The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  He could complain to his legislators or ombud; or he could issue a public statement calling for disclosure, and be shrugged off as a crank.

  If the matter came out into the open—As vague as Lilisaire's hopes were, she must be desperate. Certainly she didn't expect it would by itself cause the Habitat project to be cancelled, did she? No, she dreamed of somehow gaining the power to force a termination. But how? An old weapon she could commandeer? Monstrous absurdity.

  True, the Lunarians in space, few and scattered though they were, had a rather terrifying military potential. Anybody with ships did. But to rouse them, rally them, get them together in resolution and discipline, before the Peace Authority could stop it—what imaginable revelation might do that? They were never crusaders. To see Luna overrun by Terrans would sharpen the embitterment of Lunarian spacers, asterites, Martians, satellite colonists, but it wouldn't provoke them to a war they'd almost surely lose. Not even the Lunarians in the Moon would rebel.

  Kenmuir had already decided that Lilisaire's quest for the truth had brought her to hints of it that she wasn't sharing.

  Alone in the desert, he had cursed his bond with her. He had sworn to himself that it would not lead him to do anything really harmful. He'd rather live without her than that. By now he might well have resigned, were it not for Aleka. While he scarcely knew the girl, she didn't strike him as a criminal, a fanatic, or a dupe. She had her own cause, whatever it was, but he couldn't believe she'd link it to one she saw as bad. Therefore let him go along at least a little further, through this haze of unknowns.

  Briefly, he considered running a data search on her. He had clues to begin on, Hawaiian background, involvement with metamorphs—yes, he recalled something about a unique society in those parts . . . But no. Going through regular channels, that could conceivably alert the opposition. Besides, he needed to know more about his destination. Such an information retrieval would be expected of a visitor, and draw no attention; Bramland was another peculiar place.

  Clouds rose over the horizon ahead as he flew. At first they shone like snow, then he was beneath them and the greens had dulled, the sky gone featureless gray. The overcast was predicted to last some days. It wouldn't block everything from monitor satellites, but it would fairly well blind their optics. If the system was scanning the whole planet for him.

  Though in that case, he was defying someone or something that could order it to do so—the Federation? He suppressed a shiver. His jaw clamped. If they wanted him to stop, let them enjoin him officially, honestly, by a public announcement over the global net if need be. And let them jolly well explain the reason to him.

  Meanwhile, he could do with an explanation from Aleka . . . But start at Bramland.

  The volant's terminal screened a short history. Most of it was familiar, sociotechnic cliché. Various groups, ethnic, cultural, religious, or merely eccentric, strove to keep their identities alive. They seldom refused the basic advantages and services of the modern world, and in fact its productivity and peace were generally what enabled them to exist; but they turned their backs on its impersonal rationality. Humankind evolved as a tribal creature, and the need to belong to a tribe is almost as strong as sexuality. What price the Fireball Trothdom—? The very Lunarians had their feudalistic allegiances.

  The movement toward such partial secession had been particularly marked in North America in the period of upheaval that followed the fall of the Avantists. Among those who found themselves involved were ex-guerrillas of the resistance, assorted nonconformists, and certain outlaws who hoped to gain legitimacy under the new conditions. They pooled their resources and acquired a large tract of land.

  The Third Republic did not hinder them. As fragmented as the nation was by that time, it couldn't, aside from requiring observance of environmental regulations. The Bramlanders didn't mind that. They were seeking a life they could feel was natural. They founded villages, wide-spread over the territory, few of them with a population above 500 adults, a size at which all could participate in public business. In the course of generations, like-minded outsiders joined them while the dissatisfied departed; and thus the culture evolved. There was no dearth of parallel developments.

