“You can’t mean that. You can’t think that science is more important, more accurate than religion!” She looked outraged.
Evasion was better than answering that question. “We owe Miss Sissy a lot. She saved many people.”
“She didn’t save my mother,” Penelope spat.
“You have a right to grieve, but not to blame.”
Her eyes hardened.
“Penelope, think about it.”
“Later.” She flounced into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Gil heaved a weary sigh. Reluctantly he drew his robe closed over his chest and made his way to the room assigned to him.
There was so much more he needed to relate. Obviously he needed to think more carefully about whom he chose to tell.
Life on Harmony wouldn’t be easy for anyone when the truth came out.
What if he leaked a little bit of information to Little Johnny.
No. If he broadcast it, even with evidence, he’d face execution. Not even his father could save him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"SIT STILL, LAUDAE SISSY,” Laudae Shanet pleaded. She held a wand of mascara in her hand.
“I know how to put on makeup,” Sissy insisted. She wiggled and tried to jerk her head away from the harsh tugging on her hair by yet another priestess.
“We have to make sure everything is perfect. This ordination is a once-in-a-lifetime event for all of Harmony,” Laudae Shanet insisted.
“Well, my hair isn’t going to be perfect if she keeps teasing it into a vermin nest.” Sissy finally yanked the comb out of the other woman’s hand. She also turned her face away from Laudae Shanet’s ministrations.
The two women continued to rail at her. Laudae Penelope threw up her hands and left.
Jilly mimicked Penelope’s dramatics so perfectly she set all of the girls into a fray of giggles.
Sissy refused to hear the chaos around her. Finally in frustration she slapped Laudae Shanet’s hand away from her face. The mascara slashed across her right cheek leaving an ominous black smear across her caste marks.
The five women in the room gasped. They dropped whatever garment or grooming utensil they held and made a warding gesture, thumbs and index fingers joined in a circle, the other fingers splayed wide in imitation of the sun.
Cat scuttled out from beneath Sissy’s chair to a new hiding place. Dog whined from his basket. Even Godfrey set up a racket by rattling his cage.
Sissy burst into tears. The bit of makeup already applied smudged and ran down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands, her entire body trembling with headache and anxiety.
Today was the day. The day she became High Priestess for certain. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want the responsibility. She couldn’t even read properly. How could she function as the Head of the High Council? How could she nurture an entire empire?
She wanted her family beside her, right here, right now.
A new wave of sobs threatened the delicate balance in her lungs. She reached for the inhaler. Couldn’t find it on the dressing table.
Panic.
Her breaths came in short painful gasps. Precious air became scarcer and scarcer. Each breath more shallow. A strange whistling sound. Pressure built inside her chest. She fought for air. The world tilted and colors shifted. Her eyes lost focus.
Then someone jammed the inhaler into her mouth.
Blessed drugs filled her system, releasing the tightness in her chest. Air followed. She concentrated on each breath, getting as much air as she could. Afraid that the next one would catch and close.
“Again,” a gentle voice instructed.
Another shot from the inhaler. Sissy’s vision cleared. She dragged another lungful of air into her aching body and dared look at her rescuer.
An older woman with soft silver hair, with precious few black streaks left in it, piled into an intricate knot atop her head looked calmly into Sissy’s eyes. Age lines radiated from her mild blue eyes—the same color as her diamond caste mark. A Noble woman. A frown of concern drew her mouth downward. More creases shaped her lower cheeks into the beginning of jowls.
The drugs within Sissy made halos of bright blue and shimmering yellow appear around the woman’s head.
She’d seen her before, but for the life of her couldn’t remember where. Noble women didn’t cross her path often, or at all.
“Who may I thank for rescue?” Sissy asked politely, forming each word carefully so that they didn’t catch.
“Ignorant Loo . . . savage!” Laudae Penelope snarled. When did she return? “Don’t you even recognize Lady Marissa of the High Council?”
“Now, Penelope, give the woman some credit for manners. How would she know me? We’ve never met.” Lady Marissa kept her calm gaze fixed upon Sissy. “Are you feeling better, dear?”
“Yes, My Lady.”
The day of the funeral. Lady Marissa had marched within the ranks of Temple priests and priestesses. Sissy had seen her face on the television for a few brief seconds.
“Do you feel well enough to finish getting ready?”
“I think so. But . . . but do we have to be so fancy?” Sissy waved at the mess of her hair.
“Oh, my no. Something simple, my dear.” She moved behind Sissy and took up the brush. Gently she worked it through the tangles, bringing it back to the smooth straightness. “No one will see it beneath the headdress and for the party, we want you to shine, not the grooming expertise of these fine priestesses.”
Sissy relaxed and let the woman, not much taller than herself, massage the tightness out of her scalp with long even strokes of the brush.
“Can . . . may I wash my face?” Sissy asked. She stared at the black smudge across her caste marks. An ominous portent. Did it mean that she was doomed to fail?
A brighter thought, a frightening thought, flitted through her mind. Could it be? Could she be the one foretold long ago, chosen by Discord to break the caste system?
A tickle in the back of her throat. The terrible compulsion to speak in a voice not her own.
