“It’s true that this is a remote city,” Mr. Naryan said.
He could hear the faint drums of the procession. It was the middle of the day, when the sun reached zenith and halted before reversing back down the sky.
The woman, Angel, heard the drums too. She looked around with a kind of preening motion as the procession came through the flame trees on the far side of the square. It reached this part of the city at the same time every day. It was led by a bare-chested man who beat a big drum draped in cloth of gold; it was held before him by a leather strap that went around his neck. The steady beat echoed across the square. Behind him slouched or capered ten, twenty, thirty naked men and women. Their hair was long and ropey with dirt; their fingernails were curved yellow talons.
Angel drew her breath sharply as the rag-taggle procession shuffled past, following the beat of the drum into the curving street that led out of the square. She said, “This is a very strange place. Are they mad?”
Mr. Naryan explained, “They have not lost their reason, but have had it taken away. For some it will be returned in a year; it was taken away from them as a punishment. Others have renounced their own selves for the rest of their lives. It is a religious avocation. But saint or criminal, they were all once as fully aware as you or me.”
“I’m not like you,” she said. “I’m not like any of the crazy kinds of people I have met.”
Mr. Naryan beckoned to the owner of the tea house and ordered two more bowls. “I understand you have come a long way.” Although he was terrified of her, he was certain that he could draw her out.
But Angel only laughed.
Mr. Naryan said, “I do not mean to insult you.”
“You dress like a … native. Is that a religious avocation?”
“It is my profession. I am the Archivist here.”
“The people here are different—a different race in every city. When I left, not a single intelligent alien species was known. It was one reason for my voyage. Now there seem to be thousands strung along this long, long river. They treat me like a ruler—is that it? Or a god?”
“The Preservers departed long ago. These are the end times.”
Angel said dismissively, “There are always those who believe they live at the end of history. We thought that we lived at the end of history, when every star system in the Galaxy had been mapped, every habitable world settled.”
For a moment Mr. Naryan thought that she would tell him of where she had been, but she added, “I was told that the Preservers, who I suppose were my descendants, made the different races, but each race calls itself human, even the ones who don’t look like they could have evolved from anything that ever looked remotely human.”
“The Shaped call themselves human because they have no other name for what they have become, innocent and fallen alike. After all, they had no name before they were raised up. The citizens of Sensch remain innocent. They are our … responsibility.”
He had not meant for it to sound like a plea.
“You’re not doing all that well,” Angel said, and started to tell him about the Change War she had tangled with upriver, on the way to this, the last city at the midpoint of the world.
It was a long, complicated story, and she kept stopping to ask Mr. Naryan questions, most of which, despite his extensive readings of the Puranas, he was unable to answer. As she talked, Mr. Naryan transcribed her speech on his tablet. She commented that a recording device would be better, but by reading back a long speech she had just made he demonstrated that his close diacritical marks captured her every word.
“But that is not its real purpose, which is an aid to fix the memory in my head.”
“You listen to people’s stories.”
“Stories are important. In the end they are all that is left, all that history leaves us. Stories endure.” And Mr. Naryan wondered if she saw what was all too clear to him, the way her story would end, if she stayed in the city.
Angel considered his words. “I have been out of history a long time,” she said at last. “I’m not sure that I want to be a part of it again.” She stood up so quickly that she knocked her stool over, and left.
Mr. Naryan knew better than to follow her. That night, as he sat enjoying a cigarette on his balcony, under the baleful glare of the Eye of the Preservers, a remote came to him. Dreen’s face materialised above the remote’s silver platter and told him that the woman’s shipmates knew that she was here. They were coming for her.
* * *
As the ship draws closer, looming above the glowing lighter that tows it, Mr. Naryan begins to make out its shape. It is a huge black wedge composed of tiers of flat plates that rise higher than the tallest towers of the city. Little lights, mostly red, gleam here and there within its ridged carapace. Mr. Naryan brushes mosquitoes from his bare arms, watching the black ship move beneath a black sky empty except for the Eye of the Preservers and a few dim halo stars. Here, at the midpoint of the world, the Home Galaxy will not rise until winter.