  Evolution, though, takes its own blind courses, and selection working on random mutations and genetic drift can go in curious directions. Today, what vestiges of democracy survived in Bramland were purely ceremonial. It was rituals, taboos, and rankings that satisfied the ordinary member's desire for a well-defined station and purpose in life, a sense of community and of worth. Some men practiced crafts and trades, but incidentally to their real callings—as warriors, sacerdotes, occasional hunters. Women found fulfillment in their mystical sororities and as housewives, sexual artists, occasional mothers. The mayor of a town might or might not listen to its elders, but he was its absolute ruler. He had won to that status by challenging and defeating the former incumbent in a set of athletic contests that frequently ended in death. Quarrels with his counterparts led to equally violent "games" between villages.

  Any complaints never got past their authority in any form that would force the North American government to intervene. After all, few of those deaths in duel or war were permanent. Chillcoffins were kept handy, and the fallen were rushed to the nearest medical station for revival and repair. Maybe sometimes, Kenmuir thought, it was lesser injuries that took more time and effort—surgery, regeneration, physical therapy.

  Besides, whoever didn't like what went on was free to leave. When a society posed no threat to outsiders, meddling in one would set a precedent dangerous to the rest. They shared an interest, and their political influence, in deterring it. The cybercosm never advised otherwise. The bad old days were long past when law restricted voluntary association. The Bramlanders were content, weren't they?

  Yes, Kenmuir thought, obviously most of the Bramlanders were. They were not very intelligent. Self-selection had seen to that.

  So much for background. He summoned recent news of the different settlements. It rarely got on the regular broadcasts—who cared?—but of course the sophotects that served there passed their observations to the general database.

  They reported nothing of special concern. Well, Joetown and Three Corners were at game. A pitched battle had not ended it, and now bands of men hunted each other across the fields and along the riverbanks. No weapons, oh, no, nothing but sport. . . with well-shaped clubs and staffs, karate chops, winked-at stones . . . Casualties were mounting. Avoid.

  He decided on Overburg. Its mayor was at odds with Elville's, but as yet no fights had occurred and an agreement might possibly be reached. Besides, Overburg, larger than average, boasted an inn. Travel and trade did occur between villages, as well as visits from outside. Kenmuir instructed the volant and felt it change course.

  Cultivation appeared. Inhabitants raised, processed, made various things for themselves and to sell. They called it "independence," and perhaps it was— spiritual, another set of rituals. The actual necessities were ferried in, paid for by credit.

  "Message," announced the volant. Kenmuir tautened. Into the screen before him sprang a man's face. He was thin, pale, and stiff-lipped. A headband curled upward in a silvery filigree, a necklace with a pendant hung over his blouse. Badges of office, Kenmuir supposed. "Po't Commissioner f’ his Pot'ncy Mayor Bruno o' Great Overburg," he identified himself in Anglo of sorts. "Y'r ve'icle signals intent to land. You got clearance?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Kenmuir said.

  "Clearance. Permission. You don't? Who you, señor? What you' business?"

  "Since when has a public field demanded a permit? Are you having a problem?"

  "You will, if you try. Name y'self an' state y'r business."

  Kenmuir checked his temper. Bureaucracy, too, was a way to make people feel important. "No offense, sir. My name is Hannibal, I'm on my way from the west coast, and I'd like to stop here for a day or two. I can't be the first person to come without asking leave beforehand."

 
"You don't soun' No'merican."

  "I'm, uh, European, and—What the Q? May I land or may I not?"

  "Awright. You'll have to go befo' the Mayor. Temporary pe'mission granted."

  The town was in view. The houses along shaded streets didn't look very different from those Kenmuir had spied earlier, archaic design in modern materials, steep-roofed and slab-sided. At the center was a paved square, surrounded by larger buildings. Kenmuir assumed those were for markets, assemblies, storage, and the like. The biggest, ornately pillared, must be city hall or the mayoral palace or something of that kind. A small airfield, with garages and terminal, lay just beyond the habitations. He set down, took in hand the suitcase Aleka had bought him, and debarked into humid warmth.

