Daughter of Elysium

by Joan Slonczewski

  “I told you—our resources are exhausted. We can barely feed our females and children.”

  And slaves, she added mentally. “If you can’t afford food, then how do you manage to support a force of interstellar missiles aimed at us?”

  Zheron hesitated, then he smiled slyly. “Your spies are not so good.”

  Whatever did that mean, she wondered. “Well, you can’t browbeat any resources out of us. Why should I deal with you at all?”

  “For peace. The Imperator desires peace. You must pay a state visit to the Azure Throne.”

  “Out of the question,” Verid responded irritably. “I can’t even meet you in public. You’ve managed to alienate every world in the Fold.”

  “Then come in secret,” Zheron urged. “The new Imperator shares a number of your interests; for instance, the liberation of females and slaves.”

  Verid’s astonishment must have shown on her face, for Zheron tossed his head back and laughed. “Your spies are good for nothing! See, you need to know our Imperator better.”

  “I know that he was fourth in line for the throne,” she replied coldly.

  “Self-defense. What else could the prince do? He struck before the others did.”

  It gave her vertigo, to switch dealing between Sharers and Urulites; the first never took life, the others never spared it.

  “Rhaghlan has a strong following,” Zheron pointed out. “He inspires confidence among the people. He will lead Urulan into the modern age.”

  Despite her skepticism, Verid could not ignore the chance of a real breakthrough. “Certain conditions would have to be met. Negotiations for disarmament; we’d bring a telescan to verify your missiles.” Valan intelligence had cataloged Urulan’s missiles pretty well, but an up-to-date telescan could count and identify them precisely—and secretly “tag” each one with a remote-warning device. This demand would check Zheron’s enthusiasm.

  Zheron paused as if giving it serious consideration. “Bring your telescan,” he commanded with a condescending wave of the hand. “You need it, your spies are so bad.”

  For a moment she was speechless. What game could this Urulite be up to? “Surely you need to consult your Imperator.”

  “Of course. But His Majesty places full trust in me. We are not so bureaucratic as you are.”

  The Urulite could not be serious. After decades of isolation, to invite her in to count and tag their interstellar missiles? If Zheron really meant it, they could pull off a great diplomatic coup, upstaging the Valans, on whose defense Elysium had long relied.

  Zheron acted as though the point were settled. He sat forward and clasped his hands. “We must set a date at once. The Feast of Azhragh would be a propitious time.”

  She raised a hand. “Nothing can happen until the World Gathering’s out of the way. Then, assuming Hyen consents, we’ll need at least three months to prepare—”

  “Tell us your requirements,” Zheron demanded. “Dietary needs, quarters for slaves and minions, and so on.”

  “Aides and security,” she corrected.

  “Exactly. All will be our guests.” He stopped, suddenly reflective. “There is one thing to keep in mind, however,” he said slowly. “The Imperator is a man of the purest royal blood—descended from immortals. When you meet him, you will immediately recognize this fact. Such an august presence demands treatment with appropriate respect…” Something about the prospect troubled him.

  “Our delegation would include men,” she offered, guessing that was the problem.

  With a sweep of his arm Zheron dismissed this. “You’re all female, you Elysians. Bring someone who understands our customs. Bring that interpreter, Lord Raincloud. She is a man of honor.”

  Chapter 15

  THE WORLD GATHERING MET AT KSHIRI-EL, WITH ITS haunting memorial remnants of Raia-el, the great raft whose sisters had led the resistance to the Valan invasion and later had produced the classic The Web.

  Before the Valan invasion, Sharers had been stubborn anarchists, avoiding global government. Any conflict of interest over population growth or over the founding of new rafts could be settled at the level of the raft cluster, or at most the neighboring octet of clusters. But the encroachment of foreigners had at last convinced the Sharers that they needed to face this larger world together.

  So now the bald purple women met each year after the swallowers had crossed northward on their return migration, once again clearing the seas of overgrowth. From raft clusters all over the globe the delegates came, five hundred or more, many in boats drawn by giant squid, as their ancestors had traveled for centuries before foreign contact. Others piloted small Valan boats, outfitted with special silent motors. Clickflies brought word of troublesome weather to be avoided, and nowadays Elysian assistance, too, was accepted.

