Daughter of Elysium

by Joan Slonczewski

  “How can they afford reparations?” Verid asked, more loudly. “Their economy is worse than the L’liites’. If they asked, you’d approve loans to them, too.”

  This unusually frank outburst actually silenced Flors. To Verid’s surprise, Hyen did not intervene as he generally did. The Prime Guardian was watching the butterflies shimmering amidst the sweet blossoms, abstracted in his own thoughts. Was he losing his grip? Verid wondered. Nowadays Hyen seemed to spend too much time in his own inner world.

  “Let’s not reply,” Hyen said at last. “Tell the generen that the bureaucracy is working on it.”

  Satisfied, Flors nodded and moved on. “The Sharer World Gathering is just a month off. Unfortunately, we will have to respond to the alleged noise pollution. You needn’t have given in on that, Verid; another year, and our pest control would have eliminated those flies.”

  So we’re no more responsible than the Urulites, Verid thought, but she kept it to herself this time. “We also need to work on the Fugitive Law,” she said. “If Sharers start counting servos as fugitives…” It was hard to imagine just what might happen.

  Hyen raised an eyebrow. “Servos as fugitives?”

  “Another escapade of that Bronze Skyan translator,” Flors explained contemptuously. “By Helix, Verid—you trust those murderous Urulites, yet you fear our mindless machines.”

  AFTERWARD, IN PUBLIC, VERID TRIED TO HIDE HER frustration. She left the Nucleus early to meet Iras for dinner, to celebrate her release from the Palace of Rest. But just as she was leading her trainsweeps out of the nuclear reticulum, the Guardian Loris Anaeashon caught hold of her train. “A word with you, Verid, in private,” the man said, slightly breathless. “I’ll pay the fee.”

  Loris had been Anaeon’s elected Guardian for the past nine decades. Verid could guess what was coming. Nevertheless, she accompanied him to the nearest butterfly garden, where a private corner could be found.

  “You know I share your feelings, shonsib,” Loris told her sympathetically. “We Anaeans can’t bear to see incompetence. And Hyen is heading for a fall. Will you support me in a call for early rotation?”

  The post of Prime Guardian was not elected but rotated among the twelve shons each decade. The Guard could, however, hold a vote of no confidence and call for an early rotation. This term, Anaeaon came next.

  “Your support would do it,” Loris explained. “The Guardians know it’s you that holds Foreign Affairs together. If you come out for me now, I’ll back you for the Guard when my term is up.”

  Verid smiled. “You are too generous, Loris,” she observed ironically. Were she elected to the Guard ten years hence, after Loris’s term as Prime, she might wait over a century before the top post came around again.

  “Think about it. We both want what’s best for Elysium. If Hyen falls,” Loris added, “you don’t want to fall with him.”

  “If Hyen’s fall is imminent, then you hardly need my support. But thanks for your concern.”

  THE NEXT DAY HYEN CALLED HER IN UNEXPECTEDLY.

  Hyen’s office was as different from Verid’s as one could imagine. Its interior was mostly “virtual,” like the chambers of the Palace of Rest that had bored Iras so. Today Hyen had programmed a darkened concert hall, with musicians playing the ancient instruments. It was a lovely concerto, and the violin’s melody soared exquisitely.

  It was her taste, certainly—not his. Hyen must want something of her, rather badly.

  As if he read her thoughts, Hyen chuckled. “I don’t know what turns you on about catgut and horsehair. And you find my inclinations distasteful.” His round face shone like a moon above the distant concert hall.

  “A fine simulation,” Verid admitted. “How do I know you’re not a simulation, yourself?”

  “Would it matter if I were? I could pipe in simulations of myself to run the show, and never leave Houris Hall.” One of his more disreputable haunts. “Look, Verid, it’s time to take Urulan out of Flors’s hands, don’t you agree? The trouble is, Flors is correct on the face of it. We can’t possibly negotiate in the open with such a pariah. Even if we tried, reporters from four worlds would stomp all over us and mess it up. So it has to be secret.” Hyen leaned forward, sounding excited. “Zheron will meet with you in private, on a satellite orbiting the planet, to protect security. We’ll confer in secret, and coax Urulan to open its doors to us. When that happens, it will mean a new era for the Fold.”

