Night Songs at Um

by John T. Cullen

  * * * *

  Enter Allal.

  There was a knock on the door, he said “come,” and the door swung open. There stood an elegant woman, as tall as he, wearing dark wools and leathers—earth tones. She carried a large purse slung over one shoulder, and wore many fine brass bands on her wrists. Her long hair was glossy, well-cared for, and parted in the middle, with a tight coronet of darkened gold forming a narrow circle around her head. “My name is Allal,” she said. “They called me from Markep to make sure you have everything you need."

  The Chorearch's work, Pontin thought. “Come in.” Allal had pink cheeks and marvelous blue eyes. She took off her leather coat and found a hook for it in the hall. She stepped out of her shoes, as was the custom among the educated and the wealthy—filthy habit, wearing street shoes in the house, spreading disease—and still she was tall. Immediately, Pontin took a liking to her. He wondered if she were a femgyne, maybe an entertainment sent by someone needing a favor. Governors had power, not that a world-builder sought after social power. She brushed past him, intruding into his space, leaving a wisp of some tart little perfume that made his heart beat a little faster. She was taller and thinner than Menet. She went to the fireplace and stoked a little fire, saying “It's always a little chilly up here at this altitude, don't you think?” She went to the double glass doors and closed them, shutting out the court yard and the garden. “I'll open them if you want. I'm just a little cold.” She went to the fireplace and rubbed her hands. It dawned on him: they (the administrators) were weaning him from Menet. That took the mystery out, and made him relax.

  Pontin went to the wet bar. “Glass of wine?"

  “Please. The Carton Fignac 6999 in the corner."

  Pontin poured them each a glass. “Sounds like you've been here before."

  “Didn't the Chorearch tell you? I decorated this place for you. I know everything that's on this rooftop.” She laughed at Pontin's evident surprise. “No, I'm not a genefym. I have a doctorate in architecture."

  Pontin reddened, embarrassed at what he had thought about her. He handed her a glass of amber liquid. They sat opposite each other in a horseshoe of leather couches around the fire. The floor gleamed in an olivine marble, the fireplace onyxine.

  “Do you like it?'

  Pontin looked around. “It's lovely. It's stunning."

  She raised her glass. “I'm glad. From a man who builds planets, that is a real compliment to someone who outfits rooftops."

  “Markep?"

  “It's a habitable planet in a nearby system. I'd advertised for a change. This was an excellent opportunity. So, I thought I'd find out if you like your new home.” She rose and began unbuttoning her dress. “Also, I thought you might be lonely. So I'll help with the housewarming."

  * * * *

  The days moved swiftly, and Pontin came to know the dignitaries who were daily arriving from New Earth via the Temporale.

  He met the new UnderGovernor, a fleshy man named Temerius, who wore a large ring on each hand and had bushy white hair. A raft of nobility showed up, from a Lord Chicago, who wore dark purple breeches and a sword, to a Lady Frankfurt in a cloud of pink silk who was followed everywhere by three young blonde maids carrying lapdogs. A Meister Athvane, Knight of the State, mercenary and art critic, went about challenging all the local prizefighters. The State, while priding itself on free market economics, had not yet found its way to being a parliamentary republic. The rescue of mankind from the Inversion, and the subsequent explosion of growth, had created a kind of military-industrial mentality in which necessity often overrode nicety. Thus, while there was not officially a nobility, the wealthy had over the centuries simply taken ancient Earth place names to themselves, titles that they recognized in one another. They'd banded together in a kind of guild and, with their fabulous wealth altogether, were a force nobody could resist, not even the dryly egalitarian State. Since money and power went together, and since the opening of every new planet meant more insane amounts of wealth, and more nobility, these people were expected to show up in great numbers at every Opening. One fellow, a great gray mass of pampered flesh swaddled in a toga, had himself carried around on kind of stretcher. Every time Pontin saw him, this gentlewhale was eating.

