The ‘gift’ of flies will also share withdrawal soon.”
Leresha frowned at Ooruwen. “All of these false gifts are wrong. Our Kshiri-el raft Gathering denounced them, as you know, sister. We all need to share better words, and greater patience.” Sharers resolve conflict strictly by peaceful means; but individuals and raft gatherings differ in defining “peace.”
“The noise will be dealt with,” Verid promised, without waiting for Raincloud to translate. “We’ll settle it before the World Gathering. Tell us your problems—we’ll settle them. This is a new era for Sharers and Elysium.”
Chapter 6
HAWKTALON’S DAYS AT THE SHON PASSED LIKE DEER fleeing through the forest. Reading time, “traveling” to virtual worlds, meeting with the generen, all were high adventures—and above all, building a servo.
The other children chose to build all sorts of gaudy toys, which Hawktalon thought more appropriate for her younger brother. Hawktalon had other ideas. She went to Nana and grasped her padded arm. “Please help me.”
Nana’s cartoon face put on a dimpled grin. “Yes, dear?”
“I want to make a talking machine.”
Nana’s torso bent to one side as she considered this. “Human talk, or animal talk? We can make it quack like a duck or neigh like a horse—”
“No, no. I mean, a translation machine. You know, to translate languages.”
“Oh, okay. A translation circuit—you speak Click-click in, and out comes Elysian.”
“Not Click-click,” Hawktalon corrected. “Servo-squeak.”
At that Nana paused, rather longer than the servo usually did. “I think you would like a duckie. We can make a little white duck that will ‘quack quack’ all around the room. Look here…”
With a sigh, Hawktalon watched as Nana trained a light pen at a piece of nanoplast, causing it to flex into an oval shape, then draw out a neck with a head and beak. At last she trained a light beam on it. The light pulses transmitted instructions to the nanoplast. The toy duly began to “quack,” its beak opening and closing.
“Thanks, Nana. Can it translate, too?”
“It will translate Click-click,” said Nana. “We need only call up the proper sound code from the library.” This took more time under the lightbeams, but soon the duck was ready. “Go ahead; speak in Click-click.”
Hawktalon looked at the duck, feeling silly. “Do you speak Click-click?” she said self-consciously.
The duck said, in hoarse Elysian words, “Do you
speak Click-click?”
Her mouth fell open. “Wow. I’ll never have to speak Elysian again.”
“‘I’ll never have to speak Elysian again,’” translated the duck.
“What is the ‘sound code’ for servo-squeak?’”
“‘What is the sound code for servo-squeak?’” asked the duck.
But Nana did not seem to hear. A boy came and pulled her away, to help him set up a shower of glitter within his model waterfall.
Maris sneaked over. “What are you making, Hawktalon?”
“A translation machine,” she insisted. “Do you know the ‘sound code’ for servo-squeak?”
“Why didn’t you ask Nana?”
“I did, but she wouldn’t tell.”
Maris’s blue eyes widened. “It must be awful fun, then. Let’s try the main library.”
The “main library” was a terminal that accessed the central data bank of Helicon. Of course, many entries were off-limits to shonlings, but sometimes the library would provide what Nana did not. Hawktalon watched eagerly as Maris spoke to the terminal.
“Searching,” said the terminal as the two girls waited, tapping their feet impatiently. “Nothing in main directory. Will search periodicals, projected time forty-six minutes…”
Maris shrugged. “We’ll come back after lunch.”
After lunch, they were rewarded with a stream of numbers floating across the holostage. “This code is experimental,” warned the terminal. “It comes from a Valan research report on servo defects. Its accuracy has not been confirmed.”
“Just download it to my account,” ordered Maris.
The next day, during servo-building time, the two girls worked on their translation machine. They took the duck that Nana had made and replaced its code with the one from Maris’s account.
“Now what?” asked Hawktalon.
The duck was silent. It would not even quack any more.
“This isn’t so great,” said Maris. “I thought at least it would say dirty words or something.”
“Wait,” said Hawktalon. “Let’s find a servo that squeaks a lot.”
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