Empire of Bones

by Liz Williams

  “What sort of difficulties?” Sirru asked. The scale clamped down on his stirrings of unease.

  EsRavesh said wearily, “Desqusai, hmmm.” Always a problem, his words implied. But what can you expect of the lower orders? “The Receiver herself is extremely fragile; I understand that there has been some kind of malfunctioning in her genetic programming. The depth ship’s raksasa is even now working on a way to modify her so that she can operate more effectively. It also seems that the colony has not adapted well to the regeneratives that were aligned to it. Genetic patterns designed to form the basis of communication have become distorted across millennia, and have either atrophied or become structurally damaging.”

  Unbidden, the voice of Sirru’s lost friend IrEthiverris echoed in his head. It’s the communications network. It’s killing them! He shivered. The disaster on Arakrahali was the last thing he wanted to think about now. EsRavesh continued, “Political structures are rudimentary, as is to be expected in such a society. The world is suffering from a population explosion; its environment has been rendered unstable by injudicious economic decisions. The colony must be brought under the aegis of the írRas. It must be pruned, before it goes entirely to seed. If such pruning proves unsuccessful, the colony will have to be terminated.”

  “Terminated?” Sirru’s quills rattled.

  Hissing in exasperation, the khaith stepped forward. “I realize that it’s a difficult notion to entertain. But you do understand?”

  “Yes,” said Sirru, wincing. He added, “My caste would be most unhappy if that were to happen.”

  “The decision is not in the hands of the desqusai,” EsRavesh snapped. “It is the Core’s. You know as well as I do that the Core cannot allow unviable colonies to spread like poison-briar throughout the galaxy. Unruly populations must be controlled, governed, their savage impulses contained within the proper boundaries. I’m sure you agree. Or”—a trace of sarcasm tinged the air—“have you become a Natural, arguing for some nonsensical notion of social chaos?” He did not wait for Sirru’s murmured refutation. “As I have said, your task will be to set things to rights.”

  “I am honored. But I am also surprised that a minor person such as myself should have been selected for such a task,” Sirru said, trying not to sound as though he was protesting.

  “The project is not a difficult one, compared to others. This is a little, primitive world, hardly a matter of great complexity. You,” EsRavesh said with a withering glance, “have been deemed appropriate. Nevertheless,” the khaith added, and his golden gaze became beady, “I do not need to remind you that the last attempt to bring a desqusai colony into the fold ended in termination. No one wants such a debacle to happen again. I believe you knew IrEthiverris EsTessekh?”

  “Yes,” said Sirru bleakly.

  “A friend of yours, I understand. A pity. He seemed to be a reasonably capable administrator, at least at first. And Arakrahali was a minor colony, too. It is still unclear what went so tragically wrong… I understand you have been investigating the incident?”

  “Yes,” Sirru said, suddenly wary. He thought he had taken care to be discreet. “As you so rightly say, IrEthiverris was a friend of mine, and obviously I’d hoped to discover the reasons for the tragedy.”

  “Reasons?” EsRavesh asked. “What reasons do you need? IrEthiverris administered his colony with increasing ineptitude. His khaith colleague reported a series of misjudgements; she was most concerned about the deteriorating relationship between the locals and IrEthiverris himself. I need hardly remind you that the situation seems to have created a most disastrous plague, and shortly after that, IrEthiverris disappeared. Tragic, yes, but not something that needs further investigation. We are looking into the case ourselves.”

  Then why are there so many things about Arakrahali that don’t add up? Sirru thought mutinously, but said nothing. The thought was painful; as it occurred to him, his epistemic suppressants clamped down. The whole Arakrahali affair had been difficult to think about; he needed a lower suppressant level, but that wasn’t possible. He bowed his head. “Doubtless you are correct.”