  Verid considered this warily. If her secret dealings failed, there would be no loss to Hyen—and if word got out, Hyen could deny responsibility.

  “Why not?” Hyen insisted. “You’ve had private talks with Zheron before.”

  “Always with the approval of my supervisor.” Verid was tired of dealing behind Flors’s back.

  Hyen leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Verid,” he began, his voice lowered. “You’re entirely too straight for your own good. I’m the Prime; I direct you to do this. It’s time you dared to reach out and capture the moment.”

  The orchestra was just beginning the slow movement. The first violinist lifted her bow, pouring it into a lyrical melody.

  “No.” Verid spoke firmly, then added more softly, “My duty as Sub-Subguardian is to assist the Subguardian.” I’m finished, she thought, as soon as she had spoken. Once Hyen withdrew his support, Flors would waste no time in replacing her.

  The Prime Guardian leaned back and half turned around in his seat. He let out a long sigh. “Well, then, you leave me no choice. Foreign Affairs is getting to be more than one Subguardian can handle. I’ll promote you.”

  She stared in surprise. The number of Subguardians was flexible, but Hyen had run foreign affairs under one rein for so long she had never imagined it otherwise.

  “You’ll divide up the territory rather well, I should think,” Hyen went on. “Flors’s strength lies in commerce and trade; the Valans and L’liites he manages well. You do much better with extremists like Urulites and Sharers. Those Sharers—imagine, Flors thinks he can put them off like a Valan servo merchant.” Hyen chuckled. “We know better, you and I. We’ll draw Urulan out of its shell.”

  “Indeed.” The comparison of Sharers and Urulites caught her off guard. “Speaking of servos, Guardian, I hope you will look into the fugitive question…”

  But Hyen was already shaking his head. “Tell the Valans. It’s up to them to guarantee our servo networks; we pay them enough. Put your imagination to work elsewhere—on Urulan, and the Azure Throne. It’s settled, then.”

  “I am honored,” said Verid. “I’ll consider your offer.”

  Hyen blinked, disconcerted. It had not occurred to him that she might refuse. “Do consider,” he said irritably. “You don’t want to board a sinking ship, do you.”

  She allowed herself a laugh. At least Hyen was facing up to things. In fact, Verid had no doubt of her decision. Zheron, for all his bluster, was a farsighted statesman; and the new Imperator Rhaghlan might well be the same. It was time to take a chance for peace in the Fold.

  NOW THAT IRAS WAS HOME AGAIN, SHE TREATED Raincloud at a new butterfly garden across the city. The butterflies were Tenaris, pale blue with two startling black “eyes” upon each lower wing. The “eyes” blinked as the butterflies took off in a blue whir, flitting through the luxuriant tropical foliage.

  “Did you hear,” Iras told her as they sat upon a mooncurve, “one of your Bronze Skyan estates just bought controlling shares in the House of Hyalite?”

  The “estates” were vast tracts of ranch and farmland owned by Bronze Sky’s wealthiest families. “So?”

  “Why, Hyalite is the oldest house of trade on Valedon.” Iras nodded at the holostage.

  The Bronze Skyans appeared as they announced the deal. Unlike Clickers, urban Bronze Skyans were partial to fluorescent skintights that advertised their well-toned muscles and set off their dark faces. They were proud of their “frontier spirit,” yet their hundred-floor buildings in Founders City were as modern as any in the
Fold. Raincloud nodded with satisfaction. Bronze Sky was coming up, all right, if one of their estates could buy up a Valan firm.

  As she watched, her belly tightened, then gradually relaxed; “practice contractions,” which always started a month ahead. After the first two babies, she knew what to expect, although there might always be complications. Raincloud had sent word to Nightstorm about Blackbear’s offer to arrange for Falcon Soaring to have a child grown in Elysium. She hoped her sister would reach her on the holostage again, so they could talk it over.

  She turned to Iras. “Congratulations on Verid’s promotion.”

  “I’m glad you support Verid,” said Iras. “All that reorganization, on the eve of the World Gathering—and Flors isn’t exactly thrilled, you know.”