The crowd has grown. It becomes restless. Waves of emotion surge back and forth. Mr. Naryan feels them pass through the citizens packed around him, although he hardly understands what they mean, for all the time he has lived with these people.
He has been allowed to pass through the crowd with the citizens’ usual generous deference, and now stands close to the edge of the whirling cloud of machines which defends the dock, twenty paces or so from the magistrates who nervously swish their quirts to and fro. The crowd’s thick yeasty odour fills his nostrils; its humming disquiet, modulating up and down, penetrates to the marrow of his bones. Now and then a machine ignites a flare of light that sweeps over the front ranks of the crowd, and the eyes of the men and women shine blankly orange, like so many little sparks.
At last the ship passes the temple complex at the northern edge of the city, its wedge rising like a wave above the temple’s clusters of slim spiky towers. The lighter’s engines go into reverse; waves break in whitecaps on the steps beyond the whirl of machines and the grim line of magistrates.
The crowd’s hum rises in pitch. Mr. Naryan finds himself carried forward as it presses towards the barrier defined by the machines. The people around him apologise effusively for troubling him, trying to minimise contact with him in the press as snails withdraw from salt. The machines’ whirl stratifies, and the magistrates raise their quirts and shout a single word lost in the noise of the crowd. The people in the front rank of the crowd fall to their knees, clutching their eyes and wailing: the machines have shut down their optic nerves.
Mr. Naryan, shown the same deference by the machines as by the citizens, suddenly finds himself isolated amongst groaning and weeping citizens, confronting the row of magistrates. One calls to him, but he ignores the man.
He has a clear view of the ship, now. It has come to rest a league away, at the far end of the docks, but Mr. Naryan has to tip his head back and back to see the top of the ship’s tiers. It is as if a mountain has drifted against the edge of the city. A new sound drives across the crowd, as a wind drives across a field of wheat. Mr. Naryan turns and, by the random flare of patrolling machines, is astonished to see how large the crowd has grown. It fills the long plaza, and more people stand on the rooftops along its margin. Their eyes are like a harvest of stars. They are all looking towards the ship, where Dreen, standing on a cargo sled, ascends to meet the crew.
Mr. Naryan hooks the wire frames of his spectacles over his ears, and the crew standing on top of the black ship snap into clear focus.
There are fifteen, men and women all as tall as Angel, looming over Dreen as he welcomes them with effusive gestures. Mr. Naryan can almost smell Dreen’s anxiety. He wants the crew to take Angel away, and order restored. He will be telling them where to find her. Mr. Naryan feels a pang of anger. He turns and makes his way through the crowd. When he reaches its ragged margin, everyone around him suddenly looks straight up. Dreen’s sled sweeps overhead, carrying his guests to the safety of the f
loating habitat above the pink sandstone palace. The crowd surges forward—and all the little machines fall from the air!
One lands close to Mr. Naryan, its carapace burst open at the seams. Smoke pours from it. An old woman picks it up—Mr. Naryan smells her burnt flesh as it sears her hand—and throws it at him.
Her shot goes wide. Mr. Naryan is so astonished that he does not even duck. He glimpses the confusion as the edge of the crowd collides with the line of magistrates: some magistrates run, their red cloaks streaming at their backs; others throw down their quirts and hold out their empty hands. The crowd devours them. Mr. Naryan limps away as fast as he could, his heart galloping with fear. Ahead is a wide avenue leading into the city, and standing in the middle of the avenue is a compact group of men, clustered about a tall figure.
It is Angel.
* * *
Mr. Naryan told Angel what Dreen had told him, that the ship was coming to the city, the very next day. It was at the same tea house. She did not seem surprised. “They need me,” she said. “How long will they take?”
“Well, they cannot come here directly. Confluence’s maintenance system will only allow ships to land at designated docks, but the machinery of the spaceport docks here has grown erratic and dangerous through disuse. The nearest place they could safely dock is five hundred leagues away, and after that the ship must be towed downriver. It will take time. What will you do?”