  Pontin liked the feel of Allal's long body, the stretch of those smooth legs, the fullness of her breasts. She was good in bed, and he enjoyed rolling around with her. She was truefym, separated from her husband and planning a divorce, and quite ready for adventure. She had indentured herself to the Chorearch's staff for a set term of years, and would retire in great comfort at a relatively young age. Thus, being a courtesan, a very expensive paid whore as she liked to whisper excitedly while licking his ear, so that the heat of her breath excited him as each syllable beat on his ear drum, and he surged into her like a dolphin in a crisp morning sea. He and Allal spent time together in the frothing hot tub, and in the moonlight in his gardens above the city. For some hours Pontin actually became intoxicated with her. He thought about keeping her here; of course she was not a genefym, so he'd eventually have to make a marriage contract with such a woman. Then again, he thought, best wait to see what else comes along. Being Governor was a hot item—people waited in the lobbies downstairs for glimpses of him; they'd cheer and wave as he stepped from the elevator.

  * * * *

  The old Mother Chorearch commed to remind him to be properly dressed in public at all times. When he met the old purple fig, she seemed amused, towering over him with her powerful hands clasped. They had become more intimate in their trust for one another. She told him: “Your Lordship, forgive me, but there are those who want to caution you against investing yourself too much in your Allal, emotionally that is."

  He was blinded with his appetite for the girl, and only half listened. The Mother could see that it was no use being subtle, and she could not speak directly, so she changed topics. “On that other subject,” she said, “are you still firmly committed to holding your ceremony in the ruins at Um?"

  “Yes, Mother. It means a great deal to me."

  She leaned close and whispered, so that he could smell sour citrus in her prune-like blue cleavage. “Lord, take my advice and become invested here in the city. We will have better control over the crowd. You have been away from civilization too long, and have little understanding of the Vyzantine court. They are spoiled, unthinking barbarians in the guise of princes.” She whispered in his ear: “Above all, watch your back with Temerius."

  Again Pontin dismissed her concerns. “We'll beef up the gendarmerie.” What of the UnderGovernor? A fat, fleshy man who liked to eat a lot and couldn't run from his own shadow.

  * * * *

  When he arrived back at his apartment, he was just in time to see Allal, dressed for travel, boarding a flyer on the balcony. Two farmed bellmen in rouge uniform, with broad backs and knobby red necks, held her suitcases and packed them aboard as her long, trouser-clad legs and thick-soled business shoes pulled in. The glossy dark green door slammed shut, with Chorearch and Vyzantine livery markings. Pontin understood, and cried “No!” as he hurried up in a trundling glass lift. Not another loss! By the time he raced through the plush rooms, her airdove was already a receding speck in a rainy, cloudy sky racked with lightning and distant thunder.

  His true mother, housed with his sisters and other family in a nearby luxury hotel, appeared unannounced in the holo cubicle. “Son, step in here and talk to me."

  He strode into the dark, marbled room and confronted his white-haired mother. “Was this your doing?"

  His mother put arms akimbo. “She was just one of the Chorearch's farmed cows."

  “I want her back."

  “You were starting to make a fool of yourself, son. The court have begun talking."

  “I don't give a sheissicle. I'm the governor, and I am used to—"

  “You are my son, and you'll hear me out.” She smiled. “Darling, there are so many playthings for you. This entire world is yours. Except for some th
in, brittle, and inconvenient democracy at the ground level, you're practically king and emperor here. You can have all the women and other playthings you want. Stop looking so grim and enjoy yourself."

  He severed the connection as he strode from the room.

  As if in almost comedic counterpoint, a tall blonde woman marched into the room accompanied by the same two bellmen carrying her luggage. Her clothing and her luggage were of a matching set, all foofoo and blue with wispy white thistlefur. Pontin would have thrown her out, but her look was so regal, so icy, so blue-eyed and skin-whitened, that he snapped his mouth shut. Her ripe little lips glistened pink. She was tall and thin, farmed and androgyne, and she almost arrogantly swaggered on high heels: “I am Dilith, your new gogyrl. You must be the Governor."

  He stared as she removed her fluffy white coat, revealing a long, lithe body the color of peaches, and just as smooth. Under the coat, she was nearly nude except for a complex of strategically angled leather straps crossing her chest and groin. Something in the geometry and motion of her perfect body made him swallow what he was about to say. She bowed perfunctorily, sent the bellmen away, and offered him her hand. “I will please you, Lordship. That I promise."