  “Desqusai are so emotional,” EsRavesh mused, as if to the empty air. “There has even been talk within the Core that the desqusai castes are degenerating, their colonies proving unsuitable for sustained development. It would be a pity, if that were so. Your caste remains a valued part of this society.” He did not sound as though he believed it. “I’m sure your future success with Tekhei will help redeem desqusai standing in the senses of the higher castes.” The expressives that EsRavesh was sending to Sirru were bland, as smooth as sweet oil, but even through Sirru’s epistemic suppressants and the soothing scale, the warning was clear: Sort out your new colony and don’t mess it up, otherwise it will the worse for both you and it.

  Sirru was to be sent from Rasasatra, then, summarily dispatched across a span of stars. This talk of ancestral connections between his own caste and the new colony was true enough, but there were many people of a more proven experience than Sirru. Why not send them?

  There were two reasons, one of which was Anarres. Women like Anarres made their own sexual choices, but those choices were supposed to reinforce the values of hierarchy. So was he being sent halfway across the galaxy to a primitive and marginal planet as a result of EsRavesh’s snobbish jealousy? Sirru closed his eyes for a brief, bitter moment. When EsRavesh had summoned him, he realized, he hadn’t even slept with Anarres.

  That led to the other possibility, which was even worse. EsRavesh knew about his inquiries into the Arakrahali tragedy. What if he’d stumbled across something important and the khaith was getting him out of the way? And if so, what could that important information possibly be? The band of headache tightened around his skull.

  “Are you all right?” EsRavesh asked with mocking solicitousness.

  “Perfect, thank you,” Sirru said icily. Thinking fast, he considered his options, then sent a shower of instructions to the scale, which obediently broadcast the lie: unworthiness respect for superiors/overwhelming sense of gratitude/. Either the scale’s lie was successful or the khaith’s arrogance was such that Sirru’s message was accepted with barely a flutter of doubt.

  “We understand you are honored,” EsRavesh allowed graciously.

  Sirru had one question. “When do I leave?”

  “As soon as possible. There is a raft leaving tonight for an orbital; translation will take place from there.”

  Life has to change, Sirru thought angrily, but why now? Useless to speculate on the laws of the world; he was well aware that he had no choice.

  “I have affairs to put in order,” he told the khaithoi, and then permitted himself to ask the question which he was privately dreading. “How long am I to be absent?” The scale sent hope for an honorably lengthy appointment, concealing Sirru’s true feelings.

  “Translation, of course, will take no more than the usual instant,” EsRavesh said, and the petaled mouth unfolded in a fleshy smile. “But mediation will take—well, as long as it takes for us to decide whether or not the project has been successful.”

  “I see.” Sirru lied once more: I relief/surrender to superior’s wishes/.

  The khaith rose from his mat and came to stand before Sirru. EsRavesh was a head or so shorter than Sirru, and stout where Sirru was lean. Folds of pale, mottled flesh rippled beneath the khaith’s robes. Sirru stared down at him, giving nothing away. He could feel the khaith’s efforts to influence him. Beneath the scale, his skin flushed dark with sudden unwanted arousal.

  Sirru found this gratuitous sexual harassment irritating. He could feel the quills at the back of his neck beginning to rise, but a mistake now could cost him and the rest of his caste dearly; it wasn’t worth the momentary satisfaction of a response. The scale kicked in, clamping his system into calmness. The tip of a dark brown tongue fluttered briefly between the khaith’s petaled lips, and then EsRavesh turned away.

  “Go back to your témenos and your clade. Explai
n the dignity that has been conferred upon them. Present yourself at the landing ledge”—and here he pressed his palm briefly and with distaste against Sirru’s, conferring coordinates and time—“for translation.” The rest of the khaithoi stirred briefly. A ripple of communication, too advanced for Sirru to comprehend, passed between them, and EsRavesh turned his back in dismissal.

  Once out of the chamber, Sirru paused and leaned against the wall. Beneath the scale, his skin crawled with agitation. It was difficult to believe this was happening. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to leave the Marginals. He switched off the hot scale and in a swirl of robes strode through the labyrinth and out into the day. First to the temenos, and then to see Anarres, if her damned house would let him back in.