  Visitors stayed with host families spread around the eight rafts of the cluster. Raincloud came early to stay at Kshiri-el, so that she might avoid an unpredictable shuttle trip when her baby was born. She felt embarrassed to take up precious space in the silkhouse when so many needed to be housed, but Leresha insisted the Gathering was honored to have her. Blackbear took a string of Visiting Days, and each day the children came out to scurry off with Doggie, exploring the raft. The sweet raftblossoms were in bloom, clothing the branches with orange. Raincloud smiled to recall Ooruwen’s description of the “beautiful” orange flies that pestered Papilion.

  As a foreigner, however, she could not attend the Gathering. Only “selfnamers” could take part. Draeg was a rare exception. He had stayed at Kshiri-el through two swallower seasons and had assumed the purple breathmicrobes into his skin. He had just taken a selfname at Kshiri-el, and lost no time letting everyone know about it.

  “So what is your precious ‘selfname,’ Draeg?” Blackbear asked.

  “The ‘Hot-tempered One,’” replied Draeg, his purple face beaming beneath his tousled black hair.

  Blackbear laughed and slapped him on the back. “Brother, you’ve picked the right name for sure!”

  Draeg caught his arm and pulled with a twist, forcing Blackbear down.

  “You’re learning,” Blackbear admitted. “Just don’t let your peaceful Sharers see.”

  “Your rei-gi is peace enough for me. Anyhow, just remember, I get to attend the World Gathering in person, and you don’t. Even the Prime Guardian himself can’t attend.”

  “Nor Verid, either? Then why is she coming?” Blackbear asked.

  “The Elysian delegates get to sit outside and twiddle their thumbs until we send our wordweavers out to convey the Gathering’s will.”

  WHILE THE SHARERS ARRIVED IN THEIR BOATS, Raincloud felt herself grow tighter every day, until she was sure she could not last another hour. But she expected the child would come late, as her first two had. To relax herself she bathed in a pool between two of the raft branches that extended outward underwater, their shoots thrusting flowers aloft like pond lilies.

  One evening she felt something “pop” underneath. The cervical plug came out, a twisted cord of mucus that floated away. Then the lifeshaper Yshri the Foolish One, who had treated Sunflower that time so many months before, told her she had dilated a finger-width, and to stay out of the water from now on. But still the labor would not start, and she had to avoid submersion until it did.

  Night time on the raft was a spectacular display of stars. On Bronze Sky, Raincloud had never seen more than a star or two beyond the stratospheric cloak of haze. But here, the planet stood exposed to the gaze of a thousand distant suns.

  On the night the Gathering opened, a number of long-necked reporter servos were on hand to watch the Sharers arrive, the machines looking incongruous upon the ocean-watered turf. As the sun touched the horizon with its last burst of fire, the Sharer delegates ascended the gentle rise to the central rim of the raft. They carried “plantlights” to light their way, potted plants with fleshy leaves that glowed upon watering. Soon the bobbing lights disappeared within the craterlike hollow.

  As
Draeg had said, the Subguardian herself had to wait at the silkhouse until the Gathering sent their messengers. Verid could have come out from Helicon the next morning, but it was traditional for the Elysians to wait up until the session ended, and she knew she could expect maximum cooperation if she did. She wasted no time, though, catching up with her work via servo-link to the Nucleus.

  Raincloud went to sleep, about the only thing she felt like doing by now. Her breath came in hoarse snores, and she woke frequently with aches in her side and her legs. Even so, she slept better in the fresh ocean air than she had within the synthetic bowels of Helicon.

  She awoke with a web-fingered hand upon her shoulder, Leresha’s lovesharer Eerea. “They’re here,” Eerea whispered.