She closed her eyes and mouth, letting the words echo around her mind. She dared not speak them now. Not now.
And the time shall come
When Beloved Harmony
Lashes out in anger.
Out of the ashes of Discord
Will Rise
One who loves us all,
Appeases Harmony,
Brings Chaos,
And restores life.
A shudder ran through her. The thought of the chaos that accompanied such a move scared her. People not knowing their place in society, having to determine their own fates, select their own leaders. Blasphemy.
At the same time the idea thrilled her. What if people had choices in life? What if the benefit of a single Noble did not outweigh the good of the entire Worker caste?
“It’s good to see you smile, Miss Sissy,” Lady Marissa said. “When our High Priestess is in a good mood, surely Harmony must smile on us as well.”
Sissy sobered instantly, fully aware of the weight of responsibility the Temple caste placed upon her shoulders today.
Laud Gregor scanned the weather report one more time. Clear skies. No storms anywhere near Harmony City. He couldn’t afford another disaster like the thunder and pouring rain that ruined the state funeral for Marilee. He tapped his caste mark in agitation.
“Guilliam, where is the report regarding the repair of the weather satellites?”
“Right here.” Guilliam handed him the file from the corner of the massive desk.
Gregor flipped it open and read with growing horror. “No repairs!”
“The Spacers decided we are better served with a new chain of satellites rather than repairing aging equipment that might not be repairable,” Guilliam replied. He sat in a corner chair and studied the beads and crystals on his headdress. Some of them looked dull and hung askew. With a frown he twisted the connecting chains with a pair of pliers. “Those satellites are more th
an seven hundred years old.”
“In the meantime we are left with faulty reports for the next year until they launch new satellites!” Rage boiled through Gregor. “Don’t those people understand how vital accurate weather reports are?” Not only to the shipping industry, agriculture, and construction, but to the Temple as well. How could they appear omnipotent to the people with inaccurate information? Without that aura of infallibility their authority diminished. Without authority at the top, their entire society would break down.
The threat of the Lost Colony declaring independence and petitioning the CSS for membership might spread to the other six colonies. Worse, it might spread to the Worker caste that outnumbered three to one all the others combined.
He began to tremble. Instead of releasing the panic within him, he marched through the chain of offices and reception areas to a west-facing window. Only one way remained to get an accurate view of the weather.
Clear blue skies with a few puffy white clouds greeted him.
He sighed in relief.
“You will note the way the clouds are clumping to the west, piling high,” Guilliam said from right behind him. He seemed distracted. Like he needed to say more.
He would say it eventually. At the least opportune moment, when he could contain it no longer.
Gregor had to wait. Guilliam wouldn’t spill his information until he was ready. Then there’d be no stopping the gush of data.
“Thunderstorms building. How long?” Gregor brought the conversation back to topic and away from whatever bothered Guilliam.
“A few hours.”
“Long enough to get through the ordination?”
“Probably. I’ve shortened some of the hymns and stretched out the crystal music a bit. It’s an older ritual.” He handed Gregor a program.
“How long ago?” Gregor cocked one eyebrow upward.
“Last used two hundred years ago. But its origins are much older.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.”
“Certainly, My Laud. You need only don your headdress.”
“And Miss Sissy?”
“I hear that the preparations reduced her to tears, but Lady Marissa calmed her.”
“Marissa? What does that witch want? She never does anything that doesn’t work to her advantage. Why was she even in Sissy’s quarters?”
“Laudae Penelope summoned her.”
“I smell conspiracy. Is Sissy fit to go through the ritual?”
“Apparently so. Lady Marissa calmed her, got her breathing again, and finished dressing her in the new purple vestments.” Guilliam plucked at his own light green robe. It looked a little shabby, in need of replacement.
Gregor smoothed his own new purple garments. Today only he and Sissy wore that color. Everyone else had elected to remain in green. He did like the dignity and tradition of the new color. Historically, only the wealthiest of Temple and Noble caste could afford the expensive dyes and chemicals needed to make purple.
A good reminder to the other castes—especially Lady Marissa and her Nobles—that he and Sissy sat on the High Council and together could outvote all the others.
He frowned. “Place a constant watch on Lady Marissa. I don’t trust her. She and Penelope are too close. Bound by friendship and by blood. There has to be an ulterior motive behind them helping Sissy.”
Jake took his post in front of the fence made of decorative wrought iron, woven in an intricate lace atop a one-meter-high stone wall. He’d already chased away half a dozen teens and adults who’d tried to climb the fence for a better view of the festivities.
Two paces away, the massive gate, made of interlaced crystal wands, stood closed. Not much of a defensive point. One slash with his sword would shatter the fulcrum upon which the gate balanced. Or the shove of a desperate crowd would twist the ornate—but hardly functional locks— and thrust the gates inward.
He directed four men to stand in front of it. Lieutenant da Martin had ordered only two.
The men looked relieved for the extra support at this vulnerable point.
In a judicious move, the government had placed rare and expensive televisions and movie screens at strategic points around the city. Those who couldn’t get into the Crystal Temple could at least watch the crowning of a new High Priestess peacefully. That didn’t reduce the numbers watching at the Crystal Temple by much.
