In the first year of her Vice-Magistry, one of Zude's close friendships expanded into a large extended family. To her deep satisfaction, her life began to take on the rich textures and dimensions of children, grandparents, sisters, and cousins.
In that same year, Flossie Yotoma Lutu, Magister Of The Africa-Europe-Mideast Tri-Satrapy, invited Zude to attend as her guest Crete's annual Aviary Celebration, a computer modelled performance of thousands of birds from around the world, especially programmed that year for interaction with human spectators. Once as a teenager, Zude had briefly met and admired Magister Lutu. But Magisters usually kept their own society and their own political associations, and Zude felt she hardly qualified either as friend or colleague of enough long-standingto be tapped by Yotoma. Yet there it was, that formal invitation, cleverly engraved within the comcube. Zude accepted and flew to Crete, Yotoma's unofficial seat of government. She was enchanted by the Aviary Celebration, but more important, she began to establish on that evening a political and personal liaison which was to inform her life from that moment onward.
In the years that followed, Zude and Yotoma regularly sought each other out. They were never lovers, but Yotoma, Zude's elder by over 30 years, became a mentor to the young Vice-Magister, coaching her in the subtleties of the cultural differences that can create or destroy genuine understanding. Among Zude's most precious memories were those of the secret excursions that the two women enjoyed in busy streets and bars or on farms and seafronts. They would sneak from the confines of a meeting room in Cairo or Oslo or Shreveport and in elaborate disguises they would spend hours or days incognito in conversation with women, children, and men that they otherwise would never have met.
Though they agreed upon the things that ultimately mattered, like justice and peace and the incomparable allure of an absinthe-spiked cola, their relationship thrived upon adversarial discussion and debate. Under what conditions, they would ask each other, should one of the planet's many separatist communities be obliged to relate to the whole society -- when a flood threatened it, or when one of its citizens' tobacco smoke polluted others, or never? Should taxation or tithing be the minimum requirement for citizenship on Little Blue? Should there be tri-satrapy protection for barter cultures and gift societies who were trying to survive in the face of an automated credit economy? Should transmogrifiers be introduced in areas where techless tribeswere resisting assimilation into the fast-moving techful world? How much surveillance should the Size Bureau exercise over any business or governmental group? Under what conditions, if any, should a Kanshou be allowed to save a person from suicide?
They frequently marvelled at the smoothness with which the world's diversity interfaced with the superstructures of global government and economic intercourse. "Flossie," Zude would pant as she pummeled masses of teflofoam in a rousing pattern of aerobic performance at Yotoma's private gym, "are we just . . . lucky? Figure how many . . . hundreds of different cultures . . . and sub-cultures we've got on this planet . . . how many thousands . . . of languages . . . and dialects . . . ." Zude took a deep breath then vollied rapid-fire punches. "Artifacts! Customs! Costumes! Foods! Behaviors!" Then another breath, followed by another concentrated blast of punches. "We ought to be fighting more than we are!"
"Plenty of air," Yotoma would pant from her pot of plastimud, "plenty of water . . . a transmog on every corner
. . . why fight?"
"Differences, Floss!" Zude would give a final accelerated set of blows to the teflofoam. "We've always . . . fought over . . . differences!"
Flossie would speed up the lifting of her feet from the suction of the viscous mass below her and pant all the harder. "Haven't you noticed, Adverb? We've got . . . a new take . . . on differences. Ever since . . . the animals, ever . . .since they left. These days we . . . ," she would groan aloud in a final effort, ". . . these days we . . . we worship differences!" and in near collapse, she would shake her feet free of the plastimud.
Later, as they floated in cool zero-gravity laxchambers and clung to puffy support pillows, Flossie would mumble, "Maybe it's all just magic."
"Godgossip!" Zude would mumble back.
"You're short on imagination, Adverb," Yotoma would observe, her hands almost indistinguishable from the old bear's skin she drew around her for warmth, "and you have so much to learn!"