  The problem is status. Status and caste. His life, and all their lives, were governed by it. Quite apart from any khaithoi scheming, it was the main reason why his clade had to take what they could get and why he would be compelled to leave mat and home and new girlfriend and traipse across the galaxy to sort out somebody’s long-dormant planet.

  At that point his epistemic suppressants kicked in, causing a sharp neural twinge, and Sirru winced. Tekhei’s only got one moon and a couple of seas, he thought in exasperation. It isn’t even pretty. It seemed such a dull little world.

  But then again, so had Arakrahali.

  THE TEMPLE OF DURGA

  1.

  Vranasi

  The Temple of Durga—the goddess known as the Terrible One—red as old blood, rose above the noisy streets of Varanasi. Its tiers crawled with monkeys, which chattered and shrieked at anyone who came too close. The temple had been closed for several years now, deemed structurally unsafe after one of the province’s infrequent earth tremors, and even though the faithful still drifted past its walls, it remained completely closed to non-believers. However, a non-believer was a difficult thing to be these days, now that a goddess had come to the world.

  At the heart of the temple, in an echoing chamber that blew dry with dust and shadows, Jaya Nihalani was sitting on a wheelchair throne. Behind her, she could feel the presence of the goddess, concealed behind a door in a small, glittering shrine. The shrine was like a cave, Jaya thought, gleaming with mica and crystal. Only when you looked closely could you see that the glitter was tinsel and beaten metal.

  Whenever she was filled with doubts, which was often, Jaya closed her eyes and reached back to the presence of the goddess: Durga the Vengeful, who tramples demons beneath her feet and of whom Kali is only an aspect. Yet Durga was also the Protector, invoked by young married women in the early days of their marriage to guard their homes and families. What frightened Jaya was that despite all that had happened, despite the failure of her revolution, she still seemed to occupy Durga’s dual position: to protect, and—Goddess forbid—perhaps to avenge. Everything now depended on Ir Yth.

  Jaya had spent the last few days interpreting the demands, blandishments, and suggestions of the raksasa, whose full name was revealed as Ir Yth írRas EsTekhei.

  Perhaps I am Durga, the raksasa whispered sweetly into Jaya’s mind. Maybe I am She who is come again to the world.

  Despite the astonishment that still possessed her whenever she looked at Ir Yth, Jaya felt that there was very little truth in this. Ir Yth, despite her bizarre four-armed appearance, reminded Jaya of her father—the man who had taught his child, above all else, to smell out a lie. Ir Yth was no goddess, any more than Jaya herself. Nor was she really a demon, though on that score Jaya was still keeping an open mind. As far as she knew, Ir Yth was the projected image of an alien, the sole crewmember of the vast and living ship which had been waiting so patiently beyond the edges of the solar system and which now orbited the world. And the ship was also the originator of that voice which Jaya had heard since childhood. Her connection was with the ship, not with the raksasa.

  But Jaya said nothing, for if it pleased the raksasa to be regarded as a deity, then it was as well to go along with the lie until Jaya found out precisely what Ir Yth was capable of. She swallowed the implied insult that she was nothing more than some local primitive who would be confused and awed by clumsy lies. It was as annoying as hell, but it might be useful for Ir Yth to understimate her. Amir Anand had consistently underestimated her in the early days of her attempted revolution. She’d use it now, as she had used it then.

  From what little Ir Yth had said on the matter, it was clear that she knew nothing of Durga; even the self-granted title of raksasa was wrong, being the male form of the word. Clearly, Ir Yth had armed herself with a few cultural stereotypes and, like every conqueror, was arrogant enough to think these would be enough. But it might even be that the raksasa realized this, and did not care.

  Certainly, Ir Yth had been quick with promises. Initially, she had vowed to give Jaya worshipers of her own, having failed to grasp that this was the last thing Jaya wanted. Giving the matter some thought, Jaya had decided to take matters into her own hands and present the raksasa with a fait accompli. Stealthily, Jaya had gathered together the remnants of the core cabal of her revolutionary army. These numbered no more than five people, and as far as she knew, the government was not yet aware of their presence in the Temple of Durga. The Bharati government did know, however, precisely who and what their new envoy to the stars was and had been, and it was far from happy.