  The port commissioner awaited him, with four burly men in attendance. In this weather, their garments were loose and gaudy. Long, braided hair trailed below fillets beaded in patterns that presumably signified rank or descent. Each bore a sheath knife and a staff topped with a bronze ball that could fracture a skull. "This way fo' customs 'spection," said the commissioner, and strutted off to the terminal.

  It was a standard automated structure, deserted save for his party. He made Kenmuir open his bag and pawed through the contents. They were what Aleka had supplied, a toilet kit and some changes of clothing. Almost reluctantly, he returned it and said, "I phoned. His Pot'ncy's gracious pleased t' receive you right away. Esco't him, Jeb." A slim, graying man, alone and unarmed, didn't need much guarding.

  It was a ten or fifteen minute walk to the centrum. Kenmuir's attempt at conversation fell flat. Jeb was too full of the dignity of his assignment. A few cars passed by, but traffic was mainly pedestrian. Women wore flowing gowns and often carried baskets. Groups of them went chattering together, sometimes with one or two of the few, cherished children. Men likewise stayed with their own sex, or sat on porches drinking and playing games. A number of them were elaborately tattooed, and none seemed to have had scars eliminated. Emblems of pride, then.

  Here and there Kenmuir passed a workshop and glimpsed a man making something—an implement, a piece of furniture, a decoration—with no tool more complex than a power drill. The style and execution struck him as crude. Yet on the whole, folk appeared happy enough; he saw smiles, heard laughter and animated talk. What words reached him concerned gossip, weather, crops, fishing, the iniquity of Elville, "yump . . . sho' right. . . haw . . ." He thought that if he had to stay here any length of time, he'd hope for a miniwar to enlist in before he went berserk from boredom.

  The palace columns represented ferocious monsters. Two sentries flanked the entrance. "Now you be real respec'ful," Jeb warned. "Bend yo' knee."

  A chamber stretched broad and long. Kenmuir made out painted shields on the walls and banners hung from the crossbeams. A strip of crimson carpet led to a dais at the far end. There, on a canopied throne, sat Bruno, mayor of Overburg, Four young women, thinly and luxuriously clad, displayed themselves on cushions at either side. Six warriors stood guard. Pages waited for orders. Half a dozen older men were also present; Kenmuir wasn't sure whether they were councillors, courtiers, petitioners, or social callers. He advanced with his escort through silence and stares.

  Jeb halted a meter from the dais. Kenmuir did too. Jeb snapped a salute, palm to brow, and announced, "The stranger, señorissimo." Kenmuir remembered to genuflect, awkwardly.

  "Ah, yuh," rumbled the mayor. "Yo' name an' pu'pose."

  He was a huge man, massively muscular. A blond mane dropped past prognathous features, where a beard bristled, apparently unique in this place. A sign of office, like the horned headband and gold chain? A greasy shirt gaped open around the shaggy breast. The knife sheathed against his trews was outsize. His feet were bare and unwashed. In his right hand he clutched a wooden goblet.

  "Hannibal, sir," Kenmuir replied. He and Aleka had agreed on the alias. It gave no clue to his identity, while being distinctive enough for her to be certain of the message he would put in the public bulletin base, informing her of his whereabouts, as soon as he could after learning what they would be.

  "Hannibal, huh? Not Cannibal?" Bruno guffawed. Men and boys dutifully laughed." The women giggled. Kenmuir thought that two of them forced it, and that the looks they gave the mayor were frightened. The others were perhaps content with their status.

  Bruno hunched forward. "Why you here? Spy? Gummint agent? Hah?" He sat back again, expectant, and glugged from his goblet.

  He couldn't do worse than expel the newcomer. Could he? Maybe. Anyhow, that would be an infernal nuisance. "I assure you, sir," Kenmuir sighed, "I'm a harmless private person. A friend and I are going to spend a while in Lake Superior Preserve. At the last minute, she was delayed. I've heard interesting things about your community, and would like to take a day or two here till she can meet me." Curious outsiders must come occasionally, if not often. "You see, I deal in uniques, handmade work, and I gather you have skilled craftsmen." When was flattery ever unwelcome, or money?