It was no surprise to anyone, least of all to Zude, that when Elizabeth Cloudstar, Magister Of The Nueva Tierra Tri-Satrapy, climbed a peak in the Himalayas and declared herself spiritually free of political endeavor, her mantle should fall upon the shoulders of Zella Terremoto Adverb. There were others who outranked Zude but none quite so respected by the Kanshou of all three satrapies in Nueva Tierra. Added to that popularity was the blessing of Magister Lutu and the fact that the ratifying bodies -- the Central Web and the Kitchen Table -- were too distracted with more pressing matters to block Zude's election. At an unprecedented early age, not yet 44, Zude rose to the Magistership. She was the chief executive of one of the three major geo-political entities on Little Blue.
The friendship between Adverb and Yotoma became ever more lively and more public. No politically minded citizen ever failed to tune to the flatcastson which they were both scheduled to appear for fear of missing a rousing intellectual altercation between the two.
Equally as public as their legendary disagreements was the absolute concordance of the two Magisters on the matter of Habitante Testing and the Anti-Violence Protocols. This political question now rearing its global head could, from their point of view, threaten the individual freedom of every citizen on Little Blue. Both were clearly and uncompromisingly committed to the obliteration of that threat.
5 - Bosca - [2087 C.E.]
Nose smells. Lips taste. Ears hear. Eyes see. Fingertips discern. Honest maidservants in the House of Knowledge. Then Imagination, that insidious slattern, creeps into the Householder's bed. Before dawn her house crumbles.
Question: What does this mean?
Response: Measurable and verifiable sense data must be the foundation of my action as Kanshou, for imaginative or intuitive assumptions about another's intent mislead me. Neither I nor the Kitchen Table can determine a harmer's intent or limit his autonomy unless his intent is made manifest to my senses, as when he displays a weapon or raises his hand in attack.
--The Labrys Manual
"So," Zude shrugged, "the whole desalinization industry really grew out of sewage disposal techniques." She angled the cushcar gently over the sun-bright waters of the Gulf and parked it in a hover so she could look at Bosca while she warmed to one of her favorite subjects.
"We usually name three pivotal phenomena in the transformation of the Los Angeles Basin. First, for all the reasons you already know, its population was quickly reduced to a mere three million or so."
Bosca nodded. She and Zude were exquisitely cool in the hovercraft, even in the warm rays of the sun.
"Second," Zude went on, "California finally solved its eternal water problem." Zude spoke behind her hand, in an aside. "Actually, it was witches who came up with the formulas, though nobody would admit it."
Bosca smiled with her.
"The desalinization processes that resulted surprised even the fine minds who had designed them."
"But not the witches," Bosca added.
"Correct. Not the witches." Zude looked at Bosca, realizing that the woman was listening intently. Momentarily distracted by that discovery, she hastened to continue. "So the waters of the mighty Colorado and other eastern rivers could then be used for the restoration of inland lakes and streams, the ones that had been drained in the first place to answer the water supply needs of Los Angeles's huge population. Los Angeles finally got the chance to live up to its potential as one of the world's most beautiful garden spots."
Bosca pivoted her padded chair back and forth in a small arc. "And third?"
"The third big cause of change was the increase in the number of hydrogen-enhanced, solar power plants we had in
orbit around Little Blue, providing clean energy for the whole globe. That's still expensive, but with the shift to Earthclasp mentality, funding isn't a problem. And pollution is a thing of the past." She sat back in her chair. "There you have it."
"Good story," said Bosca.
In the silence, Zude found herself nodding and smiling with her guest. The silence grew longer, until Zude's comfort boundary was breached. She cleared her throat and busied herself with the craft's controls.
"There," she said, pointing back toward the shore. "That's the view I wanted." Before them, spanning the area from high cliffs down to low beaches and harbors, an explosion of color filled the horizon. The hills vibrated with reds and oranges, blues and purples, all nestled in hanging gardens of green intricacy. Steps and small white buildings peeped now and again from the splendor, leading the eye up and back to the taller trees, to streams, and even toward the waterfalls in the Santa Ana hills.