  Reluctantly, he raised his hand to shake hers.

  “Her Mothership advised me that you are in extreme need of a few laps in the warm pool, and then a massage to relax your tense physique.” Her eyes glittered with ambition as she peeled off first one glove, then the other. “Come along, Sir. I am expert at what you need.” As she towed him by the hand down a warm, moist hallway smelling of hot water, chlorine, and flower petals, she looked back and said with that same icy glitter in her eyes. “Don't fall in love with me, Governor. I don't have the hormones to respond."

  Watching her buttocks rock hypnotically from side to side on top of long legs and under a slim, well-curved back, he sighed and resigned himself to the fact that it was the Chorearch, through his mother, through his dong, through any tool she could and would use, who ruled this world during his transition. At least she had not taken Um from him.

  No wonder Dilith was allowed to be as she was, brash and rude and sexy. She was a specialized genfym, a castrata so to speak, who could not be any other way. She was a high priced, highly prized tool, a gem of her art, a courtesan beautiful as a tulip, but with the emotional life of an asparagus. It was tragic, in its own way, that she would live a long life unable to love, even if she were loved, but then she lacked the emotions to feel her loss. She understood her loss, but couldn't grieve over it. Such men and women had been thought to make great mathematicians when they retired, but their cold-hearted designers only belatedly realized that one required music and passion to be a mathmyth, and thus these poor people only excelled at crossword puzzles as they aged.

  * * * *

  The UnderGovernor, Temerius, arrived at Pontin's suite with a retinue—a pretty juggler girl with white cheeks, three blondes holding lap dogs, a strongman flexing his muscles every time someone looked at him, and several plainclothes guards. “Pontin, my man!” he greeted as Pontin let them all in. “We must see these ruins we have heard about. It sounds wonderful! After all, there are various alien civilizations, but hardly any extinct ones. So romantic!"

  “Arbold and I will be happy to take you there, Temerius."

  “Oh yes! A big party! And then the next day We will swear you in as Governor, and then we'll talk business, dear chap.” Temerius patted Pontin fondly on one cheek.

  * * * *

  That evening, a cavalcade of giant airbuses left First City, sailing through the sky, over the canyons, into the sandstone badlands. The Chorearch, who stayed at the Governor's Palace in First City, uebervoxed to tell him Temerius was delayed, but would arrive in time for the main dinner and the later ceremonials.

  As Pontin's airbus landed, disgorging its 50 or more passengers, Pontin noticed that extensive preparations had already been made. Arbold was beside himself, running from one official to another waving his arms, his fists, yelling. Tables were set up in an area where there had been a lot of small roof fragments. Bulldozers had come in and piled those fragments into a long, high row that looked unnatural against the rest of the basilica's architecture.

  Pontin felt his heart lurch. He yelled at the construction boss, but was told “I'm sorry, Lordship, but we've been instructed to removed all these falsework when your investiture is done."

  Arbold ran about waving a scrollex from the Archroy on Markep, ordering a quarantine of the sacred site, but it was too late and nobody listened. The Viceroy, seated among his bondboys, master of forbidden little smiles, as he dabbed his rouged mouth with a napkin and signed a temporary contramandamus held for him by a scribe.

  Everyone ignored Arbold while the food carts were brought out and a 100-piece orchestra set itself up on a temporary wooden stage. Several dozen temp-a-potties stood along one wall of the basilica. A row of wilderness ground cars with grip-tooth wheels were parked further down.

  Pontin swallowed several wines and steamy potions carried about by attractive young farmed people, and started loosening up. How bad could it be? Relax, he told himself, and Dilith stroked him with strong, expert hands under the table.

  With Dilith on his arm, both dressed to the nines, went about meeting high society—the Palermos, the Jaffas, the Minsks, the Cairos, the Jobergs, the Sidneys, the Shanghais, the Brazzavilles, a dizzying array of powerful men and drop-dead gorgeous women with mythological names said to date from the old lost Earth. Temerius and his two wives (one of them a man) went about shaking hands. Liberal quantities of liquor circulated. Dilith offered Pontin a blue liquid in a small glass.