Once the pageantry started, who knew what would happen? Innocent spectators and troublemakers alike would press forward, taxing him and his men to keep them at bay.
He moved more men from the fringes closer in and kept them moving, listening, and obviously armed.
“Da Hawk, put four men at each of the side gates,” he whispered into his shoulder comm.
“Orders are . . .”
“Orders are inadequate. Gates are vulnerable.” With that thought he added two more men to the front gate, ordering them to keep moving, back and forth, no more than ten paces each direction.
A short skinny guy with a Professional caste mark and an extra bulge in his jacket pocket presented Jake with a pass.
Jake looked from the printed card, complete with picture and three signatures, to the extra baggage the man hid.
“Kind of warm for a coat,” he mused, rubbing his thumb across the card. Was that a smudge?
“A formal occasion,” the man said officiously.
“I need your invitation and personal ID to let you inside.” Jake gestured with the hand behind his back for the gate guards to be ready.
The short Professional turned red. “I must have left them at home. Valuable souvenirs. I didn’t want them lost or stolen.”
“Sorry. No one gets in without invitation, ID, and pass.”
“Do you know who I am?” The man drew himself as tall as he could.
Jake still stood a full head above him.
“I don’t care who you are. Orders from HP Laud Gregor, visitor’s pass, ID, and invitation.”
The two moving guards closed in behind Jake. He didn’t need to see them. A bit of extra warmth on his back told him all he needed to know.
One of them whispered into his ear.
“John da John pa Harmony City Broadcasting, also known as Little Johnny to differentiate him from his father who owns HCB.”
Jake wondered if his dad was as short as this guy. He pointedly tore up the pass. Had to be a forgery or an outdated one altered a bit with the date.”
“That . . . that’s a valuable piece of paper. I may never get another one,” Little Johnny spluttered. “I have orders from the head of my caste . . .”
“And I have orders from HP Laud Gregor himself. All media denied access. You’ve got hover cams. You, in particular, are on the list to be escorted back to HCB.”
Little Johnny gulped. “Mr. Guilliam, Laud Gregor’s assistant said . . .”
The orders about triple credentials to get in had come from a Guilliam da Baillie.
“Mr. Guilliam is well respected in the city. For his sake, I’ll let you stand on the wall peering in through the fence. But I’ve got to confiscate the camera.” Jake reached into Little Johnny’s pocket and retrieved the bulky equipment. A tight fit. Then he passed it to one of the men behind him.
The corporal opened the back and yanked out a long strand of plastic. Film? How archaic! Jake had only read about such things in ancient history texts. Then the guard escorted Little Johnny to a place near a stone fence support anchored to the meter-high wall.
“Good move,” the other roving corporal whispered. “Can’t afford to antagonize the media any more than we have to.”
The crowd hadn’t reacted to the interchange. They kept reasonable order. So far.
He didn’t trust them. Half the conversations he overheard spoke of awe and respect for Temple. The other half mumbled distrust of all Temple and Noble as well as the imposter or Lood they tried to thrust upon them as an HPS, since they couldn’t find a real avatar of Harmony.
Jake had no idea what Lood meant. But
it sounded like a deep insult.
He accessed the dream implant for information. “Lood, condensed from Log of Wood, something nonhuman to be reviled and distrusted.” Uh-oh. Prejudice in its extreme form. A license to kill. And just who determined the next minority to be declared Loods?
He wondered how many of the rumors about the new HPS were true. Something strange and controversial about prophetic visions and about her caste marks.
The Temple caste had drawn a veil of secrecy about her.
Caste marks. Plural. No one he’d seen had more than one. Uneasiness climbed his spine.
God, he wished he could talk to Pammy about this.
“I’m on my own. Have to think for myself. Damn, I wish I could just get the formula for Badger Metal and go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HER SERENE HIGHNESS, LAUDAE SISSY, High Priestess of the Host of the Seven Guardians of the planet Harmony and her Colonies, slipped her beringed hands into the copious sleeves of her purple brocade robes. She dropped her head slightly as she assumed a meditative pose. The crystals and glass beads of her veil bobbed and swayed, giving her a refracted view of her companion priests and priestesses. They all stood in the dim tunnel opening on the forecourt of Crystal Temple. Tension and anticipation of the high ritual to come throbbed among them like a saber lion pacing her cage.
“We chose a good day. The Summer Solstice. Sun at its highest point. The Moon is full. Harmony balances the beginning of the season of bounty,” she whispered, reminding herself of the auspicious ritual she was about to preside over. And endure. “My twenty-first birthday. I’m not ready.”
Outside, the conversations of the waiting populace assumed a low thrumming note in anticipation of the crowning of a new High Priestess. The crowd spilled out of the forecourt into the streets beyond.
No other time brought so many together, binding them with the beauty and spirit of ritual. She had to do this right.
Laud Gregor had drilled her over and over. She knew the sequence of prayers and chimes and movements.
Restlessly she shifted her feet, uncomfortable standing so long, waiting for the precise moment Laud Gregor would lead them all forward.
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