  Raincloud’s watch showed a little after six in the morning. Groggily she hoisted herself up and felt her way through the unfamiliar corridor of the silkhouse, the green and blue saddle-shape panels of seasilk twisting this way and that. In the meeting room plantlights cast a lovely glow upon the people, all seated Sharer-style upon the floor. Her eyes focused at last to see Verid, and the wordweavers Leresha and Ooruwen, whom the Gathering had appointed to speak with them. Also present was an Elysian woman from Meryllion to address the pollution problem, the butterflies of her talar brilliant red edged with black. Raincloud managed a smile, and Eerea gave her a shell full of delicious warm liquid that helped the sleepiness recede.

  “What a lovely little girl,” Ooruwen exclaimed, admiring Raincloud’s belly. Sharers customarily assumed unborn infants were female. “Such a large head, and such strong, determined legs. Did you ever see such a beautiful child, Leresha?”

  “Never,” Leresha agreed. “I think we’ll see her bright face before the sun sets again.”

  “No, she’s a little devil, that one,” said Ooruwen. “She’ll give her poor mother another sleepless night before she deigns to come out.”

  The two Sharers went on in this vein for some minutes, until Verid asked in turn after their children and grandchildren. Then at last Leresha brought up the “gift” of flies.

  “The Gathering has agreed,” said Leresha, “to share help with our sisters of Papilion and remove the beautiful flies. An attractant pheromone will be spread in the sea surrounding the Elysian dwelling-place. The flies will soon be gone, to make their home on other rafts. No harm will be shared with flies, nor with humans.”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Verid, Raincloud providing the formal translation.

  “We thank you for the opportunity of service,” said Ooruwen graciously.

  Leresha added, “The Gathering was extremely pleased to hear that the ocean ‘music’ will be gone by the next swallower season. The word of Verid Anaeashon shares great respect among us.” Verid’s hard work ahead of time had saved a lot of trouble.

  “Now the silane pollution…” This case proved more complex. As the Meryllian delegate responded to the Sharers, Raincloud barely kept awake, dozing off for a moment, then hastily lifting her head. From the corridor a shaft of yellow daylight trickled faintly across the floor.

  It was just before eight in the morning when Tulle arrived from Helicon to explain the genome project. She tried her best to allay the Sharer fears. “Our only aim is to enable parents to determine the genes of their offspring,” she concluded. “Is that so unreasonable? Don’t Sharers value motherhood? There will be no change in our population control.”

  Leresha listened thoughtfully.

  Ooruwen said, “It violates the treaty. In the treaty, Elysians promised to centralize the making of children, and to share all children in common. They renounced motherhood.”

  “That’s not strictly correct,” objected Tulle. “Elysians never renounced motherhood, nor fatherhood for that matter. They promised to limit their population to a ratio of one child per ten adults—far leaner than the Sharer replacement level. Because Elysians do not age, we replace only those who die by accident. But some day, our demographics will again require one-to-one replacement—and it may be sooner than we think. As some of us pass our thousandth birthday, we discover…complications.”

  Elysian longevity was not perfect, Raincloud knew. This was the main focus of Tulle’s lab; fertility research was a sideline. If older Elysians started dying off, the picture might change.

  “It’s still against the treaty,” Ooruwen insisted. “If you wish to amend the treaty, why not propose this?”

  Verid said carefully, “We do not share that understanding. We see no violation.”

  Leresha said at last, “You are correct, in a literal sense. But in spirit, the treaty discourages what you propose. Once individuals feel that they possess their own children, genetically, they swim a stroke in the path toward reproductive freedom. Remember the delicate weave of the Web.”

  There was silence. The Web, Raincloud reflected; everything depends upon it, and yet, to comprehend it was to look into an abyss.

  Verid asked, “Where does your Gathering stand?”

  After another silence, Leresha said, “Within the Gathering, our views diverge. Some consider your genome project a step in a dangerous direction. But others believe that Elysians ought to experience motherhood, to reclaim this part of their humanity before it is too late.” She paused, allowing Raincloud to translate back for Tulle. Raincloud’s throat caught on the last sentence. “We are deeply divided,” Leresha added, “and what you have shared only accentuates the division. The Gathering, I think, is unlikely to reach unity this year.”

  The Gathering could act only on consensus; a single dissent could block action. This year, there was much dissension. Tulle sighed, her relief evident. Still, Raincloud wondered about the long-term risk of Iras’s investment.