  “What's this?"

  “You'll see,” she murmured, brushing the back of his ear with her lips and laughing.

  It tasted cold going down, like ice flowing into his stomach. They sat down according to the seating plan, with Pontin at the right hand of Arnaud the Thespian, with Dilith between them. Arnaud was the greatest actor alive in the near seas of stars, and even Dilith unfrosted just an icicle or two as she leaned close to inhale the actor's garlic breath and a constant stream of (Pontin thought) treacle rhymes and insipid limericks. Arnaud's neighborhood was subject to regular outbreaks of worshipful cackling and applause.

  No Temerius yet, and the army band had not arrived, but the ceremonies began. The potentates rambled at a podium. Odium, Pontin thought. Pontin began feeling woozy through the speeches. Somehow, he rose and said a few words, canned phrases he remembered from his last address to the general Terraform work force, and the nobility politely clapped.

  The soon to be Governor (at the stroke of midnight, he was told) Pontin felt dizzy, and could hardly push down any food. Dilith kept feeding him wine in small sips and crackers. “Funny,” she said, “it usually makes me feel real great. On top of the world. Come on, darling, maybe we should go to the potty and gag a bit. Then you'll be fine."

  Pontin made it to a potty and sat inside in the dark, bemoaning his condition. Weakly, he flopped onto his knees in a puddle of crud and hung his head over the hole, puking brokenly into lakes of human excrement. Blue, sticky goo hung from his mouth in ropes and he waved his hand in choppy motions to separate the goo from his head. With that out, he began to feel a bit better. The nobility were of course fabled for the amount and the variety of drugs they ingested—at this point, he didn't want to be one of them. He must find Dilith! He staggered from the potty, into the helpful arms of Temerius's men, who steadied him. They led him back to the table and there sat Dilith, deep in a conversation with a balding man who looked very wealthy. He had his shoulder close to hers, his head next to hers listening as she spoke, and one hand on her rear end, kneading the flesh there. She smiled and pattered on, and Pontin heard “... if you could help me get that commission...” Pontin shook off his attendants and headed for a table with racks of wine bottles.

  A lot of wine was being consumed. Boy and girl runners kept snatching bottles from the table and running to del
iver it at the tables. Pontin swallowed a handful of crackers to settle his stomach. Someone opened the wine bottle for him, and he took a deep swallow. Felt like acid etching his throat. He staggered back, coughing. Nobody seemed to notice. People were laughing, raucous, falling out of chairs, slapping each other on the back, snorting wine all over themselves as they laughed, and laughing more.

  It was dark in a wink. The orchestra played, and people danced.

  Then a gasp rippled through the crowd.

  The orchestra fell silent at a wave from Arnaud the Thespian, who shouted: “Everyone be still!"

  Arnaud had a look of ecstatic anticipation on his face. He stood on a table with a little Puncho cigar clasped in his teeth. His face was red, and his eyes were little blue beads in yellowed, unhealthy glass.

  Another wave, and the lights went out. The floor of the basilica was in utter darkness. Pontin, staggering slightly, could not see the person to either side of him; he could barely see the wine bottle when he held it in front of his face.

  Then the show began. Sheets of glowing lights rippled in the windows. Deep, thrumming notes wafted this way and that through the basilica. The Ancients were speaking. It wasn't clear yet what they were saying, but Arbold and his descendants would figure that out over generations.

  The lights were particularly intense tonight, perhaps sensing the character of the visitors, perhaps afraid for their future. Then, in his substance abuse haze, it dawned on Pontin: the basilica was a living thing. The basilica was the ancients. The basilica was a living thing and it was very old and it might put on its last light show any day. Then it would merely be a ruin. He could still see the other basilicas singing and flashing their lights as they sank under the bubbling waters, and it almost made him weep, but an ambient voice around here told him: no, it is time. When it is time, it is time, and we must go.

  Pontin rejoiced for Arbold. He would tell the scientist, and Arbold would light up in realization. “Yes of course!” he'd say.