Angel passed a hand over her sleek black hair. “I like it here. I could be comfortable.”
She had already been given a place in which to live by a wealthy merchant family. She took Mr. Naryan to see it. It was near the river, a small two-storey house built around a courtyard shaded by a jacaranda tree. People were going in and out, carrying furniture and carpets. Three men were painting the wooden rail of the balcony that ran around the upper storey. They were painting it pink and blue, cheerfully singing. Angel was amused by the bustle, and laughed when Mr. Naryan said that she shouldn’t take advantage of the citizens.
“They seem so happy to help me. What’s wrong with that?”
Mr. Naryan thought it best not to explain about the cluster of genes implanted in all the races of the Shaped, the reflex altruism of the unfallen. A woman brought out tea and a pile of crisp, wafer-thin fritters sweetened with crystallised honey. Two men brought canopied chairs. Angel sprawled in one, invited Mr. Naryan to sit in the other. She was quite at ease, grinning every time someone showed her the gift they had brought her.
Dreen, Mr. Naryan knew, would be dismayed. Angel was a barbarian, displaced by five million years. She had no idea of the careful balance by which one must live with the innocent, the unfallen, if their cultures were to survive. Yet she was fully human, free to choose, and that freedom was inviolable. No wonder Dreen was so eager for the ship to reclaim her.
Still, Angel’s rough joy was infectious, and Mr. Naryan soon found himself smiling with her at the sheer abundance of trinkets scattered around her. No one was giving unless they were glad to give, and no one who gave was poor. The only poor in Sensch were the sky-clad mendicants who had voluntarily renounced the material world.
So he sat and drank tea with her, and ate a dozen of the delicious, honeyed fritters, one after the other, and listened to more of her wild tales of travelling the river, realising how little she understood of Confluence’s administration. She was convinced that the Shaped were somehow forbidden technology, for instance, and did not understand why there was no government. Was Dreen the absolute ruler? By what right?
“Dreen is merely the Commissioner. Any authority he has is invested in him by the citizens, and it is manifest only on high days. He enjoys parades, you know. I suppose the magistrates have power, in that they arbitrate neighbourly disputes and decide upon punishment—Senschians are argumentative, and sometimes quarrels can lead to unfortunate accidents.”
“Murder, you mean? Then perhaps they are not as innocent as you maintain.” Angel reached out suddenly. “And these? By what authority do these little spies operate?”
Pinched between her thumb and forefinger was a bronze machine. Its sensor cluster turned back and forth as it struggled to free itself.
“Why, they are part of the maintenance system of Confluence.”
“Can Dreen use them? Tell me all you know. It may be important.”
She questioned Mr. Naryan closely, and he found himself telling her more than he wanted. But despite all that he told her, she would not talk about her voyage, nor of why she had escaped from the ship, or how. In the days that followed, Mr. Naryan requested several times, politely and wistfully, that she would. He even visited the temple and petitioned for information about her voyage, but all trace of it had been lost in the vast sifting of history, and when pressed, the aspect who had come at the hierodule’s bidding broke contact with an almost petulant abruptness.
Mr. Naryan was not surprised that it could tell him nothing. The voyage must have begun five million years ago at least, after all, for the ship to have travelled all the way to the neighbouring galaxy and back.
He did learn that the ship had tried to sell its findings on landfall, much as a merchant would sell his wares. Perhaps Angel wanted to profit from what she knew; perhaps that was why the ship wanted her back, although there was no agency on Confluence that would close such a deal. Knowledge was worth only the small price of petitioning those aspects which deal with the secular world.
Meanwhile, a group of citizens gathered around Angel, like disciples around one of the blessed who, touched by some fragment or other of the Preservers, wander Confluence’s long shore. These disciples went wherever she went. They were all young men, which seemed to Mr. Naryan faintly sinister, sons of her benefactors fallen under her spell. He recognised several of them, but none would speak to him, although there were always at least two or three accompanying Angel. They wore white headbands on which Angel had lettered a slogan in an archaic script older than any race of the Shaped; she refused to explain what it meant.