Bosca gasped. As far as she could see there was nothing but life and growth and color. "Magister . . ." Deliberately she corrected herself. "Zude, I could spend my life here!" Then she turned to her pilot. "I'm exaggerating. But not much. Is it tropical? Did you change the soil? Where . . . ?"
Zude laughed. "Largest botanical reserve in Aztlán Siempre," she boasted. "Every indigenous species and thousands imported. If you're serious, I'll drop you off there this evening. It has become quite a meditation retreat. Accommodations adequate if quaint."
Bosca did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on the gardens. Magister Adverb studied her guest. They had spent the morning covering ground as familiar to Zude as the palm of her hand; yet, in Bosca's company every step had revealed some brand new way of seeing, some discovery of the obvious-made-profound. Bosca, she realized, was a true innocent who gloried in every moment as an adventure of the soul.
Zude quietly checked their status and then closed her eyes, sinking into the firm embrace of the cushcar's contourseat. A spectrum of duties wove through her mind -- the Size Bureau's Arctic Proposal, negotiations between rail and rocket, yesterday's cushcar explosion near Caracas, some unusual population figures from the Upper Mississippi Demesne. And, of course, Jezebel . . . and the swirls of questions surrounding the Protocols and Habitante Testing. She couldn't shake the ominous feeling that she was enjoying the lull before some coming storm. She felt Bosca looking at her. She opened her eyes.
"Yes," her guest was saying, "I'd like to go there tonight, Zude. But your family, your Kayita. You told me . . ."
Zude nodded as she consulted the floor chronometer. "We'll head in soon and visit them. I'll see that you get to the gardens after that." She moved the hovercraftback into motion and out to sea again. "We'll just whisk you once or twice around Catalina," she added, giving a full even thrust to all 24 of the air jets that supported them. The cushcar rose. She engaged the horizontals and they swept toward the southwest.
The trip was full of ideas, opinions, and shared interests. When Bosca suggested that true community is a complex harmonic singing-together, like crystals that form by resonating with other crystals, Zude actively wished that her friend and colleague, Magister Lutu, could meet this woman. When she herself shared her own failure to achieve enlightenment from ayuhuasca, the sacred drink of the Peruvian soul vine, Zude found her hand on Bosca's shoulder, vibrating with a laughter beyond her own, new and rich.
They had just finished speculating about the unusual number of children they knew who swore to regular conversations with extraterrestrials, and had just begun to explore the notion of soul counterparts, when they were treated to an unexpected show. Flying Daggers, a division of the Vigilancia's air-shrieves, filled the sky ahead of them. Scores of Vigilantes, flying in pairs, their capes in graceful flow behind them, climbed and swooped in precise formations as they practiced complex flight maneuvers.
To Zude's delight the Daggers recognized the insignia on her personal cushcar and immediately peeled off into a mass surrounding of the vehicle. For several minutes they established a v-shaped escort for their Commander-In-Chief. Zude failed in her attempts to reach the flight commander by audio-hail and had to be content with returning the smiles and waves of the Vigilantes just outside their windows. At last the airborne women swirled gert-by-gert around the cushcar to offer farewell salutes.
"That was amazing," Bosca exclaimed when the Vigilantes were out of sight. "Before I met Amahs Densmore and Longleaf a few days ago, I had known women who were spooners -- not in the military, you know -- but I'd never seen a Sky-Shrieve up close. And now . . ."
"Now you've not only flown with a gert but had your own personal air show."
"Is it true that the gerts have to be lovers to fly together?" she asked.
"Yes," Zude answered, "or they have to have been lovers." She glanced at her passenger. "Sometimes women who were lovers twenty years ago can still fly together. And occasionally those who are lovers right now can't. Nobody has distilled the formula yet, but we know that the elements are the sexual relationship and shared sleep. Mostly we don't ask questions," she grinned. Bosca nodded. "I've heard of women -- actually up north from here -- women who could fly alone."
"Rumor," said Zude. "Don't believe it." She shook her head. "If there were such women, then the Vigilancia would be busy recruiting them. Think what a boon it would be to have Kanshou who could fly solo!"