  Bruno raised his brows. "’She,' d'you say?"

  "Well, yes, a young lady," Kenmuir replied, hanging onto his patience. Somebody sniggered. "Could I arrange permission for her to land and look around too?" Somewhere along the orbit, he and Aleka must have a serious talk. This might be their last chance before jumping off into the irrevocable.

  "Young. Hum. Yuh." Bruno pondered. Kenmuir thought of slow wheels turning. "Yuh. Awright, You see the health off’cer, it clears you, awright, you can stay. At the inn." Spend money.

  The interview hadn't been too bad. No big surprise. Kenmuir was clearly not from hated Elville.

  Bruno leered. "Landing tax. Near forgot. Landing tax. Ten, uh, fifteen ucus. Apiece. You can pay it f’r you both. To me."

  Extortion, but Kenmuir decided not to invoke the law. "Do you object to cash, sir?" If he debited his account, that was a giveaway to any search program.

  "Cash? Huh? Naw, naw, cash's fine." Bruno's manner suggested it was better than fine. Perhaps he had transactions of his own that he didn't want traced. He accepted the bills and counted them twice, moving his lips. "Awright, guardsman, take'm to the health off’cer, and when he's cleared, show'm to the inn." Half cordially: "Maybe we'll talk later, Hannibal. Maybe I'll 'vite you f’r a drink. Yuh, maybe even—" He nodded and winked, right and left, at his women. Two of them smiled.

  Jeb saluted and led Kenmuir back out. "This way," he directed." 'Cross the square. The clinic there, see?"

  Understanding smote. "The health officer" hadn't registered a meaning, unless as a vague idea of still another tribal functionary. But Bruno had said "it." Yonder waited a sophotect

  Kenmuir stumbled. He had almost dug in his heels. Jeb gave him a questioning glance. No. He must go through with this. Suddenly to return to his volant and take off, that would cause wondering. "Excuse me," he muttered and strode on.

  Why did Bruno want the machine to approve him? Offciousness? The mayor, like the port commissioner, didn't get many chances to throw his weight around in the presence of strangers. Or was Bruno anxious to stay on the good side of the government, leaning backward to look cooperative? He might fear that sometime, policy or no, there would be a crackdown on local practices.

  No matter now. What Kenmuir must do was pass himself off as what he claimed to be. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and told the muscles in his back to slack off.

  Outwardly the clinic resembled its neighbors. The reception room was reassuringly if rather hideously decorated with Bramlander art. Behind it, Kenmuir knew, was up-to-date equipment for treating most hurts and ills. Likewise was what the sophotect used to monitor sanitation, automated services such as energy, and the biological well-being of the land around. The town of his childhood, also isolated, had had just such an attendant. People there had called it the caretaker, when they didn't say "Auld Angus."

  The form here was hauntingly similar, boxy, four-legged, six-armed, with turret for sensors and electrophotonic brain, housing for powerpack, and retracta
ble communications dish. The voice was male, deep and resonant: "Hi, how c'n I help you?"

  "Got this guzzah wants 'a stay a couple days," Jeb explained. "Mayor wants you awright him."

  "Ah." The accent became educated. "Bienvenido, señor. Por favor, be seated. A formality, I'm sure. Everybody's tense, what with this unfortunate friction with Elville. My opposite number there and I are trying to get it composed, but—" The flexible pair of arms rippled through a shrug. "Jeb, you can go."

  "Not need me?"

  "Certainly not. You may go, I said." The tone had sharpened the least bit. Jeb bent his head, perhaps unconsciously, and left.

  "Do take a seat," the sophotect urged. "I suspect you've had a slightly unpleasant time. Would you care for coffee, tea, or a short whisky?"

  Kenmuir took a chair. His body resisted its form-fitting embrace, but he kept his face steady. "No, thank you, I'm on trajectory, really I am."