  RAINCLOUD MANAGED A BREAKFAST OF STEAMED CRABS and seaweed. Then she promptly went back to sleep until well past midday.

  The light filtered green and blue through the seasilken panels. She breathed heavily as she tried to rouse herself. Pushing aside the pillows she had propped beneath her legs, she dragged herself up and stretched. The silkhouse seemed deserted, not a sound save for the cries of distant fanwings.

  Hawktalon came running in. Her braids flew about her face, and her smile was enough to bring a glow to Raincloud’s heart. The outdoors was so much better for children than that stifling city. “Mother’s awake!” she announced loudly, much to her mother’s embarrassment. “You’d better come quick, Mother. There’s bi-ig trouble.”

  “Yes?” Sunflower must have got into her toys again.

  “It’s the Sharers. They’re in whitetrance.”

  Her pulse quickened, and she felt her belly tighten. Relax, she told herself, although she would have been glad enough to have the baby then and there. “Whitetrance? Who is?”

  “I don’t know. Hurry, come see.”

  She found them outside. Two strangers were seated cross-legged before the silkhouse, their unclothed bodies white as milk, a net of blue veins permeating their skin. The purple breathmicrobes in their skin had bleached out as their metabolism slowed. The minds of the pair would be far away, or deep within, Raincloud was not sure which. Despite herself, she felt her scalp prickle. This was how the The Web had begun; and before that, the battle with Valedon.

  But of course, it could be something much simpler, even a household dispute. Reining in her imagination, she looked politely away. Several reporter servos were on hand, no doubt spinning tales of speculation. One stood idle, perhaps done in by the dust and spindrift.

  A Sharer girl came out, younger than Hawktalon. She began to rub lotion into the skin of the two still strangers, presumably to protect them from the sun.

  “Who are they?” Raincloud asked.

  “Sh,” the girl warned.

  With a shock, Raincloud remembered that they might die if an adult disturbed them. She took a hasty step backward.

  “They’re delegates from a far raft,” the girl whispered. “Go ask Leresha.”

  She found Leresha conferring with Verid. Verid’s fe
atures were grim, with the hunched look of an owl reluctantly roused during daylight. “I’m sorry,” said Leresha, “I do not yet share permission to discuss it. I can only say that it has nothing to do with our discussions last night; those issues are closed, for this year.”

  “The devil be thanked for that,” Verid muttered. “Whatever those two are upset about, why didn’t it come up sooner?”

  “It ought to have come up much sooner,” Leresha agreed.

  “But why the whitetrance?” Verid insisted. “The point of the World Gathering is to talk things out. Why won’t they tell us about it?”

  “It’s too unspeakable.”

  VERID CONTACTED HYEN, AND FLORS, AND ANYONE ELSE she could think of. She racked her brain for all the usual sore points: pollution, overfishing, even Kal’s quixotic crusades…No, it could not be Kal, she thought. He always gave fair warning. But others with a grudge against the Guard had been known to spring something at the Gathering, at just the right moment to cause the maximum amount of trouble.

  At last she checked in with Iras. “You look awful, dear,” Iras exclaimed out of the holocube in her hand. “Your feathers are all rumpled! Get some sleep, or you’ll be sorry.” It was the best advice Verid had got so far, and she took it.

  By dawn the next morning, she had begun round two with Raincloud and the wordweavers. Raincloud, with her swollen face and huge belly, looked frightful; let foreigners have their children, if they had to go through that. But the Sharers, too, looked none the better for their second night’s marathon, she thought with a grim touch of satisfaction.

  Leresha smoothed her hands down her scarified legs. She looked Verid in the eye. “If our treaty is a raft, what is its first branch?”

  Spare us the dialectic, thought Verid; it was bad enough by day. “The first branch is peace,” she replied, “peace, between our people and yours.” The Bronze Skyan dutifully interpreted, back and forth, as if she had grown up on a raft. What a gift for tongues Raincloud had. Somehow, Elysium had to keep her; what price would do it, Verid wondered.