Both women lapsed into silence. Zude busied herself with a slow circling of the island, then banked and altered course slightly, seeking smoother ocean beneath them. "Tell me about--" she said, just as Bosca turned to her to say, "Do you believe--?" They stopped, laughing at the momentary awkwardness and at a sudden mutual awareness that this behavior was a common one between people beginning to know each other.
Zude found herself blushing. "I was just about to ask about your community in the plains," she said.
"And I was about to go back to the subject of counterparts." Bosca raised her eyebrows. "Clearly we were both uneasy with the silence."
Zude ventured a quick look at her passenger, then headed the cushcar toward the open sea again. "So what about counterparts. You mean soul-mates?"
"Sort of. But a little different." Bosca closed her eyes and adjusted her swivel to catch the sunlight. "Beings of same soul-group who split up and incarnate into two or three different people at the same time. Or across centuries. The time doesn't seem to matter. The point is, their lives somehow influence each other, usually at critical moments."
"Guardian angels?"
"Not exactly."
Zude shook her head. "You've lost me, Bosca. I can't buy the body-soul split."
Bosca eased the padded chair back so as to catch more sun on her thin figure. "Zude, are you a materialist hold-out?"
"Am I -- what?"
Bosca frowned, then said, "Ideas. Where do you think ideas come from?"
Zude settled the cushcar once more into a lightly-monitored circle over the grey-blue sea. "Ideas come from reality," she said earnestly, patting the bulkhead beside her. "This is solid, real. I can't walk through it. Our ideas, anything we think or believe, all of that comes from this solid world, from the way we perceive it through our five senses." She patted the bulkhead again, then looked at Bosca. "So no sermons about the spirit, please. The only 'spirit' I have is my body. Here 'tis." She slapped her thigh. "And when it dies, it dies. Poof! It just rejoins the nitrogen cycle."
"But Zude, where's your sense of magic?" She drew herself to an upright position. "You fly! I mean, you have flown with -- you do fly with your -- your--" She faltered.
"Why, yes, but--"
"Well, that ability contradicts physical laws. How do you explain it?"
"I don't," Zude said sharply. "Nobody does. Although everybody tries." She shifted in her chair. "Bosca, there's a good explanation for why women can fly together. We just haven't discovered it yet."
"How about all the other things that defy logic and physical laws, those witches who found the desalinization formulas, for instance? Spon
taneous healing? Levitation? Precognition? Some people can mindstretch--"
"Bosca, people are always exceeding themselves," Zude said, struggling for patience. "Once there was no such thing as a four-minute mile. Once we wrote with quill parchment, but only because we hadn't yet discovered the information we needed in order to make writing easier. I'm not denying that we have undiscovered capacities. I'm just saying that what's knowable becomes known according to set laws. Maybe we'll all be able to fly someday, or to mindstretch. But that won't mean that there's some kind of supernatural power apart from us that has suddenly reached out and endowed us! When mindstretchingbecomes common we'll have a physical explanation for it. And for flying," she added. She suddenly wanted to light up a cigarillo. She chewed on her lip instead.
"I understand," Bosca said. "You're a little old-fashioned, maybe, but--"
"Old-fashioned?" Zude exclaimed. "Old-fashioned? Bosca, that is about as current and as common a belief system as you'll find anywhere on the planet!"
"Relax, please, Magister Adverb." Bosca's voice was steady. "I just meant that it's pre-Earthclasp thinking. There's nothing really wrong with it. It's just sort of. . .a throwback. And a little limited."
Zude ducked her chin and eyed a distant cloud. "And clung to by a big part of the world all the more desperately, I guess, in the face of millennium spiritualism. Yes, I admit that."
Zude bore the silence for several of her own agitated breaths, then broke the tension. "I've never been much good at talking about spiritual matters, Bosca." She leaned forward, trying to catch her passenger's eye. Bosca studied the status panels that blinked and pulsed before them. Zude tried once more. "I'm certainly not good at spiritual growth." She sought Bosca's eyes again.
The Kanshou (Earthkeep) Page 10