  “I can imagine.” Raincloud watched the faceless servo waiter approach. She kept her ears sharp for “servo-squeak,” now that Hawktalon’s project had borne fruit. “It did come as a surprise,” she admitted. “Everyone seems to think Hyen is going under.”

  “Yes, but that could take another year. I think Verid has some project she badly wants to complete before his term runs out, and she couldn’t do it under Flors’s thumb. I try not to think about it; it’s vexing, not being able to talk about your mate’s business.”

  “It is,” Raincloud agreed strongly, for she hated to keep things from Blackbear.

  “How do you like the golden truffles?” Iras asked, making her own selection from the servo waiter.

  “They’re good,” said Raincloud. The intense flavor, a mixture of musk and vanilla, was as delicious as anything she had ever tasted. “I suppose your machines make them, too.”

  “Certainly,” Iras told her. “Valan food designers spend billions coming up with novel confections; I just approved a loan for a new research plant.” Iras watched Raincloud’s plate with interest. “You certainly do eat more than you used to.”

  “I have to feed my passenger.” Raincloud watched Iras, her dimpled cheeks and her thoughtful, earnest look. She hoped Iras would keep up the rei-gi practice, for she would make a good partner after Raincloud’s baby was out.

  “It’s bizarre,” Iras said at last. “I can’t quite imagine it, having a ‘passenger.’ Can you hear her thoughts, too?”

  “Of course not.” Raincloud smiled. “It’s like a little space capsule inside there. She’s off in her own world, with her food line.”

  “Imagine that.”

  A bell tone interrupted her. Iras pulled a holocube from her pocket; Raincloud could see a face appear. “Social calls only, please.”

  “Social call,” the holocube promised. “Look, I ran a credit check on the House of Aragonite; they make solar floaters, remember?”

  “Model X-two? The one that microwaves power down from a low orbit?”

  “They’ve run a profit for years. All right, orders were slow this year; but now that the L’liite crunch is over—”

  “I told you, look at the market,” Iras insisted. “Those X-twos won’t sell any more. Everyone wants the new high orbit model, and Aragonite doesn’t make it. They may go belly up in a year…”

  Raincloud shook her head. If this was a “social call” for Visiting Hours, Iras was headed back to the Palace of Rest.

  “You see,” Iras told her as she replaced the holocube, “I don’t approve loans to just anybody.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “No, but you think it, dear.” She looked up speculatively, as if something were on her mind. “This new fertility project your mate is working on…”

  “The genome project?”

  “That’s right. Could he combine genes from two women? Like the Sharers do?”

  Raincloud thought about it. “I don’t see why not. The parental imprinting will be done in vitro, anyway.”

  “Wonderful. Well, let me know when they’re looking for customers. If Verid would consent—I’d love to have a child, and set up my own little shon, with a nana and all. I remember, when Verid was generen, the shonlings were so refreshing.”

  “I’ll let Blackbear know.” Iras with a child on her back? She tried to imagine it.

  Over by the next table, the servo waiter emitted a soft tone that rose about a third and fell again. “‘Time for a recharge,’” Raincloud translated, recalling Hawktalon’s machine.

  “What’s that?” Iras asked.

  “Well, servos need to eat too, you know.”

  Iras laughed and caught Raincloud’s train. “You say the funniest things, Raincloud.”

  The servo moved off toward the pavilion to plug itself in.

  WHEN RAINCLOUD GOT HOME, SHE FOUND HAWKTALON in a rage at her younger brother.

  “He broke it,” Hawktalon shouted. “He broke my translation machine.”

  “I play with duckie,” said Sunflower. “I bounce duckie to the ceiling.”

  Blackbear explained, “She forgot to take it with her to the shon, and she left it out on the table. That’s what happens.”

  Hawktalon glared at her brother. “Poop-face! I’m going to bounce you to the ceiling. I’m going to break every bone in your body.”

  “Don’t be a pottymouth, dear,” Raincloud admonished her. “For shame—he’s just a little brother.”

  “It’s an outrage.” Hawktalon launched into a flying somersault, her foot slamming the floor. “Doggie spends half the day talking to House in servo-squeak. I want to know what they’re saying.”