Mr. Naryan’s wife thought that he, too, was falling under some kind of spell. She did not like the idea of Angel: she declared that Angel must be some kind of ghost, and therefore dangerous. Perhaps she was right. She was a wise and strong-willed woman, and Mr. Naryan had grown to trust her advice.
Certainly, Mr. Naryan believed that he could detect a change in the steady song of the city as he went about his business. He listened to an old man dying of the systematic organ failure which took most of the citizens in the middle of their fourth century. The man was one of the few who had left the city—he had travelled north, as far as the swampy settlements where an amphibious race lived in a city tunnelled through cliffs overlooking the river. His story took a whole day to tell, in a stiflingly hot room muffled in dusty carpets and lit only by a lamp with a blood-red chimney. At the end, the old man began to weep, saying that he knew now that he had not travelled at all, and Mr. Naryan was unable to comfort him. Two children were born on the next day—an event so rare that the whole city celebrated, garlanding the streets with fragrant orange blossoms. But there was a tension beneath the celebrations that Mr. Naryan had never before felt, and it seemed that Angel’s followers were everywhere amongst the revellers. Dreen felt the change, too. “There have been incidents,” he said, as candid an admission as he had ever made to Mr. Naryan. “Nothing very much. A temple wall defaced with the slogan the woman has her followers wear. A market disrupted by young men running through it, overturning stalls. I asked the magistrates not to make examples of the perpetrators—that would create martyrs. Let the people hold their own courts if they wish. And she’s been making speeches. Would you like to hear one?”
“Is it necessary?”
Dreen dropped his glass with a careless gesture—a machine caught it and bore it off before it smashed on the tiles. They were on a balcony of Dreen’s floating habitat, looking out over the Great River towards the nearside edge of the world. At the horizon was the long white double line that ma
rked the river’s fall: the rapids below, the permanent clouds above. It was noon, and the white, sunlit city was quiet.
Dreen said, “You listen to so much of her talk, I suppose you are wearied of it. In summary, it is nothing but some vague nonsense about destiny, about rising above circumstances and bettering yourself, as if you could lift yourself into the air by grasping the soles of your feet.”
Dreen dismissed this with a snap of his fingers. His own feet, as always, were bare, and his long opposable toes were curled around the bar of the rail on which he squatted. He said, “Perhaps she wants to rule the city—if it pleases her, why not? At least, until the ship arrives here. I will not stop her if that is what she wants, and if she can do it. Do you know where she is right now?”
“I have been busy.” But Mr. Naryan felt an eager curiosity: yes, his wife was right.
“I heard the story you gathered in. At the time, you know, I thought that man might bring war to the city when he came back.” Dreen’s laugh was a high-pitched hooting. “The woman is out there, at the edge of the world. She took a boat yesterday.”
“I am sure she will return,” Mr. Naryan said. “It is all of a pattern.”
“I defer to your knowledge. Will hers be an interesting story, Mr. Naryan? Have another drink. Stay, enjoy yourself.” Dreen reached up and swung into the branches of the flame tree which leaned over the balcony, disappearing in a flurry of red leaves and leaving Mr. Naryan to find a machine that was able to take him home.
Mr. Naryan thought that Dreen was wrong to dismiss what Angel was doing, although he understood why Dreen affected such a grand indifference. It was outside Dreen’s experience, that was all: Angel was outside the experience of everyone on Confluence. The Change Wars that flared here and there along Confluence’s vast length were not ideological but eschatological. They were a result of sociological stresses that arose when radical shifts in the expression of clusters of native and grafted genes caused a species of Shaped to undergo a catastrophic redefinition of its perceptions of the world. But what Angel was doing dated from before the Preservers had raised up the Shaped and ended human history. Mr. Naryan only began to understood it himself when Angel told him what she had done at the edge of the world.
The Year's Best SF 13 # 1995 Page 95