  Jaya, former oracle, former terrorist, was now the Receiver, the chosen one, and one of the raksasa’s first public actions had been to communicate this fact to Bharat’s media networks.

  For those who had been expecting the alien ship to land on the White House lawn, Jaya’s appointment was baffling, and Jaya herself was no less bewildered than everyone else. She had become addicted to the news reports, trying to make sense of her new position. Her former lieutenant, Shiv Sakai, monitored the Web daily from what had once been the temple administrator’s little office in the forecourt. Peeling calendars with smiling deities filled the walls; a kettle hissed unendingly on the stove as Shiv fueled himself and everyone else with tiny cups of strong sweet chai. Flexible optics hid his eyes. He sat hunched in his seat as data unscrolled onto his visual cortex.

  Shiv Sakai, a software engineer before caste restoration turned him into a revolutionary, had become used to watching history happen. He reported to Jaya on the hour:

  The alien presence has still made only a single broadcast, stating that the contact on Earth is to be Jayachanda Nihalani, formerly known as Jaya Devi by her devoted followers, and whom the Indian government has formerly described as a terrorist… The government of Bharat claims that reports that an alien is in the country are false and misleading…/The current location of the purported alien is not known …/… Nihalani is believed to be in hiding in a secret location in Uttar Pradesh, having recently received hospital treatment for a mutagenic disease contracted, some sources say, from her activities in black market medicine… Attempts to contact the ship have so far failed; a joint NASAEU probe is to be sent within days …lit is not known what the aliens want nor why they are here, if indeed there is any truth to the persistent rumors of an alien presence on Earth… The Indian government has refused both American and UN requests to send troops into Uttar Pradesh… The United Nations have issued a further statement saying that there is no truth to any of the current rumors/.

  Shiv Sakai read out each fresh contradiction with relish, his thin body twisted in his chair and his fingers splayed over the keypad of the monitor like spiders. Since the failure of Jaya’s revolution, her loyal army had been scattered to the four corners of the subcontinent, but now she had brought her commanders together again, and Jaya couldn’t help feeling a little vindicated, despite her distrust of the raksasa. The huge figure of her old friend Satyajit Rakh now stood just inside the temple gate, glaring at anyone who might be permitted through. Rumor had it that he took his rifle to bed with him. Jaya knew that rumor was right. Rakh was the brother of her dead husband, Kamal, and would follow her anywhere.

  The ra
ksasa had promised that when an administrator arrived from the homeworld of Rasasatra, Jaya would be taken to the ship and cured of her unnatural aging, though not of the capacity to hear the voice of the ship.

  “And suppose I don’t want to go?” Jaya had asked, nettled. Ir Yth reminded her of Dr. Fraser, with the same assumption that she’d be unquestioningly grateful for the munificence placed before her. Goddess knew, she’d like something better than the body of a ninety-year-old, but what kind of price might she have to pay?

  Of course you will want to go, the raksasa had said, startled. Why would you not?

  “Well, I’d like to know what sort of cure it is before I agree to anything. Is it likely to be painful, for instance? Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Our medical knowledge is far beyond that of your people, Ir Yth replied, loftily.

  “That doesn’t answer either question.”

  No, the raksasa said with a glare. There will be no pain. And yes, I am quite sure.

  Grudgingly, she went on to describe the process to Jaya. It seemed there were trifling genetic modifications which could be made, filtering out the deleterious side effects of Jaya’s particular DNA, but the mediator would have to authorize these.

  “Why must these be authorized?” Jaya asked, curious to know more of Ir Yth’s relationship with others of her kind. “Does the mediator outrank you?”

  He does not, the raksasa replied, somewhat stiffly. He is of a lower caste than myself. But his caste have an ancestral connection with Earth, and the planet falls under their guidance. I am here to assist; final authority for all decisions rests with the mediator.

  “And what if the mediator and I disagree?”

  I will be there to smooth things over, Ir Yth said. And you’ll have power, too. You’ll be able to do whatever you want. As long as you do what we say.