  Chapter 11

  TO CHECK THE SERVO PROBLEM, VERID CONFERRED with the Valan Lord Hyalite. The Hyalite House produced over a third of Elysium’s servos, ranging from self-assembling particles to housing and transit networks.

  Lord Hyalite relaxed in Verid’s office, his talar crisscrossed by the usual strings of gems. Each “stonesign” meant something in the Valan tradition: opals for his family name, garnets for his occupation in trade, and so on. “Sorry to put you off for two days,” he apologized. “I’ve been occupied, as you know.”

  Verid grinned. “Indeed. The frontier worlds are buying up Valedon.” Bronze Sky was growing fast, now a serious competitor. Soon their wealth would surpass Valedon’s. But another century and they, too, would be seeking the next frontier world to settle. Foreigners multiplied like raft seedlings—and there were no seaswallowers to consume them.

  Lord Hyalite nodded pleasantly. “Our House went international two generations ago. I’m sure the Bronze Skyans will maintain the Hyalite standard. Now what brings me the honor of this summons?” he asked her, lacing his fingers.

  “Our servos,” she said, double-checking that the monitor was off. “Some of them are seriously unreliable.”

  He opened his hands. “Send them back, immediately, at our cost. You know that’s the deal.”

  “It’s not so simple. One has actually obtained Sharer protection.”

  “What?” He laughed hard. “That’s a switch—Sharers protecting ‘non-life.’ Surely you jest.”

  “It is no joke,” she said coldly. “The trainsweep nearly got registered as an official fugitive.”

  The Valan shook his head. “I don’t envy you your Sharer politics; we gave up on Sharers centuries ago, as you know. All I can say is, you have to send that trainsweep back to us. And that goes double for that ‘nana’ you’ve protected for so many years,” he added shaking a finger. “Cleanse them,” he urged. “I warned you; my grandfather warned you, about that nana your office protects. It’s on record.”

  Kal’s mate, Cassi. Verid shook her head. “Kal got a special exemption, over a century ago.” The Subguardian in charge then had been his former student. “And the trainsweep has Sharer protection.” The implications were mind-boggling. Why couldn’t Hyen see the danger?

  “There are other ways. We have virus codes to disable servos. No one would know.”

  She thought a moment. He was right, of course; it had to be done. And yet…

  Memories of Kal rose in her mind, the boy in her shon. In his first year, his hair had come in gray,
an extremely rare aging defect. The gene control board had voted to put him to sleep, but Verid had refused to carry out the order. Fortunately no further symptoms appeared, and Kal developed normally, if the word “normal” could apply to such an extraordinary youth, who alternated between a wicked sense of humor and a morbidly serious attention to books, and was always assisting the nanas in teaching the younger ones. In recent years, she thought, his sense of humor was sadly diminished. But one thing had not changed.

  She shook her head slowly. “Kal would know. He’d investigate.”

  “How could he? He knows nothing of servos.”

  “He’ll have a student who does.”

  “What the hell—we’re talking world security, here, and you tell me about a logen and his students.” The Valan would be thinking, what an impotent Elysian bureaucrat she was. How could he understand? Verid might run the Nucleus over the next decade, but for centuries she would have to live with Kal knowing what she had done. She had made enough millennial enemies over one decision or another.

  “Are there others at large?” she asked quietly. “Is it likely, do you think?”

  Lord Hyalite lifted his hands expressively. “What can I tell you? We look as hard as we can. We’ve never had a world go Torran yet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Just what happened on Torr? How much do we know?”

  “Not much. You’re talking five millennia ago, maybe six; hard to define, since everyone traveled sub-lightspeed then. As near as we can tell, the Torrans had practically turned their whole planet into a machine; then one day the machine took over. There was hell to pay, at first; nine-tenths of the known worlds perished in a wave of hatred. Then the machine-hatred subsided into a cold sort of keep-the-peace tyranny. Until Helix invented transfold drive and hit them back.”

  “Yes, I know.” She had hoped he knew more. “Well, do the best you can.”

  He nodded. “When you want the virus treatment, let me know. It needn’t be official, and you can denounce us afterward, if you like.”

  Yes, she knew that game. She could have risen faster, had she played it better.